“Well, Bernie’s ego, not his marriage, was my objective, but although I have done Bernie an ill turn, I’m sure that is more than made up for in good karma by the service I have done Mrs. Finger, who will presently be rid of Bernie and very rich. I predict she will remarry within the year.”

The phone rang again, and Joan picked it up. “The Barrington Practice.” She listened and handed Stone the phone. “Bob Cantor.” She returned to her office.

“Good morning, Bob,” Stone said.

“Morning, Stone.”

“I’ve just had Page Six on the phone, and Henry Stead made a half-hearted attempt to make me admit that I know you.”

“Which you repulsed?”

“In emphatic fashion. What’s up?”

“I still haven’t heard from Herbie, and now I’m really worried. He’s never gone this long without asking for money.”

“Have you made inquiries?”

“Yeah. I know I’m supposed to be a detective, but I’m damned if I can catch his scent.”

“Have you been to his home?”

“Not yet, but I guess I’d better go over there. I have a key.”

“Give me the address, and I’ll meet you,” Stone said. He scribbled it down. “Give me half an hour. I’ll meet you out front.” He hung up and buzzed Joan.

“Yes?”

“I’m going to run out to Brooklyn; Herbie Fisher is missing and Bob is concerned.”

“I thought it was awfully quiet around here,” Joan said.

Stone hailed a cab and gave the driver the address. It was weird, he reflected, how Herbie’s sudden absence could leave a hole in his day. He couldn’t say he missed the idiot, but still…

Bob Cantor was standing on the sidewalk in front of a handsome brownstone in a gentrified neighborhood. “This way,” he said, opening the iron gate and taking the stairs that led to the basement. “He lives in the super’s apartment.”

Cantor let them in with his key and scooped up a pile of mail on the floor outside the apartment. He opened the front door.

“Let’s do this like a crime scene,” Stone said.

“I’m way ahead of you,” Cantor said, handing Stone a pair of latex gloves. He led the way from the foyer into the living room. The room had been tossed—no, more than tossed, trashed. A bookcase holding an elaborate stereo system lay facedown on the floor, its contents smashed. Every piece of upholstered furniture had been slashed to the springs, and the drawers of a small desk were scattered here and there. An inspection of the single bedroom revealed the same treatment, and even the bathroom had been thoroughly turned over.

“What do you think they were looking for?” Stone asked.

“Money, what else?”

“And why would anybody think Herbie has money?”

“Well, he’s always telling anybody who’ll listen that he does. I guess somebody believed it.”

“I suppose so.”