‘Well? What do you expect me to do about it?’

‘Ed – all the telexes and the memos and the accounts are still downstairs in Shearson’s office. All the documentary evidence I’m going to need to bring him before a Grand Jury. But if I leave it until tomorrow, Peter Kaiser’s going to have time to spirit them all away, and file them where they can’t be traced.’

‘You’re going to break into Shearson’s office and steal his papers?’ asked Ed, incredulous.

‘It’s the only way. I can’t get through to the FBI office in Wichita and order up a search warrant. Shearson’s keeping a check on every single telephone call. But I can get in there and take the paperwork I need.’

‘What’s Shearson going to do if he catches you at it?’ Ed wanted to know.

‘I think I know the answer to that better than anyone,’ Della replied. ‘Shearson Jones is suspected by the FBI of implication in at least five killings, and probably more.’

Ed frowned, thinking of Season and Sally, and Peter Kaiser’s threat to kill them. ‘Do you mean that?’ he asked. ‘Of course I mean it. He’s a very wanted man.’

‘Somebody in the FBI actually has proof?’

Della sat up straight. ‘What do you want, Ed? One minute you’re publicly tearing the man apart, and now you’re doubting he’s a potential killer. Do you want to see blood?’

‘Not my own, thanks. And not yours, either.’

‘Well, in that case, why don’t you give me some help? The sooner I can lay my hands on some incriminating paperwork, the sooner Shearson Jones is going to find himself in the federal penitentiary. That’s if they can find him a cell large enough.’

‘This is crazy,’ said Ed. ‘I’m a farmer, not a burglar.’

‘You used to be an actuary, though, didn’t you? There’ll be scores of accounts and bank drafts to sort out down there, and if I’m going to get it done quickly. I’m going to need some expert assistance.’

‘How the hell are you going to break in there?’

‘Just leave that to me. I’ve been trained. All you have to do is keep quiet and do what I tell you.’

Ed ran his hand through his scruffy hair. ‘This is a heck of a way to spend the night,’ he said, but he climbed out of bed, and reached for his pants and his red sweatshirt, the one with South Burlington Farm emblazoned on the front.

As he was pulling the sweatshirt over his head, Della asked him, ‘Did you manage to call your wife?’

Ed’s head appeared through the circular neck-hole. ‘Not yet. Why?’

‘No reason. I wondered if they were still giving you that busy switchboard routine.’

‘I haven’t tried since seven o’clock last night.’