"I don't think you have time to walk," Eppick said, and hung up.

Poker-faced, the doorman said, "The other gentleman is already here."

"Yeah, I see him," Dortmunder said. He was in a bad mood because of having to spend so much of Arnie Albright's money just to get here.

Eppick's manner was not bad-tempered, actually, just guarded. Rising from the rhinoceros-horn chair, he said, "He didn't sound happy."

"Like usual, you mean."

"Maybe worse."

As they rode up in the elevator with its extraneous operator, Eppick said, "We'll just see how it goes."

"That sounds like a plan," Dortmunder agreed.

It was not going to go well. Mr. Hemlow in his wheelchair waited in his usual position on the polished floor of his penthouse, but when they emerged from the elevator he did not spin around, did not zoom over to the view, did not invite them to take a seat. Instead, he stayed where he was, with them on their feet in front of him, and after the elevator had gone away he said, "I wanted to tell you both in person. I don't blame either of you for what happened."

Eppick, sounding alarmed, said, "Something happened?"

"Last Wednesday," Mr. Hemlow said, "my granddaughter was fired. Embarrassed, she didn't tell me, but this morning, in the mail, arrived the list of heirs you asked for."

"You mean John asked for," Eppick said, dodging a bullet.

"Yes, of course."

Mr. Hemlow seemed shrunken this morning, as though some of the stuffing had leaked out of the medicine ball. His eyes and brow were more troubled than hawklike today, and even the red beret perched atop him like a maraschino cherry didn't do much to improve the bad vibe he exuded.

"I phoned her when I received the envelope," he said, "and she explained she'd been fired, had been escorted from the offices by an armed guard, and had just barely time to mail me the envelope before the guard searched her belongings."

"Searched her belongings!" Eppick sounded equal parts astounded and outraged.

Mr. Hemlow's tempo-setting knee kept double time to the slow sad shake of his head. "That is the corporate form of the farewell interview these days, it appears," he said. "Particularly if the employee has been caught breaking the rules, as Fiona had, and on my account. That's what I blame myself for, and no one else."

Dortmunder, who had kind of liked Fiona Hemlow, said, "What kinda rule did she break?"

"She sought out Livia Northwood Wheeler. She had no right to speak to Mrs. Wheeler, no justification for approaching her. A person in Fiona's position — in Fiona's former position — is not to speak until spoken to."

"That's terrible, Mr. Hemlow," Eppick said. He sounded sincerely upset by the news.

"It's my own selfishness caused this to happen," Mr. Hemlow said. "My egotism. Who cares about ancient grudges, ancient history? Who can correct a one-hundred-year-old wrong? Nobody. The guilty aren't there any more. The people who are there, whatever else they may have done, have never done me an injury. And now all I've done is harm my own granddaughter."

"We'll make up for that, Mr. Hemlow," Eppick said, all at once eager. "When we get that—"

"No."

Dortmunder had seen this coming, but apparently Eppick had not. He blinked, and rocked back half a step toward the elevator door. "No? Mr. Hemlow, you don't—"

"I do." For a sagging sack of guts, Mr. Hemlow sounded pretty damn firm. "The chess set can stay where it is," he said. "It's done enough harm in this world, let it rot in that vault."

You bet, Dortmunder thought.

But Eppick was not a man to give up without a fight. "Sir, we've been working on—"

"I know you have, Johnny," Mr. Hemlow said, "and I appreciate it, but the job is over. Send my accountant your final bill, you'll be paid at once."

"Well…" Eppick said. "If you're sure."

"I am, Johnny. So thank you, and good-bye."

"Good-bye, sir."

Eppick turned to push the elevator button, but Dortmunder said, "Hey. What about me?"

"Mr. Dortmunder," Mr. Hemlow said, "you have not been in my employ. Johnny has."

"Don't look at me, John," Eppick said, though that's exactly what Dortmunder was doing.

"Why not?"

"Because, John," Eppick said, as though explaining to a bonehead, "you didn't do anything."

Dortmunder couldn't believe it. "I didn't do anything? I drove all around New England, sitting on the floor. I wracked my brains, trying to figure out the way to get my hands on that chess thing. I done more taxi time than an escort service. I been working my brain on this."

"That's between you gentlemen," Mr. Hemlow said. "Good morning." And now he did spin the wheelchair around and sped off, this time through a doorway into a side hall.

Pushing the elevator button at last, Eppick said, "Well, John, I just think you have to count this one up to profit and loss."

Dortmunder didn't say anything. The elevator arrived, they rode down together, and he still didn't say anything. No expression at all appeared on his face.

Out on the sidewalk, Eppick said, "You don't want to make trouble, John. I've still got those pictures."

"I know it," Dortmunder said.

"The least I can do," Eppick said, "I'll spring for a cab for us, downtown."

"No, thanks," Dortmunder said. He needed to be alone, to think. About revenge. "I'll walk," he said.

31

LIKE MANY MEMBERS of the NYPD, past and present, Johnny Eppick had not lived within the actual five boroughs of New York City for many years; not, in fact, since his second year on the force, when he'd married and left his parents' home in Queens to set up his own new family — two boys and one girl, eventually, now all starting families of their own, none following him into the Job — farther out on Long Island.

Unlike some of his fellows, Eppick had never maintained a little apartment in the city, containing one or a string of surrogate wives, he being of the sort who was content with one family and one home, just so it was completely separate from the Job. The place on East Third Street was new, since his retirement, since he and Rosalie had come to the realization that, while they still loved one another and had no desire for change, it was also true that neither of them could stand his being around the house all the time. He was retired from the Job. Tough; go there anyway. Thus Johnny Eppick For Hire.

He wasn't the first ex-cop to go into private detectiving. The city pension was good, but there isn't a pension anywhere that couldn't use a little supplement, though that wasn't the primary reason so many ex-cops wound up with security companies or armored car outfits or banks. The primary reason was boredom; after the tensions and horrors and pleasures of the Job, it was tough to sit around all day with the remote in one hand and a beer can in the other. Leave that life to the young slobs who hadn't come out of their cocoons yet.

In the earliest days of his retirement years, Eppick had thought about hiring on somewhere, but a life on wages after so many years on the Job had just seemed too much of a comedown. It was time to be his own boss for a while, see how that would play out. So he got his private investigator's license, not hard for an ex-cop, and set up the office down on East Third because it was inexpensive and he didn't feel he was going to have to impress anybody. All he needed was files and a phone. Besides, private eyes were expected to office in grungy neighborhoods.

Once he had his tag and his address, Eppick had caused there to be made letterhead stationery and a business card. He'd spread the word through the cops and the lawyers and the other people he'd met over the years through the Job, and the first fish in the net was Mr. Horace Hemlow.