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any other piece?”
    “The Jandolaean Embassy saw to that.”
    “Then whoever stole it had three whole months to find themselves an accomplice,” I said. “You can do a lot of persuading in three months.”
    Frances Wingo quit tapping the pencil and I almost thanked her. “Why do you think they killed the guard—provided they killed him?” she said.
    I shrugged. “Probably to save money and to keep him from talking. Or maybe he planned the whole thing himself and someone got greedy, but that seems a little farfetched.”
    “But the murder hasn’t yet changed your mind?”
    “Not yet.”
    “You mean it could later?”
    “At any time.”
    Frances Wingo didn’t like that so she started tapping the eraser on her desk again. “You didn’t mention that before.”
    “An oversight,” I said.
    “I thought that’s what you were being paid for, to take such risks.”
    “No. You’re paying me to get the shield back, not to run risks. My principal problem is to arrange the transaction so that the risks are minimized. If I find that I can’t do that, then I’ll back out.”
    She looked at me for a long moment. “You’re not exactly the boy adventurer, are you?”
    “Not exactly,” I said, but the topic was beginning to bore me so I asked her a question. “What do I do if I suddenly find that I need a quarter of a million dollars in relatively small bills at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon in Pittsburgh?”
    She didn’t hesitate or stop tapping the eraser. “You call me,” she said. “Mr. Spencer will either arrange for a corresponding bank to supply the money or it will be flown to you by private plane from Washington.”
    “To wherever I need it?”
    “To wherever you need it. Anything else?”
    “A couple of things. If you get any more calls from the man with the muffled voice, tell him he can reach me at the Madison until nine in the morning; after that I’ll be at my place in New York.” I gave her the number and she stopped tapping the pencil long enough to write it down on a buff-colored pad.
    “All right,” she said. “What else?”
    “The last item. If you’re free this evening, you might drop by the Madison and I’ll buy you a drink.”
    She leaned back in her chair and looked at me speculatively. This time I was no longer a slightly audacious water color; I was a forgery trying to pass as an old master and not a very good forgery at that.
    “Don’t you think my husband might object, Mr. St. Ives?”
    “No,” I said, “because I don’t think you’re married, at least not any more.”
    “Why not?”
    “You just don’t look married.”
    She rose then and there was nothing else for me to do but rise with her. “If you need any more information about the shield, Mr. St. Ives, please feel free to call at any time.”
    “If you change your mind, the offer for the drink still stands,” I said.
    She looked down at her desk, picked up the yellow pencil, and began to tap the eraser against the wood. “Thank you, but I don’t think so.”
    At the door I paused and looked back. I don’t know why I bothered because I really didn’t care whether I bought her a drink. “But you’re not married, are you?”
    “No, Mr. St. Ives,” she said, “I’m not. Not any more. My husband died in an auto accident four weeks ago.”
    It had warmed up a little, I noticed, as I stood outside the museum and vainly waited for the miracle of a cruising cab. I stood in the shade of a telephone pole, and wondered what the temperature was in Leadville and San Francisco and Nome and some other fine places. After a quarter of an hour or so a cab came along with its windows rolled up which meant that it was either air-conditioned or the driver had gone mad. It was twenty degrees cooler inside and I asked to be driven to police headquarters.
    “Wait a minute,” the driver said, and pointed at his radio which was blasting an acid rock number so loud that the speaker vibrated.
    “Your song?” I