Silverstein, he thought, was also a director of Northeast Consolidated, but there was no point in mentioning that to her. What he said was, “He’ll ask you about your husband, and you’ll tell him. I’m not going to write a complete script for you.”

“I suppose,” she said vaguely.

He settled the paper-thin watch on his wrist and made a point of looking at it when he spoke: “I hope you don’t have any trouble finding a taxi.”

She stood bolt still and stared. “I thought we were going to have lunch.”

“We’ve had it,” he said. “I’ve got things to do.”

“You son of a bitch. You haven’t changed a bit, after all. That eviction notice was about as subtle as a cheap john’s pitch-what am I supposed to do with myself between now and seven-thirty tonight?”

“You’ll find some way to amuse yourself, walking the streets,” he said. “You always did.”

She turned slowly and walked by him to the door. Her smile became sad and mocking by turns. “And besides being unique,” she said, “you’ve got the character of a billy goat.”

When she was gone he took the elevator down to the lobby and turned right, to the row of public telephone booths opposite the cashier’s desk. He closed the booth door and lifted a sheaf of folded papers from his inside jacket pocket, flattened them out, and uncapped his fountain pen before he lifted the receiver and gave the operator a Montreal number and his Bell credit-card identification. He poised the pen and laid his expressionless gaze on the pages before him-coded lists, typed on phosphor-treated flashpaper which would erupt at a single spark and be consumed instantly. It was a precaution he had learned from a bookie in Chicago.

“Nine-six-nine-seven?”

“Mr. Senna, please.”

“Who’s calling?”

“You’d better learn to recognize my voice, honey.”

“Oh-uh, it must be a bad connection, Mr. Villiers. I’m sorry. I’ll put him on right away. Hold on, please.”

“Mace? Right on time, boy, just like Mussolini’s trains. How’re they hanging?”

Villiers looked at his watch. “All right, Sal. I haven’t got time for the rundown today. Just give me the totals.”

Senna’s abrasive voice rolled off a series of numbers. Villiers copied them down in his crabbed hand. There was interference on the line; at one point he could hardly hear Senna. “Let me have that last one again.”

When he finished he put the pen down and glanced out across the lobby. “How secure are we on this line?”

“Where are you? Public phone?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’re okay,” Senna said. “Hell, we pay that electronics team fifty grand a year to inspect this joint for bugs every three weeks, with random spot checks in between. They were just here Wednesday. We’re fine, it ain’t tapped.”

“All right. Then tell me this. How do I get in touch with Civetta?”

“Sally or Vic?”

“Vic. He’s the top man, isn’t he?”

“He cracks the whip, all right. But what do you want him for? He can swallow you whole.”

“Don’t count on that. I may need some fast financing on a deal I’m working on.”

“From Vic Civetta? Count your fingers if you do. He’d steal the pennies off a dead man’s eyes.”

“I’m not a dead man.”

“Yeah. Listen, there’s safer ways.”

Villiers said, “Not for the amount of money I’ve got in mind. But I want to be absolutely sure Civetta’s big enough to handle it before I approach him. Can he deliver?”

“How big?”

“Very big. Maybe nine figures.”

Senna whistled. Villiers said, “I can’t take the time it would take to go through legitimate sources. They’d take six months to check out something this big. Besides, the banks don’t consider me a good risk.”

“God knows why not, with your track record. They ought to be getting in line to lend you money, Mace.”

“To be sure. But they’ve got a strange notion of where to draw the line between genteel Yankee cunning and dishonesty.”

It made Senna chuckle again. “Okay. Vic can handle it if he wants to. Every motherin’ dollar in Manhattan goes through his hands on its way to the kitty, and a piece of every dollar rubs off. It adds up.”

“I get the point-he’s big enough. Next question: is he reliable enough?”

“If he wasn’t, the organization would have replaced him with somebody who was.”

“How do I approach him?”

“I can think of a lot of ways, but there’s one that’ll save time and trouble. Just let me know when you want it set up. I’ll call Sally Civetta, and he’ll arrange it direct. That way we avoid half a dozen middlemen.”

“Good. I’ll know within a couple of weeks whether I’m going to need it or not.”

“Just give me twenty-four hours to set it up. No big deal. I wouldn’t give it a thought. Oh, say, there’s a nut-case Englishman in town with a Duesenburg for sale. I thought you might-”

“Save it, Sal, I’m expecting a call. I’ll talk to you Monday.” Villiers hung the phone on the hook and glanced at his watch, folded the flashpapers, and put them away in his pocket. Through the glass booth doors he watched an ample-rumped girl cross the lobby; his expression changed slightly, and then the telephone rang and he reached for it, still watching the girl.

“Yes?”

“This is Steve Wyatt.”

The girl disappeared beyond the range of his vision. He said, “What have you got to report?”

“I got hold of a set of keys to Howard Claiborne’s office files and had duplicates made. I expect to do what you asked me to do sometime over the weekend when there’s no one in the office.”

“Keep an eye out for the building security people.”

“Do you take me for an idiot, Mr. Villiers?”

“I’ll let you know after I’ve seen how you perform.”

“I’ll perform. Don’t worry about it. I’ve had enough practice at breaking and entering to know the drill. I’m like you, Mr. Villiers-I was born four days late and I’ve been running to catch up ever since. Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m not worried,” Villiers said. “You are.”

The youth uttered a harsh laugh that did not convey the nonchalance it was intended to express. Villiers let the silence hang until Wyatt spoke again: “I’ll do the job, okay? You don’t need to badger me. Anything else on your mind?”

“Sonny,” Villiers said in a mild voice, “you need to watch your tone with me. Don’t let it slip your mind I’m the one who can put you away.”

“Maybe you can’t afford to,” Wyatt said, insolent and cocky. “You need me right now.”

“Nobody’s indispensable to me. You’re expendable. Use your head, and we’ll get along.”

“I get along better with people when I know where I stand with them. I still want to know what’s in this for me.”

“You’re in too much of a hurry.”

“Am I? You’re asking me to dig skeletons out of important people’s closets. The least you can do is toss me a bone.”

“I’m about to put a corporation in your lap. Will that satisfy you?” Because no one could see him in the booth, Villiers allowed himself to smile.

Wyatt said, “All right, Mr. Villiers, now you’ve got the mule’s attention. Go on.”

The smile broadened slightly, and went. “I’ve put in a takeover bid for a small company called Melbard Chemical. You know it?”

“I’ve seen the logo.”

“There’s an old man on the board of directors who controls half a million shares. He’s got a grip on them an ape couldn’t pry loose. I need those shares to get control of the company. It’s a domino situation-if the Melbard bid collapses, I lose a string of important things beyond it. I need to have Melbard in my pocket by Monday morning.”

“It’s a tall order,” Wyatt said, “but it sounds intriguing. Where do I fit in?”

“I’m beginning to learn they don’t call society ‘The Four Hundred’ for nothing. All of you seem to know each other. The old man who’s in my way is pushing eighty, he’s the only surviving director from the original board of the Merchants and Maritime Trust Bank, and one of the other founding directors of that bank in nineteen-twenty-four was Robert Phelps Wyatt.”