It took Harry McLeod a minute to get to the telephone. Leland swung his chair around to the bookcase. McLeod reminded him that, as an ex-insurance man, he had never worked on a custody investigation and that showing old Hugh Thoms around the store would swamp the few people who had reported to work today. Now the door to the outer office opened and Florence and Mrs. MacIver entered. Florence gave Leland a signal with her hand and he waved her off. For Mrs. MacIver, Leland pointed to the other armchair on the bookcase side of the desk. Florence took her coat. Through the telephone McLeod asked if he could have Mrs. Agnew, another Bonney’s-experienced operative, from one to nine. Leland said distinctly that he would have Florence call Mrs. Agnew and ask her to report at one o’clock. Now Mrs. MacIver sat down, not taking her eyes off Leland. Leland gave McLeod the location and the make and model of Hugh Thoms’ car. Hugh would give McLeod the details of the case. Leland put down the telephone and looked to Florence, where she waited at the door.

“I’ll make that call,” she said in a tone that was unnatural, and went out.

“I’m sorry about these interruptions,” Leland said to the others, “but I can’t say there won’t be more. My partner is doing some paperwork that requires his strict attention, and one of us has to pick up the telephone.”

“Your partner,” Mrs. MacIver said. “Wasn’t he a football player at Jefferson a few years ago?”

“That’s right,” Leland said. “He was an All-America quarterback, 1949. Mike Petrakis.”

“Then he had that automobile accident,” Mrs. MacIver said.

“Either you went to Jefferson or you’re a football fan,” said Leland.

“Neither. I went to Port Smith College. My husband was the Jefferson graduate.”

“Was?”

“He’s dead.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” said Leland. The intercom buzzed; it seemed to jolt Miller. “Yes?” Leland asked.

“Joe,” Mike Petrakis said, “would you step in here a minute?”

“I’ll be right there.” He stood up. “Excuse me.” Miller gaped. Mrs. MacIver leaned forward a little, looking up. Her eyes met Leland’s as he moved around the desk. Before he reached the door he thought to ask her what she wanted, but when he looked around, she was sitting back, brushing at her skirt.

Mike was at his desk with his cuffs turned up. There were papers spread out and an account ledger braced against the telephone like a missal.

“What’s up?” Leland asked.

“Search me,” Mike said. “I—”

The door to the outer office opened and Florence stepped in. “I asked Mr. Petrakis to buzz you, Mr. Leland. I wanted to tell you something without alerting Mr. Miller.”

“Miller?”