Fortunately, I remembered how to get to her Swiss-chalet house. When I pulled into the street I saw that all its lights were on. Her form was clearly silhouetted in one window as she peered out, probably drawn by the sound of my car door slamming. Coming up the walk, I loudly whistled "Shanghai Lil" and called hello before stepping onto the porch, having not forgotten that Miss Sommerfeld was bound to be very nervous and owned a .22. It's a little bullet, but makes a mean hole.

"Mr. Fleming?" she called back. Her voice was on the high, quavery side tonight.

"I got your message and came right over."

She hastily opened the door and hurried me in, then locked it fast behind me. The whites were showing around her eyes, and she had a small revolver in one shaking hand. "Look... look what he did!" She gestured at her house, pretty much beside herself with fury and fear.

It had been turned over, not as messily as some searches I'd seen, but enough to let her know she'd had a break-in.

Her paintings hung crookedly, books leaned to and fro on shelves, newspapers and magazines were scattered, throw rugs flipped up, that sort of thing. None of the stuff was damaged, no ripped cushions, but it was enough to let Miss Sommerfeld know about payback time for what I'd done to McCallen's place.

"Anything taken?" I asked. "Jewelry? Artwork?"

"No, he's not interested in those, only this." She pointed to a familiar envelope on her coffee table. "I've kept it with me the whole time today when I was out."

"Kept it? You should burn it, then he won't have a reason to bother you."

She looked outraged. "Burn it? I'm not burning anything. He's not going to beat me on this."

I went over the whole place and determined that McCallen could have used a thick piece of cellophane carding to slip the easy lock on the front door and then just walked in. Miss Sommerfeld listened carefully as I told her what kind of new locks she should get to prevent another invasion. She wrote it down. Then I tried to imitate Escott's "tell me everything" face, made her sit, and got her talking. She'd been out all day visiting friends and had an early dinner with them. When she got back around five she found the mess.

"Escott told you to call the cops first if anything happened."

"No. No police. I don't want my name in the papers over this. I don't want my family finding out."

I couldn't blame her; it might jeopardize her engagement plans with that prince. "So you called Escott?" I prompted.

"I tried. I left messages and have been trying the other numbers since. Then I happened to look out the window around six and saw Jason's car. He was just sitting in it, smoking and staring. When he saw that I saw him he started it up and drove off. I decided to leave the house again, but every time I got up the courage to go out, he'd come back, driving slowly up and down the block."

"He's trying to scare you, is all."

"He's making me mad. And scared. But mostly mad."

"Probably thinks he can get back at you."

"He wants the papers again, not revenge." She paced once around the room, pausing to peek through the lace curtains. Apparently the street was empty of big Scottish threats.

"I think he's after both. If you really want McCallen off your back for good, you need to burn them and send him the ashes."

She got a stubborn cast to her face. "That's not going to happen."

Never argue with a client. "When do you get your locks changed?"

"The man's coming tomorrow."

"No good. You got a place you can go to for tonight? Someplace Jason doesn't know about?"

"I was going to my parents' house."

"He'd know about that, you don't want him calling you there. We'll find a hotel for you. You got cash for it on hand? Good. Pack what you need and I'll get you out."

"But I don't know-that's so drastic."

"Miss Sommerfeld, a man has broken into your house. Do you really want to be here if he comes back? Even with new locks, all he needs is a brick to let himself in again."

She gulped and worked her mouth like a guppy for a moment as my words sank in, then finally nodded. "But what about tomorrow? And the next day, and after that? I can't very well stay away forever."

She was hinting around for the Escott Agency to do something about McCallen for her. I wasn't so certain that intimidation was quite in Escott's line, but I could be pretty good at it-providing the subject was sober.

"I'll talk to my partner when he turns up. I'm sure we can work out something to discourage McCallen."

"You're very kind. What will it cost?"

"If there's any charges, you can take it up with Escott. Now, is there someplace you've never been before?"

"Lots."

"Someplace you never mentioned to McCallen?"

"Well, there's-"

"No, don't tell me." Actually, she could tell me and it would be perfectly safe, but I thought she might enjoy the drama. "And don't tell your family and friends, either."

"But if they try to call or telegram me-"

"Get around that by phoning them as usual and pretend nothing's wrong. And you call the agency at intervals to see how things are going." Escott would love that one.

While she got packed I tried the office again, and then the house. Escott was finally home. He'd succumbed to cabin fever and gotten out to take in a movie, then visit some gymnasium for a workout.

"If you really want to build some muscles, our latest client needs some moving help," I told him, then explained the situation.

"I'll come right over," he said.

"I got things under control."

"No doubt, but one of us should stay in her house for the evening."

He said to give him half an hour and hung up. I called the club to leave a message for Bobbi that I was working tonight and might be late. Gordy would see that she got home all right.

McCallen drove by twice more.

Miss Sommerfeld had a guest bedroom window in front that looked on the street. I turned the light off there and opened the curtains just a crack to keep watch, and occasionally wondered why she hadn't destroyed her love letters.

Either she was foolishly sentimental or maybe she was the one doing the blackmailing. That screwball thought entertained me until Escott arrived and she let him in. He was slightly informal with a golfing sweater pulled over his shirt instead of his usual coat and vest, so he must not have changed from the gym.

She'd cleaned a few things up during the wait, but there was still enough damage left for him to cluck over sympathetically. "Dear me, but this won't do at all. I think we shall have to have a little talk with Mr. McCallen."

"My thoughts exactly," I said, catching his eye.

Escott got my meaning, grimaced, but nodded. Maybe my hypnosis was temporary, but it would last long enough to get McCallen to cool down and find some other occupation besides breaking and entering.

While Escott and Miss Sommerfeld discussed the business end of things, I went back to my post at the window. Not too very long afterward McCallen cruised by again. When his Ford rounded the corner I went out front.

"He just left. Load the car now and go. You've got maybe ten minutes before he comes back."

I helped Escott play porter. For an overnight stay she had two large and remarkably heavy suitcases and carried a smaller case along with her purse. Maybe the hotel she wanted was in Europe. He assisted her into the backseat of his Nash and told her to lie down out of sight, then got behind the wheel and spun them out of there with eight and a half minutes to spare. I locked the house, for all the good it might do, and stayed outside, standing lonely under the thin shadow of a bare-branched tree, its trunk helping to conceal my still form.

McCallen pulled into the street pretty much on schedule. He slowed down as he neared the chalet, which suited me just dandy. I went invisible and shot over the pavement, aiming for his car.

Having no sight was a real disadvantage for this situation. I was aware of shapes around me, the press of the wind, and the low chugging hum of his car motor. It more or less gave me a direction to go to, and I did finally bump up against a solid, smooth-surfaced moving form. I tried to sieve through, but the metal was too dense, so I probed for cracks around the door and eventually found one.

The positioning of it seemed off to me, but I could feel McCallen start to speed things up as he passed by the house.

Time to hurry. Once through the narrow crevice, I realized I'd gotten it wrong; the confined area I found myself in was too small. I'd managed to filter into the car's trunk.

Still invisible, I poked and prodded around for some means of entry into the front. My sense of touch wasn't the same as when I was solid. I'd not done any blind exploration in a while and was out of practice, but eventually I found a quarter-sized hole in the metal body that served. I smoked through, finding my way around the slab of backseat cushion, and finally settled like a pocket of fog on the floorboard behind the driver.

When I slowly materialized I half expected to find my hair rumpled and tie askew from all the effort, but nothing was out of place. As always, the image was strictly in my mind.

I took quick stock of my surroundings. The car was in steady motion, going at a moderate pace. McCallen wasn't about to break any speed laws. That suited me; I didn't want to break anything either, myself in particular.

While I kept quiet and bided my time, he made a few turns, but never stopped long enough for me to safely interrupt his driving. It's not a good idea to surprise someone while they're trying to steer a ton or so of car at thirty miles an hour; the property damage can be disastrous. I expected him to make some sort of a wide circle, then return to run past the house after a suitable period. Maybe he'd pull over and fill the time with a smoke. It'd be easy enough to make my move then.

Luck seemed to be with me; he made a slight turning and pulled up, but did not cut the motor. Instead he touched the horn briefly. A moment later someone opened the passenger door and climbed in and they took off again. I hunkered down even lower and let my ears flap.

"What's the story?" asked the newcomer, a man with a soft voice, like he had a cold.

McCallen growled and grumbled with displeasure. Even those sounds seemed to have a Scottish accent. "My lady Mary's barricaded herself in and called for help to come over. I caught a glimpse of her company. Looked like one of those gits from that so-called detective agency she hired. Couldn't tell which one, they both have the same build."

"Damn."

"Damn indeed. I should have gone in sooner, but all those lights, an' her neighbors are still up, she'd scream bloody murder."

"What about the cops?"

"She won't call the police if she can help it. But if I force things too much..."

"You won't be able to get it back from her." Soft Voice sounded morose. "I just know it."

"It'll just take me a wee bit longer than I'd hoped."

"Couldn't you just write the stuff out from memory?"

"That's next to useless, y' daft squirrel. What good's a copy? The original's what we need for the job."

"Well, it's only because she's not cooperating."

"Paterno, you give me just five minutes alone with her, and I'll have her cooperating beautifully. She'll be begging for me to-"

"Watch out!"

McCallen hit the brakes hard and we skidded. I braced myself, but no impact came. Instead he let forth with a forceful flow of volcanic cursing at some other driver.

"Damned drunk!" he concluded, brutally shifting gears and hitting the gas as though to make up for lost time. I braced again in the small space, glumly reflecting that I wasn't exactly getting paid for this little adventure.

"That detective she's got, he can't always be with her, can he?" asked the mystery man, Paterno.

"She's got money enough to hire a dozen watchdogs twenty-four hours a day."

"If you can't get past them-"

"I'll get past 'em, never you worry, and pay 'em back double. Bloody bastards, tearing through my house like it was bloody Grand Central Station."

A gross exaggeration. I'd been very careful to put everything back again. Including the cat's box. McCallen hadn't been nearly so neat when he'd ransacked the Sommerfeld place.

"But when?" Paterno sounded impatient. "The people that want it won't wait forever."

"I said never you worry, I need their money too much to delay things. I'll keep an eye on her, bide my time, and then as soon as she's alone-"

"Bide your time?" Disbelief from Paterno.

"If that's what it takes, yes, and bugger the buyers. They know how valuable the property is. They'll wait if need be, but I promise you it won't be long."

"I should hope not."

McCallen made a sharp turn, slowed, and stopped. "Come on, I've a bad taste in my mouth that wants changin' for the better."

They got out, slamming the doors, leaving me in silence except for a few cars going by. I waited a few moments, then cautiously raised my head. I saw McCallen and a smaller, thinner man walking away down the sidewalk toward a tavern. They went inside.

I let myself out for a look around, finally getting a street name and block number from the sign at the corner. The neighborhood seemed familiar, the houses at one end all having the same age and look about them. McCallen had taken us toward his home. This was probably the bar where he spent his evening hours.

If he was drinking, then giving him my special evil-eye whammy wouldn't work. I decided to go into the bar anyway, just to try my luck. Maybe I could persuade him to step outside before he got oiled up. That would solve a lot of problems.

The street was lined with modest businesses-shoe repair, candy store, a clothing shop, and the like. The two largest were a drugstore on one corner and the bar on the opposite. All must have been there for a long, long time and verged on shabby, but weren't mean enough to have completely toppled into decrepitude.

The red neon sign behind the tavern's front window said MOE'S, in flowing script. I didn't think it had anything to do with the Three Stooges. I pushed through the door. Nothing pretentious here: peanut shells on the floor, the smell of wood polish, beer, and booze. The bar ran nearly the length of the dim room, which was wider than it looked from the outside. The wall between this building and the one next door had been knocked through; tables and booths were set up in the extra open space. For a Sunday night the joint had a good crowd, mostly young twenties, mostly male, though some had brought dates. They all had that wholesome-but-willing-to-be-corrupted-so-long-as-their-parents-didn't-find-out look of college students.

There was quite a knot of them gathered in one corner, where a man with a thick brush of salt-and-pepper hair perched on a tall stool and played his guitar. He was working a slow piece, crooning away in a whiskey-rough voice.

No one listening to him moved a muscle.

I paused a moment. His song was about the Mississippi and lost love set to soft, evocative music that could break your heart. The words were poetry, the magical stuff that stops you in your tracks and stirs your heart until it turns inside out. I forgot all about chasing McCallen and drifted over to the crowd, easing down at an empty table on the edge of things.

My jaw was hanging by the time the man finished; he'd transfixed me so I was slow to come out of his spell and join the applause. I hadn't heard a voice like that since my last visit to Coldfield's place, but this guy was white. And yet it wasn't all to do with his voice, a lot of it was the feeling he put into his song. There was something special here; I had to hear more, and to hell with the Sommerfeld case.

The singer picked things up with a faster number. He went from brokenhearted misery to triumphant satisfaction, with everyone clapping a beat out for him, then traveled back to heartache again. That's what the blues were about, after all.

And then all too soon he was finished and passing a hat. I grabbed a business card from my wallet, scribbled a three-word message, and folded a five-dollar bill around it, dropping it in when my turn came. The other money was all quarters and dimes. The bill would get his attention.

When the hat got back to him his eyes widened with surprise, and he looked around the joint. I raised my hand slightly. He thought about it, frowning, probably measuring the five dollars against my flashy suit. I was the only one in the audience who could have given him such a huge tip. He finally nodded and set his guitar down, picking up a sturdy cane. There was something with his legs that gave him a stiff, strutlike walk as he came over to my table, and when he stood still he braced himself with the stick. He held my card and the folded bill between two fingers like a cigarette as I stood to greet him.

" 'Come see me'?" he quoted from it. His speaking voice was just as husky as the one he used for singing. "If you're wanting company, I don't play that game." He put the card and bill on the table.

I chuckled once. "Nothing like that. My name's Jack Fleming."

"Jim Waters," he said, and briefly shook my offered hand. We sat down. He had to lower into his chair, stretching his legs out straight. "What do you want, Mr. Jack Fleming?"

"You don't waste time."

"A guy dressed like you doesn't walk into a place like this without some kind of angle; I'd as soon you get to the point so I can get on with my drinkin'."

"Fair enough." I started to turn for a waiter, but one was already on his way to the table. "What'll you have?"

Waters said he wanted his usual, and I asked for a coffee. The waiter came back with the coffee and a bottle of beer. I gave him a quarter and said to keep the change.

"You are a big spender, young fella," said Waters after taking a long swig.

"I like to make a good impression."

"You did that right enough. Was this a joke or is it funny money?" He held up the five. "If I'm lucky I might make this on a Saturday night after payday."

"It's not a joke. You impressed the hell out of me."

"Well, thank you kindly. But what's the angle?"

"First I want to know why I've never heard of you. I've been to just about every blues place in this town-"

"Except this one." His eyes crinkled.

"It doesn't exactly advertise itself. You only play here? Only here?"

"Why not? It's close to where I live and work."

"Where's that?"

"I got a little shoe-repair business up the street. Sweet, ain't it, a guy with no feet fixing shoes?" He tapped one of his legs in illustration.

"I guess it is. Was it the war?" I couldn't tell his age, he had one of those forty-to-sixty faces.

"Oh, yeah. Got in the wrong place at the wrong time. They give me a medal for it and a pension, but that ain't enough to get by these days, so I fix shoes and play guitar." His accent wasn't from Chicago, but from farther south, not too far. St. Louis maybe. That was a major blues town.

"Where'd you learn to play like that?" I asked.

"It's just something I picked up."

"And the songs?"

"Those are mine."

"My God."

"Impress easy, do you?" His eyes twinkled and he tilted his beer.

"Just the opposite, Mr. Waters. I've heard a lot of 'em. The best of the best in this city. I think you could hold your own onstage with any of 'em, and they'd agree with me."

"Well, that's mighty nice of you to say so. Now... you tell me your story."

I hesitated. The way things stood I didn't really have one. I'd just have to blunder through and hope for the best.

"I'm going to be opening a nightclub and will need good acts to play there."

He snorted. "Uh-huh. An' you think you want me for your bill?"

"I know I do."

"Me and who else?"

"Ever hear of Bobbi Smythe?"

His disbelief wavered. "Yeah, she's one of the club singers around town. I seen her name in the papers."

"Right now she's starring over at the Nightcrawler, but when I get things set up she'll be starring at mine. That's the level of acts I'm putting in."

"Uh-huh. And when'll that be?"

I gave him a rueful face. "You got me there, Mr. Waters. Right now I've let my ambitions get ahead of my schedule, but I had to talk with you while I could. I can't give you an opening date for the place, but I would like to know if you'd be interested in playing once it got going."

He shook his head and shrugged. "Yeah, sure, why not?"

"You think I don't know how this must sound to you?"

"Son, at this point you are big bucketful of ifs." He drained away a fourth of his beer. "But for a tip like that and a cold one I can at least listen to you. You come back to me when you get your club going and we'll see about things then."

"Deal," I said, holding my hand out again.

He started to take it, then pulled back. "Hey, now, how much you plan to pay me?"

I calculated it against what I knew other singers made in the kind of club I planned to open and made him a generous offer. "That, plus whatever tips you get, and I have someone drive you there and home again."

He rocked back in his chair and couldn't talk for a while. "You crazy? You just walk in here cold, listen to a couple my songs, and give me a pitch like that?"

"You'll be worth it," I said. "Will you accept? I'll put it in writing later."

He laughed, shaking his head again. "Why the hell not?" And we closed the deal.

"Another beer?" I asked.

Waters didn't answer, but glanced sharply up and past my shoulder. I knew what was coming, and quickly stood to face it.

McCallen strode over fast. He had five or six friends behind him, emerging from a curtained-off opening in the back wall. It must have been a private-party room. He was the biggest in the pack, but the others made up for it with numbers. He stopped an arm's length away, eyes narrow, shoulders hunched, fists closed and ready to strike. The others formed an ominous half circle around us.

"I know you," he said, all menace. "What'd y'do, follow me here?"

I looked him hard in the eye, but had my doubts about being able to get past his anger, so I tried something else instead of hypnosis. "Let's talk outside. You wouldn't want to scare the ladies." People were staring, not the least of whom was Waters.

"Damn right we're gonna talk," McCallen rumbled.

I smiled reassuringly at my prospective nightclub star. "Mr. Waters, I apologize for the intrusion. This is a separate piece of business I need to settle with this gentleman, so I'll have to talk with you later."

Waters was obviously mystified and alarmed at why so many hostile customers were interested in me. "Later it is,"

he said.

I surveyed McCallen and his troops. They seemed to be young collegiate types except for Paterno, who was somewhat older. I recognized him by his coat and hat. He had thick black hair and glasses and watched me with high curiosity. I smiled at him, at McCallen. "Gentlemen? Shall we proceed out of doors?"

McCallen moved his big shoulders sideways by half a foot. It didn't give me much room, but it was enough. I nodded at him politely, still smiling.

Then I bolted past them all and slammed out the front door, running like hell.

A graceless exit, but better than getting pounded flat or having to vanish in front of a bunch of bewildered witnesses. The hoots and laughter that trailed me were soon replaced by a thunderous stampede made by a determined McCallen and his friends. He was close after me, cursing a blue streak. I shot across the street and past the drugstore and spotted the alley running behind it. Perfect. I ducked into it-and disappeared.

My momentum from running carried me forward a few yards. I eased to a halt and waited for them to rush in. It didn't take them long to discover their problem.

"Hey, where the hell is he?" asked Paterno.

"Hiding," snarled McCallen. "Come on, flush him out."

As though through a wall, because my ears weren't so good in this form, I heard the banging of trash cans as the men rooted around for me. A big dog began barking frantically at the noise. Other canines took up the boisterous chorus.

"Two of you run ahead in case he got to the other end," McCallen ordered.

"But he couldn't have. We were right behind him."

"He must have gone over the fence. Look in that yard."

"You kiddin'? I think Rin Tin Tin lives there, and he sounds pissed."

A woman's shrill and highly annoyed voice cut in on my fun. "Hey, you drunks! I'm calling the cops if you don't get out!"

That decided it for them. McCallen wanted to stay, but his friends persuaded him to abandon the search. If I moved that fast, they argued, I was long gone by now. Everyone withdrew, and I tagged invisibly along to see if I could learn any more about his plans for Miss Sommerfeld.

Most of them didn't want to go back to the bar minus their prize-me-and McCallen was in no mood to return either. After some discussion they settled things: they'd go to another place to finish their interrupted drinking.

Everyone piled into McCallen's Ford. No one noticed me; I sieved into the trunk again.

The next ride was shorter, with no startling traffic encounters. When they stopped, I counted twenty and slipped from my hiding place, materializing crouched behind the car. They were all heading for a larger, brighter, and considerably noisier place, whose chief virtue seemed to be two-for-a-nickel beers. The music was raucous and loud. I could forget invisibly eavesdropping on McCallen and his group; I'd not be able to hear a damn thing. Ambushing him afterward I could also forget. Even that cheap a beer would make the job too difficult if he had enough of them.

I knew the neighborhood, which was only a couple miles from the Sommerfeld house. Flagging a cab was not a problem, as the dispatching office for a company was just down the block. I gave the driver the street, sat back, and listened to him talk about how he would fix things in Europe. He favored the idea of making the leaders all get into a prizefighting ring with baseball bats.

He had a point-and-handicap system all worked out so no one man would have the advantage. It made as much sense as anything I'd heard lately. I told him he should write to the prime minister of England with the suggestion.

"Why not to Roosevelt?" he asked.

"England's closer to what's going on. If that war in Spain spreads out, they'll feel it sooner than we would."

"Maybe I should write the king of England instead. Whoever the hell it is now," he said.

In summing up '36, the press had called it the "year of three kings" because of the old king's death, that business with the abdication, and the crown going to the next brother in the line. Escott had been singularly uninterested in any of it beyond a comment that the so-called scandal was nothing compared to those the previous generation of royalty had been embroiled in. To prove his point he related a few juicy stories that never made it to the history books, then went back to reading the papers without revealing his sources.

My driver got very detailed about his handicapping system, enough to keep me entertained on the trip back. I gave him a good tip when we arrived and checked the area on the off chance that McCallen had changed his mind and returned. The street was clear except for my Buick and the cars that had been there before. No Escott yet, so I let myself into Mary Sommerfeld's house and straightened books and paintings while waiting for him.

She had quite a collection of reading material, and just to be nosy I studied spine titles. She seemed to have a little of everything, from classics to the new stuff being touted as the next batch of classic literature. I had my doubts on that since I couldn't recall the name of last year's critically acclaimed opus. The fact that I'd not bothered to read it may have had something to do with the lapse of memory. My tastes ran to more lurid stuff. At least it could be relied upon to have a plot.

Once I tried to get through Anthony Adverse and finally gave up when I found myself passing over whole pages at a time to find plot developments. I didn't much like the ending either when I skipped ahead to read it. I fared better with Gone with the Wind because all the detail on the Civil War was pretty interesting. Bobbi had liked the book, so I read it to talk about it with her. She thought Scarlett should have wised up faster about Ashley and told Rhett Butler to jump in the lake at the end. I thought she should have picked up stakes and moved west right after Gettysburg and to hell with Tara. For that I got a pillow thrown in my face.

Mary Sommerfeld was also quite a theatergoer, to judge by her collection of old program books, many from New York. With her money she probably wouldn't think anything of hopping a train east to take in the Broadway season.

She read plays as well, and had several books containing scripts of everything from Shakespeare to George S. Kaufman.

Before I got too far in my cultural education I heard a car door slam. Escott was coming up the walk. I let him in and asked about our client.

"She's presently checked in under an assumed name in one of the upper floors of a hotel in the Loop, hopefully enjoying a room-service drink and a fine view of the lake. The more time she had to think about things the more agitated she got. I was wishing I possessed your powers of enforced persuasion by the time I had her settled in. She is not at all pleased at this turn of events."

"It's her own fault. You warned her, and tonight I told her she should burn the stuff, but it put her nose all out of joint. I've got a new turn for you, too."

"Indeed?" He dropped into a chair and stretched out his legs.

I told him about my hitching a ride with McCallen and his conversation with the new man, Paterno. "He sounded pretty thick with this bird. The impression I got was that Paterno was a go-between for some other players. McCallen's apparently trying to get the papers so either he or Paterno can sell them to an unknown party with plenty of cash."

"He did say it was worth ten times more than the two hundred I offered him," Escott recalled.

"Which is a lot of dough in anyone's bakery. Maybe it's a news outfit. 'Cracker Heiress Slums with Scotch Madman' would make a catchy headline for the seamier rags, especially if they had some purple-passion love letters to print with it."

He looked pained. "That's 'Scots.' Scotch is a drink."

"You catch my drift, though. McCallen's hurt feelings for her might translate into that kind of vindictiveness."

"For a mere two thousand dollars?"

"That's enough for anyone to start over anywhere and have plenty of fun along the way."

"I suppose, but it's just one possibility."

"You got others?"

"Suppose the family of her fiance, Prince Ravellia, objects to Miss Sommerfeld as hers objected to McCallen? They might be trying to find a way of discrediting her in order to call off the marriage."

"I thought poor princes marrying American heiresses was still in fashion."

"Except that his family is not poor. Their objections could be based on the young lady's commoner bloodline."

"You're kidding. That's crazy."

"So speaks a man born in a democracy. But there are class issues to consider, and his family might think Miss Sommerfeld too inferior no matter how rich she is or will be."

I remembered about all the shock over the divorced American Mrs. Simpson marrying a king, and figured Escott had a point. We talked back and forth for a while, but came to the same conclusion in the end-I'd have to see McCallen.

"Fine," I said. "Invite him over to the office for a meeting. I'll deal with him there."

"Very well."

"Hey, Charles, I meant it as a joke!"

"Oh, yes, of course, but it is a most sensible suggestion."

" 'Sensible' is not the word. He was ready to break me in two tonight and would just as cheerfully fold you in half the wrong way if he got the chance. You're not inviting him over there unless I'm along to keep him in line."

"My dear fellow, I wouldn't think of depriving you of the opportunity. I'm well aware that he might be feeling a touch annoyed at your invasion of his house, but have no doubt you'll be able to sort him out."

"Good."

"And if I've not ascertained by then the identity of this Paterno fellow and his comrades, you can make inquiries directly with Mr. McCallen."

I was going to advise Escott to be careful, but bit it back. He knew his business, and actually looked interested in it for a change. The case had some ups and downs, but it wasn't exactly riveting for him. Now that things had gotten more complicated, he'd have something to do tomorrow besides turn away divorce work.

We shut most of the lights off and hauled ourselves out of there. Escott locked up while I headed on to my car. I thought about going back Moe's to see if Jim Waters was still playing, but decided to leave well enough alone for the moment. I'd already made a hell of a first impression on him, anything more on top of it might make things worse.

Better to try again another night, preferably after my talk with McCallen.

Remembering Waters sparked something else in my brain, though, and I trotted back to Escott just before he drove off. "I saw Shoe last night," I said.

"Really? How is he?"

"Doing fine. He wants us to come over to his club this week for dinner, maybe listen to the act he's got playing."

"A most generous invitation, but I-"

"He told me to say he's got a French-trained chef up from New Orleans."

That stopped him cold. "Well, I could hardly turn away from such a gastronomic opportunity. I'll phone tonight and see what can be arranged."

"Just not on Tuesday, okay? That's the night of Bobbi's broadcast and I'm gonna be busy with her."

"Right, I'll remember. It's a very exacting art, you know. French cooking. A matter of bringing out the taste and presenting it well."

"Even frogs and snails? What about that Cajun guy who eats things Shoe wouldn't step on?"

"The idea," Escott continued, nonplused, "is to eat slowly and enjoy your meal in the company of friends. What a pity you can't join us for that. You miss so much good food because of your condition."

"Don't start that talk; I'm happy with what I've got." I'd tried frog legs once on a Paris furlough during the war and decided there was more meat to be had on a chicken. The taste was about the same, anyway.

Escott favored me with one of those piercing looks. "But the same thing, night after night after night?"

I shrugged. "I've tried to explain it, but it won't explain. To me the stuff always tastes just-"

He held up a quick hand. "No. Please. I'd rather you spared me the details." Escott was on the squeamish side.

"You two eat; I'll watch the show," I said.

"Another good reason to clear this case as quickly as possible."

"You said it, brother."

Going into the Nightcrawler lobby, I briefly wondered what I'd have done with my evening hours if there were no clubs. What did cavemen vampires do for entertainment while everyone else went to bed with the dinosaurs? Explore the caves? Had there even been such things as cavemen vampires? I sure as hell didn't know. Maybe one of these nights some guy with a low brow and knuckles dragging on the floor would materialize in front of me and explain the whole business. In fact, such a specimen did walk past, but he was one of the club bouncers.

The show was going strong, playing to a slightly smaller audience than the previous few nights. The bottom two tiers were crowded, but the population was more sparse in the third. Still, it was a good crowd for a Sunday.

Tomorrow the place would be closed and dark, with only the cleaning crew making noise while everyone else took some time off.

The intermission was about ten minutes away. I strolled into the gambling room and looked around for Gordy, but he was elsewhere. Just to keep in practice, I played a couple of hands of blackjack with my favorite dealer. He thought I had one amazing gift for luck, as I won more often than not. The luck had to do with my excellent hearing and his inability to control the beating of his heart when he had a good hand. It was a small edge for me, though a lot of it did depend on the fall of the cards and my own judgment. I won two hands and lost two, tipped him, and continued on to the backstage area just as the teacup number came to an end. Not long now. Soon I'd be seeing my best girl again.

Pushing open the door to Bobbi's dressing room, I discovered Archy Grant sitting on her couch flipping through a magazine with a drink in hand, looking like he owned the place.