It wasn’t. She had worn the same dress—a flared-skirt, rose-print silk crepe with lace ruffles at the V-neckline—several times before, but she only smiled and nodded. She had been looking forward with great excitement to telling him about the extraordinary events of the day before. But before she could open her mouth, he was speaking.

“Swell news, Liz!” He wore a broad smile and sounded extremely pleased with himself. “Looks like this tax case is going to go forward. It’s not wrapped up—there are still depositions to be taken, more evidence, that kind of thing. But it’s looking solid. And I’ve just worked a deal that takes our client off the hook.”

“The tax case?” she asked, not sure which client he was talking about. “The case you were working on in Montgomery?”

“Yep. The tax evasion case. Which—happily for our client—has turned into a deal between the local gendarmerie and the Feds.” He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. There were circles of perspiration around his armpits, and judging from the scatter of papers across the desk, Lizzy guessed that he had been working for several hours already. There was a half-smoked cigar in the ashtray and the office reeked of stale cigar smoke. She crossed to a window and opened it, letting in a cooler morning breeze.

“Will it result in an indictment, do you think?” she asked, hoping for a clue to whatever in the world Mr. Moseley was talking about.

“I sincerely hope so,” Mr. Moseley replied. “He is a slippery sonovabitch, and I hope they nail him. But in the last analysis, it’s up to the boys at Treasury. All I did was the witness work at this end. It was the special agents out of Chicago who deserve all the credit. They combed through four years’ worth of bank remittance sheets and deposit records, they tapped telephones, they raided bookie parlors and confiscated business records. My hat’s off to those guys, Liz. They did a helluva lot of work—dangerous work. They were actually risking their lives. And by damn, when this is over, they’re going to have Capone right where they want him. I know it.”

“Capone?” Lizzy blinked, startled. “Al Capone?”

“You bet.” Mr. Moseley leaned forward, propping his elbows on the desk. “You’re not to talk about this outside the office, Liz—not to Verna, not to anybody. I especially don’t want Charlie Dickens to get his paws on the story. There’s a strong local angle, but our client doesn’t want the exposure.”

“A local angle?” Lizzy asked urgently. The picture was beginning to emerge, like a partially finished puzzle. But she still lacked a few pieces. “What local angle? Which client?”