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certain your company must have some on retainer, and I suggest you consult them. Your case is much weaker than you suppose.”
    “You are about to rush out to warn your client.” The executive’s gentle smile was worse than a smirk. “You’ll be too late, and the case you boast will be moot.”
    Skip left, followed by a puff of reeking smoke.
    *   *   *
     
    A card that would open Apartment 733 was in his hand, but there was no need for it; the lock had been broken out of the doorframe. Grimacing, Skip pushed aside the door and went in. A tele, a telephone, and a sofa—period. The black tele looked old; presumably she had bought it used, as he had suggested. The pink sofa had been more than a trifle worn; it was ruined now, its disemboweled cushions scattered across the floor, their springs exposed, their stuffing shredded. In the bedroom, blankets and sheets had been torn from the bed. The pillow had been cut open. The drawers of a battered bureau had been pulled out and thrown aside. Skip examined them, bending and peering to scrutinize their interiors without touching them.
    He was about to go when his right foot sent a small, brown object skittering across the bare concrete floor. He picked it up, opened it, and tested the edge.
    From his own apartment he called Michael Tooley. “You won’t have forgotten the woman we talked about, Mick. Have you heard from her?”
    “No, sir. Nothing.”
    “Have you been in contact?”
    “No, sir. You gave me her number, but I haven’t used it and she hasn’t called me. Should I call her?”
    “No. I was just in there. There’s no one there.”
    “Am I to take it that there should’ve been, sir?”
    “Not necessarily. Do you still eat lunch where you did this summer?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “I’ll be there. If I can’t come I’ll call you. Wait half an hour. If I still haven’t come or called, talk to the police.”
    “Like that, sir?”
    Skip paused, took out the slender brown object, and touched its edge to the rosewood of his telephone stand. “I’m afraid so,” he said.
    The old man’s resale shop was on Avenue AA, not quite too far to walk. Selecting a platform rocker, Skip waited for the old man to deal with his customer.
    “Good morning, Mr. Grison.” The old man smiled as his customer left. “Something I can do for you?”
    “I hope so. I sent Vanessa Hennessey to you. Did she come?”
    The old man rubbed the side of his nose, with his forefinger. “Good-looking. Younger than I expected. Spent…” He paused. “Four hundred and ninety-eight. About that. Pretty much all of it for furniture. I got Acacio to deliver it for her. He’s cheap, and as good as anybody. Is she going to sue me?”
    “I wish she would.” Skip took the brown object from his pocket. “Did she buy this here?”
    The old man studied it for a long moment. “You know, she did. I asked her what she wanted it for, and she said she just liked it. I think I had it priced at two noras, but since she was buying so much I threw it in.”
    “Good of you. What’s it for?”
    “It’s an old-time shaver.” The old man demonstrated, holding handle and blade at an obtuse angle and not quite touching the edge to his cheek. “They had to be careful, though.”
    “It looks more like a knife,” Skip said.
    “No point.” The old man demonstrated, tapping the blunt end of the blade with his finger.
    The park was too far to walk, but Skip walked anyway, edgy and eager to spend his energy on something. There was a chill in the air; the sky, gray and lowering, veiled the upper two-thirds of the towering buildings.
    Mick Tooley was sitting on the bench farthest from the silent fountain, sipping coffee from the same cracked mug he used at the office and frowning at two gray pigeons. He rose. “Glad you made it, sir.”
    “So am I.” Skip sat. “That number I gave you was for her apartment in my building. She doesn’t have a mobile phone as far as I know.”
    Tooley resumed his