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“A few minutes ago, yes.”

“Kind of a long one, wasn’t it?”

“Not really. We had a lot of things to discuss.”

“I’m sure you did.”

“Now what does that mean?”

“Nothing. It was just a comment.”

Silence. Then, “My God, are you jealous?”

“What would I have to be jealous about?”

“Not a thing. But you are, aren’t you.”

“No,“I said.

“Yes you are. I can hear it in your voice.”

“Balls,” I said. “Let’s have dinner tonight.”

“I can’t.”

“Why can’t you?”

“Because I can’t.”

“Another business meeting?”

“That’s right. Or don’t you think so?”

“Don’t get huffy.”

“I’m not getting huffy. God, you can be irritating sometimes. What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m going through male menopause,” I said. “I keep having hot flashes every time I think about you and your friend Carpenter.”

“He’s not my friend, he’s my boss.”

“All right.”

“All right. You big jerk.”

“Balls,” I said again.

“Balls to you, too,” she said and clanked the receiver down hard enough to make me wince.

I sat there and thought: She’s right, I am a big jerk. She calls, worried, and what do I do? Make jealous noises and dumb remarks and get her upset enough to hang up on me. I felt even more like a horse’s ass than I had on Sunday. The thing to do was to call her back and apologize. I made up my mind to do that and reached out for the receiver.

Before I could pick it up, the thing went off again.

Maybe she’s calling me back, I thought, but she wasn’t. It was Mrs. Hornback. “Oh, so you’re there,” she said. “Didn’t you get my message?”

“I got it.” “Then why didn’t you call me?” * “I had some other things to attend to.”

“I’m a grieving widow,” she said, but she didn’t sound like one. She sounded like the Wicked Witch of the East. “Don’t you have any feelings?”

“I might ask you the same question,” I SSaid. “I understand you’ve been making accusations against me to the police.”

“I have not been making accusations.”

“Inferences, then. You seem to think I had something to do with your husband’s death.”

“For all I know, you did.”

“That’s slander, Mrs. Hornback.”

“Not if it’s true.”

“Look, lady, what is it you want? Or did you just call up to harass me?”

“I want what’s rightfully mine,” she said. “I want the money Lewis stole from Hornback Designs.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“Well, you’d better find out.”

“What?”

“You’d better find out who has my money and who killed Lewis. You’d better find that bitch of his.”

“That’s not up to me. It’s up to the police.”

“The police are incompetent,” she said. “You’re the only one who can do it.” She paused dramatically. “If you’re not guilty yourself, that is.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“You’re still in my employ,” she said. “You took my money and you didn’t earn it. Well, I’m warning you, you’d better earn it now.”

“I have no obligation to you-”

, “Of course you do. You claim to be an honest detective. All right, start detecting. That’s what I’m paying you for.”

I opened my mouth, closed-it again. A funny noise came out of my throat-like a dog growling.

She said, “What did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Are you going to find my money and Lewis’s killer or aren’t you?”

“I don’t work for you any longer, Mrs. Hornback.”

“If you don’t,” she said, “it’s because you have something to hide. That’s how I see it. That’s how my attorney sees it, too.”

And for the third time that day, somebody banged a telephone receiver down in my ear.

I got up and took a couple of angry turns around the office. The woman was demented; she ought to be locked away in a place with mattresses on the walls. She had just tried to hire me to prove I wasn’t a murderer and a thief-that was what the whole crazy conversation amounted to. Great Christ. I had a certifiable lunatic on my hands. The worst kind, too; vindictive and monomaniacal. There was no telling what she might do next.

I sat down again. What I needed right now was an attorney of my own to advise me, before this whole thing got out of hand. I looked up Charles Kayabalian’s number in my address book. Kayabalian was an Armenian I had met three years before, during a messy murder case up in the Mother Lode country-a bad time in my life because I had been waiting to find out whether the lesion on my lung was malignant or benign. The case had involved a stolen Oriental rug, and Kayabalian was a collector of Orientals; he was also a very good attorney. I had had occasion to consult with him on minor matters a time or two since.

He was in and free to listen to my tale of woe. When I finished relating it he said in his Melvin Belli voice, “From a legal standpoint, my friend, I doubt if you have much to worry about. The Hornback woman would have to prove felonious intent on your part, and from what you’ve told me, there’s no evidence to substantiate such a claim.”

“Could she sue me anyway?”

“Yes. For criminal negligence.”

“She couldn’t prove that, either.”

“Probably not. Any competent judge would throw a suit like that out of court. Still, it could damage you professionally.”

“So what do you advise?”

“Don’t talk to her anymore,” Kayabalian said. “If she calls you again, tell her politely that you have nothing to say to her on advice of counsel and hang up. Meanwhile, I’ll get in touch with her and her attorney.”

“What will you say to them?”

“You leave that to my discretion. The main thing I want to find out is how serious she is about a potential suit.”

I gave him Mrs. Hornback’s number. He said he’d be in touch after he talked to her and her lawyer, and to let him know right away if I learned of any fresh developments in the police investigation. He sounded confident enough, but I didn’t feel particularly relieved after we rang off. Lunatics make me nervous, attorney or no attorney in my corner.

It had been better than half an hour since my abrasive conversation with Kerry, but I still felt I ought to apologize to her. The only problem with that was when I called Bates and Carpenter her secretary said she was away from her desk and unavailable to take calls. Which may or may not have been true. Maybe she just didn’t want to talk to me. Or maybe she was off in Jim Carpenter’s private office, conducting more business.

Damn women. And damn me and my petty jealousies.

I put the handset down. Two seconds later the bloody thing’s bell went off again. But this time it was my friend on the Examiner, and he had some good news.

“I found Xanadu for you,” he said. “At least, it’s the only one anybody around here knows about.”

“What is it?”

“A resort playground for the rich and decadent. Down on the Big Sur seacoast.”

“Ah,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “Eighteen-hole golf course, tennis and racquetball courts. Olympic-sized swim ming pool, sauna and steam rooms, two restaurants, three bars, a disco night club, and forty or fifty rustic cottages for the guests to hole up in.”

“Sounds exclusive.”

“It is. The tariff is a mere fifteen hundred per week per person, not including meals, drinks, or gratuities.”

“Nice play if you can get it,” I said.

“Ain’t that the truth. This sound like the Xanadu you’re after?”

“I think so.”

“Good. That means you won’t try to weasel out of my steak dinner next week.”

“Any night. Call me on Monday.”

“I think I’ll have a porterhouse,” he said. “Unless there’s another steak on the menu more expensive.”