Leland stepped into the elevator. “’Morning, Charlie.”

“Not a moment too soon,” Charlie Scott said. “You’ve had three up and one down and the delivery boy just got in with the coffee.” Charlie Scott was a retired cop, like Hugh Thoms.

“The one who’s down,” Leland asked, “a skinny guy with glasses?”

“Looks like a chicken,” Charlie Scott said. He was sixty and had all his hair, in white waves, brushed like a boy’s. It was something to see.

“We’re ahead of the game,” Leland said. The one down was Schwartzwald. He had come in on Friday convinced that one of the booth men at his drive-in was stealing. It was a stupid situation, for he had only to put in ticket-takers, as in the movie houses, to check the men who handled the money. Leland had been sure that Schwartzwald was afraid of the additional salaries and Leland had wanted to conclude business as quickly as possible. Five cars, twenty people, all three nights of the weekend: the best way, Leland had assured him, of doing the job. It could have been made to last for weeks, for a lot more money. Mike had brought the people together and had handled the generalship, but Leland had not escaped entirely. The exit gates had been in plain view of the admissions booths, and Leland had been compelled to sit through The Fang of Blood and Captain from Corsica three full times. Leland did not even know if the booth man had stolen, because he had not stolen from him. Now Leland took off his topcoat in preparation for getting past Fred Miller.

With the topcoat over his right arm, Leland pushed into his office. Not pausing in his stride, he let his eyes fall on Miller. “Hiya, Fred. This is a surprise.” With a beefy grunt, Miller struggled up, extending his hand until he saw how Leland was encumbered. With his other hand Leland leaned on Miller’s shoulder. “Stay there. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

And he kept going, through the gate, on to the door of his office. Around on the left, the two girls exchanged whispers that were just too obvious. He signaled Florence to follow him inside.

She closed the door. “Schwartzwald’s gone.”

“Charlie told me.” He went to his desk for the waiting container of coffee. “Thanks,” he said, lifting the cup to her. She had her notebook, which meant that there had been more calls.

“You had a long-distance call from Port Smith. Your father. He asked if you had seen the paper. I said that you would call him back.”

“Did you try to set a time?”