STONE WOKE AROUND SEVEN, HAVING NOT had much sleep, and found Dolce gone. There was a note on the dresser: “Thank you for an interesting evening. Let me know when you need more information, or another interesting evening. Dolce.” Her phone numbers, office and home, were below.

Stone ordered some breakfast and read the Times. Again, he saw the theatrical advertisement by Judson Palmer. He cut it out and put it in his money clip. He checked out of the hotel at nine and ordered his car from the garage, checking the glove compartment to be sure the pistol was there, before relocking it. He consulted the theatrical ad; Palmer’s theater was on West Forty-fourth Street, west of Sixth Avenue. He parked in the Hippodrome Garage at Forty-fourth and Sixth and walked to the theater. A janitor was sweeping out the lobby.

“Good morning,” Stone said.” Can you tell me where to find Judson Palmer? Where his offices are?”

“They’re right up there,” the janitor said, pointing upward. He indicated a door. “Through there and up the stairs one flight.”

Stone walked upstairs and emerged into a shabby waiting room, where a young woman was sitting at a desk, eating a Danish and drinking coffee. “Good morning,” he said.

She had to swallow before she could speak. “Hi. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to see Mr. Palmer.”

“Are you an actor? We’re already cast; we open this weekend.”

“No, it’s a matter of personal business.”

“Does he owe you money?”

“No, nothing like that.”

Stone heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and he turned to see a man in his fifties wearing a bush jacket walk into the room, carrying a brown bag. He was overweight and looked hungover. “Mr. Palmer?” he said.

“We’re already cast,” Palmer said, opening the door to his office. “Leave your picture and r/ésumé with the girl; I’ll consider you for the next show.”

“I’m not an actor,” Stone said. “My name is Stone Barrington.”

“Sounds like an actor,” Palmer said, pausing in the doorway. “What do you want?”

“It’s in connection with a man named Mitteldorfer.”

Palmer winced. “Are you a reporter?”

“No, and I think you should hear what I have to tell you.”

“All right, come on in,” Palmer said.

Stone followed him into the room, which was decorated with posters from Palmer’s previous shows. The place had a temporary look; Stone thought that Palmer must move his office from theater to theater, with his shows.

Palmer indicated a chair, then he took coffee and a bagel from his brown bag. “That’s a name I haven’t heard for a long time,” he said. “What’s that guy got to do with me?”

Stone sat down. “I’m aware that you had an affair with his wife some years back, and that, as a result, Mitteldorfer murdered her.”