“She called at two o’clock. I had the idea that she wanted to be cheered up. That’s not exactly it. She wanted to know what happened.”

“We can forget it. She’ll find out soon enough.” He picked up the telephone. Hugh Thoms had adjusted the chair for himself and it was so low that Leland felt like a child at his own desk. He dialed his apartment, tapped his fingers on the desk, and looked up at Florence. Her hair looked as if she had just rolled out of bed. He thought of something to say, but held it in.

“Hello?”

“Hiya. I’m waiting for that package.”

“Didn’t Flo say you’d have it tomorrow? It can’t be any sooner, Joe. I have to pull it all together. I was going to ask her to come over here this evening for a couple of hours of dictation and typing.”

“Can you give me any idea, Mike? I’d like to have something for the client.”

“Not on the telephone, Joe.”

“You’re not worried about a tap, are you?”

“It’s possible, but I wouldn’t even want a man on the frames overhearing this.”

Mike had relatives working for the telephone company and he knew how the system worked. “Well, listen, is there any danger? I ought to know.”

“Just use reasonable caution. Don’t worry. You’ll understand what I mean tomorrow.”

“All right. Register the letter. Send it to her home. I’ll wait for it.”

“That’s what I had in mind. When will I see you?—Monday?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Saturday. I’ll call you Saturday. I’ll probably be home for the weekend.”

Mike said goodbye and Leland disconnected. He dialed Karen’s office.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Leland, but Mrs. Leland has gone on to Clifford Heights, as I told you earlier.”

“Then she did come in,” he said.

“Yes. Oh, yes.”

“Did she get my message?”

“Only that you telephoned. I left it on her desk with some others.”

“Just a minute.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Did my wife call?”

“Oh, no,” Florence said. “I would have told you.”

“Okay. Hello?”

“Yes?”

“When did my wife say she’d be back?”

“She said she was going to go home directly.”

“And she had no message for me,” he said.

“No. I’m sorry.” In the singsong of the mummified civil servant.

“Shit—ah, okay. Excuse that, if you don’t mind.” He disconnected again. Florence was staring at him and he knew why. He did not want to give any ground. “You might as well get your coat. They’re supposed to have my plane ready, but I’m going to call them anyway.”