“Drivers don’t know nothing.”

“Well, that’s true, if you’ve ever had to take a long drive with one. But my, uh, my history, doesn’t bother you?”

“You didn’t do nothin to me.”

Perish the thought. With a shaky smile, Hall said, “That’s good then. Now, uh, now let me, uh, let me see…” He fiddled around among the papers on his desk mostly because Swope made him nervous, then did stumble across the packet of papers concerning Swope forwarded by Henry Cooper’s agency: the FBI clearance, the bankruptcy judge’s approval, the Pennsylvania State Police clean bill of health, and Mr. Judson Swope’s recent work history. Why, come to think of it, was he available, a man like this?

Ah, Securitech. “I knew Danny and Peter,” he said, tapping the papers.

Swope nodded, agreeing with him.

Hall spent a moment in Memory Lane, then said, “Skated a bit close to the wind, I’m afraid.”

“That’s what the wind’s for,” Swope said.

Surprised, Hall said, “It is, isn’t it? We’ll get along, Judson. I may call you Judson?”

“Why not?”

“Why not indeed?” Hall leaned forward, enjoying both the hint of intimacy and the hint of superiority in the use of the name. “All of the hiring details were worked out at Cooper’s, salary, health benefits, all of that.”

“They’re all fine,” Swope said.

“Good, good. Now, housing. Have you something local?”

“In a motel till I get a job.”

“There’s a house available on the estate,” Hall told him. “Saves going in and out through security all the time.”

Swope looked interested. “A house?”

“I’m taking on four new staff today,” Hall said, feeling expansive as he heard himself say it. “I thought all four of you might like to bunk in there. Separate rooms, of course, completely furnished. My new chauffeur’s already agreed to move in.”

“Sounds okay,” Swope agreed.

With a happy smile—this really was an excellent day! — Hall said, “Oddly enough, that’s where my old chauffeur used to live, with his family. He was happy there.”

“Oh yeah?”

“And I was happy with him, yes, I was. Then it turned out, there were things in his background …”

“People make mistakes,” Swope suggested.

“Ah,” Hall said, “but then they can’t be around me. The court is very clear on that. In any event, you’ll love the house. And I’m sure you’ll get along with the others living there.”

Swope nodded. “Everybody gets along with me,” he said.

•

John Rumsey was somehow not what Hall had expected in a butler. The black suit was fine, though it suggested Rumsey might have lost a pound or two here and there in recent days. The stiff-collared white shirt, the knife-thin black necktie, the gleaming black oxford shoes as big as gunboats, all filled the bill.

But was it right for a butler to look hangdog? How could he ever order Christmas carolers to clear out, run along there, that’ll be quite enough of that?

On the other hand, when was the next time Monroe Hall would be in a position to be irritated by Christmas carolers? Many snows from now, according to the signs.

The man’s defeated look to one side, his history was excellent. Clean police check, excellent former employment with an eastern European embassy in Washington. Even though only eastern, if a European embassy in Washington had found this fellow Rumsey adequate as a butler, then why shouldn’t Monroe Hall?

Hall looked again at the records. Reason job ended: employer slain. “What?”

Rumsey looked guilty. “I didn’t say anything.”

“No, I know. I did. Employer slain?”

“Oh, yeah,” Rumsey said. “That’s what happened.”

“But—why?”

“He went home for the holidays.”

Which wasn’t precisely an answer to the question, but Hall let it go. He said, “So when he didn’t come back, you quit?”

“Fired,” Rumsey said. “We were all fired, in case anybody was loyal to Chk.”

“I’m sorry?”

“In case we were loyal to Chk.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The ambassador,” Rumsey explained. “Hildorg Chk. In case we were loyal to him, they threw us all out.”

“Were you loyal to him?”

Rumsey shrugged. “While he was there.”

“Yes, of course.” Looking down at his paperwork again, Hall said, “I see I have another former employee of Ambassador Um here.”

“Yeah, Fred.”

“Fredric Blanchard.”

“I’m staying with him and a cousin of his,” Rumsey said, “until I find a thing.”

Which led Hall to offer the house where Gillette and Swope were already billeted, which was accepted at once. After that, he reassured himself that Rumsey, like the others, was content with his terms of employment, then said, “So I’ll expect you at eight in the morning, show you your pantry, where the callbells are located, internal telephone, all that. Introduce you to my wife and what’s left of the staff.”

“That’s good,” Rumsey said. “Only, shouldn’t your wife say I’m okay first? I wouldn’t wanna think I got a thing here and then your wife says, ‘Listen, I don’t want that guy.’ I mean, it can kinda happen, that kinda thing.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Hall said, pleased and surprised by the man’s sensitivity. “But my wife and I discussed it, and our situation is so, shall we say, unusual here, unless it’s a maid for herself, for instance, or something like that, she’ll be guided completely by me.”

Rumsey nodded. “So if you say I’m in, I’m in.”

“Exactly. So you can move into the house any time today, the guards at the gate will know to let you through, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

“See you then,” Rumsey said, and came very close to smiling, Hall caught him at it. He should smile more often, Hall thought, it makes him look a trifle less pessimistic.

Rumsey got to his feet and sloped across the office. Hall watched him carefully, and it seemed to him Rumsey did a very creditable handling of the door.

•

The last of the four, Fredric Blanchard, the private secretary, was the most difficult of the interviews because, on sober reflection, Hall finally admitted to himself he no longer needed a private secretary. There are people one needs at one stage of life—a nanny, say, a tutor, a drug dealer, a bookie, a bail bondsman—that one simply doesn’t need at some other stage of life. Has no use for, no call upon.

In a word, “I’m sorry,” Hall told the bright-eyed, sharp-nosed attentive fellow across the desk, “but I’m afraid I’ve wasted your time. I shouldn’t have had you come out here.”

Fred Blanchard cocked his head, like a particularly attentive crow, without losing the welcoming smile he’d brought in here. “Sorry to hear that,” he said. “Can I ask how I come up short?”

“It isn’t you, you know,” Hall told him. “It’s me. You’re overqualified. I don’t need a private secretary anymore.”

“I have trouble believing that,” Blanchard told him.

“Oh, I used to need a private secretary,” Hall said, with a little nostalgic sigh. “Two, in fact. They were always at each other’s throats, that was part of the fun of it. But, you see, I don’t have that kind of life any more, I’m not flying off here, skiing off there, board of directors meetings, chairman of symphony board, all that’s behind me now. I barely—you know, legally I could leave this property, if not the state, but I just don’t feel like it any more. The fire’s gone out. I just stay here.”

“Mr. Hall,” Blanchard said, “if I may say so, sir, you need me more than ever. Now is the time you need me, sir.”

“Need you?” Hall didn’t understand. “For what?”

“Rehabilitation!” Blanchard cried, and pointed a stern finger at the ceiling. “It’s time,” he declared, in ringing tones, “to get your story out there!”

“My story is out there,” Hall said, “that’s the trouble.”

“Your old story is out there,” Blanchard insisted. “It’s time for a new story, and that’s why you need me. A personal. Private. Secretary.”