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your salary while you’re in this clink. Retroactive and continuing as long as your contract would have gone on. I had a long talk with Drexel on Friday night. About you .”
    Carter was surprised. Alphonse Drexel was the president of Triumph. He had stood by in cold neutrality during Carter’s trial, and when pressed had put in the barest of good words for him: As far as I know, he’s done a good job for me with what he had to work with. If you ask me if I think he took the money or part of it, I just don’t know . Carter said, “Very nice of Mr. Drexel. What happened?”
    “Well, I did a lot of talking,” Gawill said, smiling. “I’ve practically convinced Drexel that Wally Palmer was the crook and the only crook in this thing, so—I made him feel he didn’t say enough at the trial to help an innocent man out of the jam you were in, so he feels guilty about it, naturally. Paying you some salary’s one way of making him feel better. Anyway, I suggested it to him, and I thought you could use it.”
    Had it been that simple and direct, Carter wondered. Obviously, Gawill wanted all the credit for it. Why? Because Gawill was as guilty as Palmer? Carter simply didn’t know. Palmer and Gawill had never been particularly chummy as far as Carter knew, or anybody at the trial had known, but that proved nothing at all. Nothing proved anything except little pieces of paper, checks or banknotes, that might have passed between Palmer and Gawill.
    “Thanks a lot,” Carter said. “Hazel’ll be very pleased, too.”
    “Wasn’t the first time I’d talked to him about it,” Gawill murmured. He looked at Carter’s bandaged thumbs and shook his head. “Your wife said your thumbs still hurt.”
    “Yep,” Carter said.
    “That’s a hell of a thing. They give you painkillers for it?”
    “Morphine.”
    “Oh. It’s easy to get hooked on that stuff.”
    “I know. The doctor here’s going to give me something else. Demerol or something.”
    Gawill nodded. “Well, there’s always a fall guy, I guess, and you sure were it this time.”
    Carter frowned at the dirty metal ashtray in front of him. What did it all mean? Did Drexel now think he was absolutely innocent or what? Half innocent? Why didn’t Drexel write him a letter about it, or was he afraid of putting anything down on paper? Carter suddenly realized who Drexel reminded him of: Jefferson Davis. A wizened, gray old man with an unpredictable temper.
    “It’s good Hazel’s going to get away for a few days. She must have had a pretty rough time these last months.”
    “Away?”
    “Up to Virginia with Sullivan for Easter. Didn’t she mention it? You saw her today, didn’t you?”
    A painful emotion exploded in him—composed of jealousy, anger, a childlike feeling of having been left out. “Yes, I saw her. We had so many other things to talk about, she didn’t mention it.”
    Gawill watched him carefully. “Yeah. Sullivan has some friends up there with a big house. An estate, horses, and a swimming pool and stuff. The Fennors.”
    Carter had never heard of the Fennors. Had Hazel not mentioned it, Carter wondered, because she thought such a pleasant prospect might make him feel worse, sitting in prison?
    “Sullivan’s very thoughtful about her,” Gawill went on. “I don’t think he’ll have much luck, but I think he’s really in love with her. Well, she’s pretty easy to fall in love with.” Gawill grinned. “I remember the night I was loaded and made a pass at her. Hope you weren’t too sore about that, Phil. You know it never happened again.”
    “No, no, I know.”
    “I’m sure Sullivan has a subtler approach,” Gawill said, and chuckled.
    Carter tried to show no concern at all, but he squirmed in his chair and inwardly he writhed. Sullivan was very smooth, he was very civilized, his passes would be civilized. He was quite a lot of things that Hazel liked. If nobody else was around, mightn’t Hazel have a very discreet affair with him?