I passed the papers over. He hunched around on the bed, said, “Put your hand behind my shoulders and give me a boost—there, that’s better—now get that pillow down—you probably think I’m a hell of a brother, but we’re not a particularly conventional family—and when you come right down to it, I don’t give a damn what you think.”

“I’m not paid to think,” I said. “I’m paid to serve papers. And if you want to be personal, I don’t give a damn what you think.”

“That’s good. I like your spunk. Sit down there and don’t interrupt me for a minute.”

He took the papers, glanced through the summons, and read through the divorce complaint with the laborious thoroughness of a layman who isn’t familiar with legal papers and has to puzzle through all the whereases, whyfores, and aforesaids. When he had finished, he folded the papers and handed them back to me. His eyes were narrowed thoughtfully. “So she wants a court order giving her the custody of the contents of all of the safety deposit boxes, does she?”

“All I know is what’s in the papers,” I said. “You’ve read those now. You know as much as I do.”

“Pretty cagey, aren’t you?” he asked.

“I’m paid to serve papers,” I said. “Why don’t you talk with your sister if you want to find out just what she has in mind?”

“Don’t worry,” he said grimly, “I’m going to.”

“Do you,” I asked, “know where her husband is?”

“I know Morgan’s mistress,” he said simply, “and she’s a damn nice girl.”

“Mrs. Birks could have dragged her into the case,” I pointed out. “She didn’t.”

He laughed, and his laugh wasn’t pleasant. “A fat chance she’d have, dragging anyone into the case,” he said. “My God, you don’t know women very well, if you can’t size Sandra up just by looking at her.”

He was talking about his sister. I kept quiet.

“If you’re ever left alone in the room with her for ten minutes, she’ll make a pass at you—oh, don’t look so shocked about it.”

“I’m not shocked.”

“Well, I’m warning you. We’re an unconventional family. Hell, I don’t hold it against her. She lives her life. I live mine. But she’s a shrewd, selfish, scheming vixen. She has the morals of a cat. She’s attractive as hell. She has a quick mind—and she uses it most of the time to get something she wants—Hell, I should talk things over with you. Tell her to come in here.”

I stepped to the door and said, “Mrs. Birks, your brother wants to talk with you.”

“You want me to clear out?” I asked.

“Hell, no. I want you in here.”