“If I’d wanted to do that I’d have pulled my gun when you were waving that damned fire extinguisher at me—the cops would have bought self-defense then.”

“I didn’t know it was you,” she said indignantly. “I heard someone at my door. I got a right to defend myself, too, same as you, and in this neighborhood you can’t be too careful. Then you come barreling at me like a mad bull, what do you expect? The mayor and a welcoming party?”

I grinned at her last comment, but continued my attack. “Did Chamfers call you Saturday? Tell you I was dead?”

“I don’t know anyone named Chamfers,” she shouted. “Get that through your head.”

I slammed the television with the palm of my hand. “Don’t give me that shit, Mrs. Polter. I know you called him; they told me Friday night at the plant.”

“I don’t know anyone named that,” she repeated stubbornly. “And don’t you go banging on that TV. I spent a lot of money on it. You break it you buy me a new one, if I have to take you to court for it.”

“Well, you called someone. Who was it?” Light suddenly dawned. “No, don’t tell me—you phoned Mitch Kruger’s son. He gave you a phone number when he came by for Mitch’s stuff and asked you to tell him as soon as anyone came round asking about his dad. You must have warned him I’d been here and he made it real clear that he wanted to know right away if I came back.”

Her jaw dropped. “How did you know? He said no one was to know he’d been here.”

“You told me. Remember? Last Tuesday when I came by looking for Mitch’s papers?”

“Oh.” It was hard to read her expression in the dim light, but I thought she looked chagrined. “I promised I wouldn’t say anything. I forgot.…”

I squatted on the dusty floor under the lamp so that we could see each other’s faces more clearly. “The guy who came by, told you he was Mitch’s son—he about my height? Clean-shaven, short brown hair brushed straight back from his forehead?”

She eyed me warily. “Could be. But that could be a whole lot of guys.”

I agreed. It’s hard to think of something about a corporate manager’s appearance that makes him really stand out in a crowd. “Tell you what, Mrs. Polter. I’d be willing to bet a good sum, say a hundred bucks, that the person who said he was Mitch’s son is really Milt Chamfers, the plant manager over at Diamond Head. You know—the engine factory over at Thirty-first by the canal. Would you be willing to drive over with me in the morning and take a look at him? Prove me right or wrong?”