"You forgot professional honor," Nudger told her.
"There is no such thing in a dishonorable profession."
"Be glad you're not a windmill," Nudger said, and hung up.
He sat for a long time thinking about what he might have bought for five thousand dollars, not the least of which was escape from his creditors, and from troubled sleep fragmented by dreams of debt and destruction. Agnes knew how to negotiate, how to tempt. She hadn't offered him an astronomical amount of money, but when a man was treading shark-infested water, you might as well throw him a raft as a boat. He'd climb on. Usually. If he wasn't a Quixotic fool.
Then he considered the vulnerable position he'd be in if he accepted Agnes Boyington's offer. She would have him sealed like a bug in a jar, and she would remove the lid only to stick pins in him. He was sure that eventually he'd lose his livelihood as well as his self-respect. He told himself that, and not an antiquated code of honor, was why he'd hung up on her. It was an explanation he could live with and suffer no embarrassment.
As he sat staring at the phone, it occurred to him that he'd doubtless be seeing more of Hugo Rumbo. An unsettling notion. Almost as unsettling as being five thousand dollars poorer than he might have been.
Nudger looked around the office to make sure he wasn't leaving anything switched on and unnecessarily running up his electric bill, then locked the door behind him and descended the hollow-sounding steep wooden stairs to the street door.
He would accept Danny's offer of a two-doughnut lunch, then return to the neighborhood where he'd lost track of Kelly. If he didn't have persistence, what did he have?
Three days later he was wondering if persistence paid. He'd covered the side streets along Kingshighway again and again, jarring over potholed pavement in the cramped, clattering Volkswagen, probably doing irreparable harm to his and the car's insides.
Time was becoming a prime factor. Nudger had only so much of it to waste. He'd phoned his new client yesterday afternoon and reported that there were three Roger Davidsons practicing law in the state of Missouri. None of them had the office address of the client's Roger Davidson; none of them had ever heard of Nudger's client. The Bar Association pleaded ignorantia. The Roger Davidson in question wasn't even a lawyer. Case closed. A nice profit for Nudger for doing nothing but making phone calls, but not so much profit that it amounted to more than carrion for his creditors. If something didn't happen soon on the Jeanette Boyington case, or if Natalie Mallowan didn't pay him for finding Ringo, he'd have to contact some bona fide lawyers he knew who sometimes threw business his way at the end of ambulance chases.
Nudger bounced in his seat, almost bumping his head on the car roof, as the Volkswagen hit a high seam in the pavement. The little car's suspension was about ruined, and the engine was laboring as if overheated. He decided to give car and driver a rest by taking time out for a cheap lunch at the diner on the corner of Kingshighway and Kemper; the place was built of glass and white metal and looked clean.
There was a shady parking space not far from the corner. Nudger maneuvered the Volkswagen into it and listened to the tiny engine putt and clatter for several revolutions after he'd switched off the ignition. He thought it might be a good idea to pop the trunk a few inches on the rear-engine car so the tired old motor would cool faster.
He'd just gotten out of the car and was about to close the door when he saw Kelly emerge from the diner, clutching a white carryout bag beneath his arm like a football, and jog across Kingshighway.
Nudger caught his breath, then in one hurried motion climbed back into the Volkswagen, bumped his knee on the dashboard, and inserted and twisted the ignition key. The engine turned over but refused to start, grinding and popping as if protesting this fresh abuse at the hands of Nudger. He twisted the key again. Again. Heat-warped metal ticked and moaned. The overheated little car sputtered something guttural and nasty at Nudger and the battery went dead. If yet another war with Germany were in the offing, Nudger would be among the first to know.
Legwork time. Nudger could still see Kelly walking along Kingshighway with his carryout order. He wouldn't be going far if he was planning on a hot lunch. Slamming the car door hard behind him, as if that might cause well- deserved pain in the carburetor, Nudger followed.
Kelly didn't appear worried about being watched. He never glanced back as he crossed Kingshighway at the traffic light and began walking east on Arsenal. Nudger stayed well behind him, watching his easy, powerful stride. Kelly looked as if he were merely sauntering, but Nudger had to walk fast to maintain the same distance between them.
When Kelly turned right on Morganford and was out of sight, Nudger broke into a casual jog to close distance, then paused at the corner and saw Kelly crossing the street to walk east on Hartford. Nudger walked swiftly to the corner and peered down Hartford. Kelly was half a block away, climbing some steps with a black curlicued wrought-iron railing. He took the steps two at a time, effortlessly.
Nudger waited a few minutes, then approached the spot where Kelly had gone up the steps.
The steps led to a small brick house with green metal awnings, almost exactly like the houses on either side. Without pausing, Nudger memorized the address as he walked past.
When he reached the corner and was out of sight of the house, he jogged back to his car. He was getting tired, getting old.
The Volkswagen was still miffed at him. Its engine had cooled, but the battery hadn't built up enough of a charge to turn it over. Nudger talked two summer-school students from the high school across the street into pushing the car down Kingshighway. They thought it was great fun, as they held their half-eaten hamburgers from the diner in their mouths like dogs with bones, and leaned into the task with strong backs and young legs. At fifteen miles per hour, Nudger popped the clutch and the engine thunked and clattered to life.
With a grateful beep of the horn to the two scholarly stalwarts, he drove for his office. In the rearview mirror a hamburger hit the pavement.
The three-year-old reverse directory Nudger kept in his filing cabinet listed the occupant of the Hartford address as Luther Kell. He looked up "Kell" in the phone directory, ran his finger down the page, and found a Luther Kell at the same address. So far so good. Unless Luther Kell had moved recently and the blond man was someone else.
There was an easy way to confirm his identity. Maybe. Nudger dragged the phone over to himself and punched out Kell's listed number.
"Hello," said a monotonous deep male voice.
"Mr. Luther Kell?" Nudger asked, trying to sound like Monty Hall.
"Yeah."
"This is Mike at J, T, and L Insulation and Remodeling. We understand you own your home on Hartford. We're running our summer special on insulation-"
"The house is warm enough," Kell said. "It don't need any more insulation." A slight drawl now, distorted by the phone.
"What about siding? We're having a sale on our never- paint white vinyl siding."
"It's a brick house. It don't need any siding. Anyway, I rent."
"If you could give me the name of the house's owner…"
"Hey, get screwed, Mike! You friggin' pest!"
"You'll like our summer rebate offer."
But Kell had hung up. No tolerance.
Nudger sat back in his swivel chair, satisfied. He'd found Kell and knew where he lived. Damned if he couldn't do some mighty smooth sleuthing on occasion. The squeal of the chair's unoiled mechanism was like a trill of congratulation.
He reached again for the phone, to call Jeanette Boying- ton.
She didn't answer. It wasn't yet five o'clock. She was probably working somewhere on one of her Personnel Pool journeywoman secretarial jobs. He replaced the receiver and leaned back once more in his chair. Greeeat! it shrilly proclaimed again. It was a fan, all right.