“Not a soul.”

“Have you done anything to alert any of your friends or neighbors that you were about to move?”

“Nothing. No one knows.”

He patted her cheek and kissed her again. “Good girl.” He polished off his martini. “Now, if you will forgive me, I must do some work in my study for a while.”

“I’ll start cooking dinner, then,” she said.

“Oh, no; I’ve already made a reservation at a very good restaurant for dinner. It will be my surprise; can you be ready at eight?”

“Of course! I look forward to it. Now, you go and do your work. My soap opera is on now, and I never miss it.”

“Good, good.” Menzies gathered up the papers and went to his study, a handsome, book-lined room—books that he had collected for many years. He closed the door behind him, set the papers on his desk, sat down behind it, picked up a phone, and dialed a number. “I’m here,” he said to the man who answered. “Yes, all is well. Be downstairs in”—he looked at his watch—“three-quarters of an hour, exactly.” He hung up the phone and went to work, examining each of the legal documents in minute detail. It was perfect. He looked over the copy of his combined credit report, stretching back the usual seven years. Every payment on every account had been made on time. He leafed through the stock-account statements, though he was already very familiar with them. The balances, at the end of the previous month, totaled just over fifteen million dollars, and the market had gone up since then. He felt a wave of contentment at the thought of his wealth.

A copy of that day’s Wall Street Journal sat on the desk. He folded it and opened a desk drawer, looking for an envelope and finding it exactly where he had asked her to put it. She really is a good organizer, he thought. He stuffed the newspaper into the envelope, sealed it, and wrote in large letters on its outside “Mr. Smith” and an address. He glanced at his watch, then returned to the living room. “My dear,” he said, “there is one more matter to which I must ask you to attend, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, no, Herbie,” she said. “I don’t mind at all.”

“Ach!” he exclaimed, raising a forefinger.

“Oh, I’m so sorry—Howard.”

“That’s better; you must never forget. Now come, we’ll go downstairs, and I’ll explain on the way.” He led her out of the apartment and onto the elevator. “Take this envelope,” he said, handing it to her.

She accepted the envelope. “Mr. Smith,” she said.

“Yes, and the address in Long Island City is also there. I’ve arranged a car and driver for you, and I want you to deliver this envelope to this gentleman and get a receipt. That’s very important, the receipt.”