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answering service and asked if there were any messages. Just one, from my ex-wife, reminding me that this month’s alimony payment was past due.
    “Were those her exact words?” I asked the female voice on the other end.
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Walker, but FCC regulations forbid me to quote the message verbatim.”
    I hung up, unwrapped the taco I had invested in on my way across town, and was about to bite into it when some of the sauce dribbled onto my palm and I remembered Bingo Jefferson’s blood on Ann Maringer’s carpet. I rewrapped it carefully, wiping my hand off on the tissue, and chucked it in with the circular. I opened the deep file drawer, got out the fifth of Hiram Walker’s—not even a distant cousin—stood it up on the desk and stared at it for a while, then put it back and closed the drawer. Nothing seemed good.
    Information gave me the number of United Steelhaulers’ executive offices in the Renaissance Center. I got a busy signal, depressed the plunger, and tried again. It rang twice and was answered by a cool, self-assured, masculine voice that sounded as if its owner had been expecting me to call at just that time. It recited the number I had just dialed. Somewhere in the background an orchestra nobody had ever heard of was playing “Feelings.” These days every office sounds like a cheap nightclub.
    “I’d like to speak to Mr. Montana,” I said.
    “May I ask what about?”
    “You may if your name is Mr. Montana.”
    “Your name, sir?” The temperature went down a degree.
    “Walker.”
    He repeated it. I half expected him to spell it next. When he didn’t I said, “That’s right. Is he in?”
    “Mr. Montana is a busy man, Mr. Walker. I’ll have to know your business.”
    “I’m investigating the Bingo Jefferson murder. I’d like to discuss it with him.”
    “I see.” It didn’t sound as if he did. “Are you with the police?”
    “Not exactly.”
    “You mean not at all.”
    I was elated. I bet no one had gotten his goat in a long time. In the background the taped orchestra paused briefly, then struck up a lively rendition of “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head.” I said, “I’m a private investigator. Jefferson’s, death is connected with a case I’m working on. Now may I speak to him?”
    “Mr. Montana has already discussed that matter with the police. He has nothing more to say.”
    “I might believe that if you’d ask him.”
    “I am Mr. Montana’s personal secretary. I speak for him.”
    “Is that all you do for him?”
    “That means what?” The viciousness of the retort made me withdraw the receiver from my ear. It was like a brief glimpse at something he preferred to keep hidden, like an insane brother locked in the attic. I backed water.
    “Just making conversation. How long can it take to ask your boss if he wants to talk to me? You can put me on hold. Just don’t turn on any more music.”
    “I am Mr. Montana’s personal secretary,” he repeated coldly. “One of my duties is to screen his calls. I’m sorry, but he’s far too busy. And so am I. Good-bye.”
    It was the nicest way I had ever been hung up on. I pressed down the plunger again and dialed the number for the third time. After two rings the same cool voice came on again. I got a picture of him sitting at his desk and counting them. The orchestra was still playing “Raindrops.”
    “I’d like to speak to Mr. Montana.”
    There was a pause, then: “Listen, Jack, I don’t know what your game is, but Phil Montana is no man to play it with.” His tone was guarded. His earlier lapse had sharpened up his defenses.
    “I thought I might catch you in a better mood.” I was speaking into a dead line. This time he hadn’t been nearly so polite about it.
    I replaced the receiver and stared at it for a while. Casting around for something to do next, my eyes fell to the chipped safe.
    The diamond, unconcerned by its tawdry surroundings, winked coquettishly in the overhead light as I turned it