”What the hell is this?“ he said, studying my license at arm’s length.

”Private detective,“ I said.

He didn’t speak. He turned the wallet a little to catch the light better and compared my photo on the gun permit with the real me. While he was doing that, the tip of his tongue appeared between his lips, and his forehead wrinkled slightly. Studying things was hard work for Buford Phillips.

I waited. The room was quiet except for the sound of Phillips’ breath coming noisily through his nose. He was very pale, the color of salt pork. His light hair was brush cut, and he was fat, the kind of puffed fat that seemed boneless, like an unbaked dinner roll. Finally he slid my wallet back toward me.

”You carrying a gun?“ he said.

I opened my jacket and showed him the gun.

”You got a license for that?“

”You just looked at it,“ I said.

He didn’t have any reaction, just looked at me, and again, the tip of his tongue showed near the middle of his mouth.

”I’m looking for a guy named Wilfred Pomeroy,“ I said.

Phillips nodded.

”I’d like to question him about a murder in Boston.“

Phillips nodded again.

”Would you know where he is?“ I said.

”Who wants to know?“ Phillips said.

I looked carefully around the office. ”Which of the people here,“ I said, ”would you guess?“

”Hey, I asked you a question,“ Phillips said.

I took in a long breath.

”I would like to know where Wilfred Pomeroy is, so I may go and ask him some questions about a murder that took place recently in the city of Boston.“

I spoke very slowly.

Phillips nodded again.

”Where can I find him?“ I said.

”Who was murdered?“ Phillips said.

”Woman named Babe Loftus.“ I said.

”Sex murder?“

”No.“

Phillips was silent again. His tongue moved about on his lip. His forehead wrinkled again.

”You think Wilfred did it?“ he said.

”Don’t know who did it,“ I said. ”I’d just like to talk with him.“

”If you don’t know, why do you think it’s Wilfred?“

I put my palms flat on Phillips’ desk top and leaned over it until I was about six inches away from him and stared into his eyes.

”What the hell you doing?“ Phillips said.

”Looking to see if there’s anyone in there,“ I said.

”Hey, you got no business being a wise guy,“ Phillips said. ”I got a right to make sure you’re on the level.“

”You sure yet?“ I said.

”Yeah, yeah, you seem okay to me.“

I straightened up. ”Good,“ I said. ”Can we go see Wilfred Pomeroy?“

”Sure, yeah, we can. I’ll go with you. It’s my town, you know, I got to make sure everything is done right, you know. It’s my town.“

”Dandy,“ I said. ”Where’s Wilfred?“

”I’ll go along,“ Phillips said. ”Take you there.“ He let his chair come forward, and using the movement as propulsion he came to his feet. He shook his pants down over the tops of his boots; they were two inches too short and the boots looked too big, like the Feet of a cartoon character. As Phillips came around the desk I noticed he had a blackjack in a low pocket on his striped uniform pants, and a comealong in a black leather case on his cartridge-studded belt. He got a pale blue jacket off a hook on the wall and slipped into it. The jacket had a mouton collar dyed a darker blue. He put on his campaign hat and waddled over to the door. He held it open, I went out, and he came after me and locked it.

”We’ll go in the cruiser,“ he said.

I went around and waited until he got in and unlocked my side. Then I got in with him.

The cruiser fishtailed slightly on the snowy parking area as Phillips floored it in first, and we half skidded onto the plowed street, where the spinning rear wheels grabbed the dry pavement and sent the car squealing off west along the main street.

”An LTD,“ Phillips said. ”Biggest engine they make.“

I fumbled the safety belt around me and got it fastened.

”No use running,“ I said, ”with you at the wheel.“

”You can say that again, mister. You’d have to have a Corvette or something to get away from me.“ We careened around a corner and up a short hill. The pavement stopped about twenty yards up the hill and the road became two ruts worn by oversized tires. The cruiser lurched and slithered as it went too fast for the road. There were trees on either side and a shambled stone wall on my side that slouched in disarray along the margin of the road among the leafless trees. Birches mostly, with an occasional maple. In a clearing, where the road ended in a rutted turnaround, there was what appeared to be an old school bus with a shack built off of it. The shack was made of plywood and covered with felt paper. The paper had been nailed on with roofing nails, and their silver galvanized heads spotted randomly over the black surface. Tears in the paper had been repaired by nailing scraps of felt over the tear with more roofing nails, so that the studded appearance was without order. A stovepipe protruded through the roof of the shack, and a rusting fifty-gallon barrel stood on its side on two sawhorses next to the shack. I could smell kerosene. A big television antenna was nailed high in a tree above the shack and a cable ran from it into the shack. A power line snaked among the trees and ran down a weathered board into the shack. The windows of the bus were hung with cloth that looked mostly like it was made from potato sacks. Three mongrel dogs, all with their tails arching up over their hindquarters, came toward the cruiser, barking without rancor.

”This is Wilfred’s place,“ Phillips said. ”He done it himself.“

”Handy,“ I said.

We walked across the snow-trampled, mud-mixed front lawn with the dogs roiling in a friendly fashion around our ankles. They were all about 35 pounds, tan blending to black. They were of parentage so mixed that they had regressed to basic Dog, nearly identical with mongrel dogs in China and Bolivia. Phillips banged on the door.

”Hey, Wilfred,“ he yelled, ”it’s Chief Phillips.“ The door opened slowly and stopped halfway.

”What do you want?“ someone said.

Phillips shoved the door fully open.

”Come on, come on, Wüfred. This is official business.“

Phillips walked through the fully open door, and I followed him.

Pomeroy was a sturdily built, middle-sized guy with a big guardsman mustache, and brown curly hair that fell in a kind of love curl over his forehead. He was wearing jeans and a maroon sweatshirt with a hood. UMASS was printed across the front of the sweatshirt, in big letters. The first thing that I noticed about the shack was that it was neat. The second thing I noticed was the huge poster of Jill Joyce that nearly filled the wall above the bed. It was a publicity poster for a previous show, and it showed Jill in a frilly apron looking delectably confused over a steamy pot.

”Wilfred,“ Phillips said, ”this here is a guy named Spenser. He’s a detective, from Boston, and he wants to talk to you about some murder.“

”I love your technique, Chief,“ I said. ”First put him at ease.“

”I don’t know about no murder,“ Pomeroy said. I put my hand out.

Pomeroy took it without enthusiasm. He had one of those handshakes that die on contact. It was like shaking hands with a noodle. The three dogs had come in with us and repaired to various places of repose; one, presumably the alpha dog, was curled on the bed. The other two lay on the floor near the kerosene stove. Everything in the place was folded neatly, secured just right, dusted and aligned. The bed was covered with an Army blanket with hospital corners. Everywhere on the walls were pictures, mostly clipped from magazines, tacked to the exposed two-by-fours that framed the shack. The walls themselves were simply the uncovered kraft paper backing of fiberglass insulation. There were pictures of movie stars, of singers and television performers, famous politicians, athletes, writers, scientists, and business tycoons. There was a picture of Lee Iacocca clipped from a magazine cover, and one of Norman Mailer. I saw no famous detectives.