“What?” He’d been tilting his head back to drain the last few drops from the glass. His hand shook and the gin splashed his shirt front. “Nobody told me anyone died down there. What are you talking about?”

“Mitch Kruger, Mr. Felitti. Name ring a bell?”

He stared at me aggressively. “Should it?”

“I don’t know. You keep telling me you don’t take much part in the business side down there. But what about the personal, since that’s your forte? Do you direct them to hire investigators? Beat up doctors? Dump old men into the San?” I guess I was too tired for finesse.

“Who are you, anyway?” he demanded. “You’re not with Chicago Life, that’s for damn sure.”

“What about the attack on Dr. Herschel. Did Chamfers organize that? Did you know about it in advance?”

“I never heard of Dr. whoever, and I’m getting damned sure I never heard of you. What’s your name?”

“V. I. Warshawski. Does that ring any bells?”

His face reddened. “I thought you were the girl from the magazine, Maggie. She was coming out this afternoon. I’d sure as hell never let you in my house if I’d known who you were.”

“It’s a help, Mr. Felitti, that you know who I am. Because that means that Chamfers has discussed me with you. And that means you are just a bit involved with what your company does. All I want is to talk to Chamfers—about Mitch Kruger. Since you’re a director, you could make it so easy for me.”

“But I don’t want to make it easy for you. Get the hell out of my house—before I call the cops and make you leave.”

At least he had stopped laughing, an enormous relief. I finished the whisky.

“I’m going,” I said, getting up. “Oh, there was one last question. About U.S. Met. What did you have to offer an old lady that would make her close her account in her neighborhood bank and move it to Met? You guys are notorious for not paying interest on your accounts, but you must have told her something.”

“You’re off your rocker. I’m not going to call the cops—I’m going to get the boys from Elgin to come with a straitjacket. I don’t know anything about U.S. Met and I don’t know why you come busting into my house asking about it.”

“You’re a director, Mr. Felitti,” I said reproachfully. “I’m sure their insurance company would like to think you knew what the bank was up to. You know, for directors’ and officers’ liability claims.”

The red in his face had subsided. “You’re talking to the wrong person. I’m not clever enough to think of bank marketing plans. Ask anyone. But not on my premises.”