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Wingo said.
    “Yes,” I said. “That’s as far as they go and I think it’s far enough considering the risk involved. If what you think you need is a little derring-do, someone who’ll meet the thieves at the old mill at midnight, whip out his Smith & Wesson, and cart them, a 50-pound suitcase full of money, and a 68-pound shield down to the nearest precinct station, then I’m not a candidate for the job. I’m not even a dark horse.”
    “That could be the reason that the thieves insist that you serve as go-between, Mr. St. Ives,” Spencer said, still fascinated by the spot on my forehead. “You must have something of a reputation for caution.”
    “Some might call it cowardice,” I said.
    “Yes,” Spencer said, “I suppose that some might.” He shifted his gaze from my forehead to the imaginary guest at the end of the table. “I recommend that we engage Mr. St. Ives to carry out the negotiations for the return of the shield. Senator?”
    Senator Kehoel nodded. “I agree.”
    “Mr. Teague?” Spencer said.
    “He has my vote,” Teague said.
    “Then it’s agreed,” Spencer said. “You will accept the assignment, Mr. St. Ives?”
    “Yes,” I said, “provided you accept the conditions I’ve mentioned.”
    “They are acceptable,” Spencer said. “Is a deposit or a retainer the usual form?”
    “One half,” I said.
    “Will you see to it, Mrs. Wingo?” he said.
    “Of course,” she said.
    “Now that you’re the museum’s official go-between,” Spencer said, “what will be your first move?”
    “I’ll go back to New York and wait for someone to call or write me a letter or send a telegram.”
    “You won’t remain here in Washington?”
    “When whoever stole the shield asked for me, they knew that I lived in New York, so I assume that’s where they’ll get in touch with me.”
    “You think the exchange will be made there, Phil?” Teague said.
    “It could be,” I said. “There or here or Kansas City or Miami. They might be moving around.”
    Spencer got up slowly from the table. “You’ll keep us informed through Mrs. Wingo,” he said.
    “Yes.”
    As the rest of us began to rise the bartender-waiter hurried over with a telephone. “It’s for you, Mrs. Wingo,” he said. “Your secretary says it’s important.” She nodded and he plugged the phone into a jack underneath the table.
    After she said hello she said, “Yes, Lieutenant,” and then she listened for several moments. Finally she said, “I’m sorry to hear that, but thank you for calling.” She hung up the phone and the waiter unplugged it and took it away.
    “That was Lieutenant Demeter of the Metropolitan Police Robbery Squad,” she said. “Two children playing in Rock Creek Park discovered the body of a dead man. He’d been shot. He was identified as John Sackett, the guard who didn’t show up for work Friday morning.”

CHAPTER FOUR
    W HEN THE YOUNG NEGRO secretary with the pleasant smile brought the machine-signed check in, Frances Wingo merely glanced at it and then pushed it across her desk to me with the eraser of the unsharpened yellow pencil that she kept bouncing against the inlaid wood.
    “You may still back out, right?” she said as I put the check away in my wallet.
    “I’ve been thinking about it.”
    “Because of what happened to the guard?”
    “It did give me a new perspective.”
    “The obvious one?”
    “Obvious to me anyway.”
    “You mean whoever killed the guard stole the shield?”
    “That’s one.”
    “What’s two?”
    “That it was all a carefully planned operation which suggests professionals.”
    Frances Wingo tapped the eraser some more. “They had three months to work it out.”
    “Why three months?”
    “Because that’s when we first knew that we were going to get the exhibition. Up until then, we weren’t sure.”
    “And you announced it then?”
    “Yes,” she said. “It made quite a nice splash.”
    “Did the shield get more publicity or attention than