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that is a special characteristic of Hollywood, had quietly vanished. The boots were almost done now. Paying the Mexican he got up, walked around the end of the bar, approached the office. Throwing open the door for the majestic entrance that befitted his station in life, he strode into the room. He was well inside before he noticed there was nobody there, and stopped. Then he looked at the desk, which had nothing on it but a blotter, a paper cutter, and an ashtray. He looked out the window, to where Sylvia stood at the river’s edge, and took a step or two in that direction, as though he were going to call to her, find out what she had been talking about. Then he gave a low, quavering moan. Then he turned green, and sat down in one of the big leather chairs.
    Dreadful, hammering seconds went by before the door opened and Tony came in, faultless in his double-breasted black suit. Dmitri got up, forced a smile, lunged at what was intended for casualness. “Beg poddon, plizze. I’m looking for the proprietor.”
    “I own this place.”
    “You, Tony?”
    “Tony Rico is my name.”
    “Spiro mine. President Phoenix Pictures, big Hollywood company. Could I speak to you one minute?”
    “What about?”
    “I’m in a little trouble.”
    “What kind of trouble?”
    “Telling the truth I don’t know. I was not personally here. But nothing serious I give my word honor, epsolutely. Friend of mine, Baron Victor Adlerkreutz, fine fallow, fine family, one finest families in Europe—is hurt.”
    “In what way?”
    “I think—shot.”
    “And what do you want of me?”
    “Listen, Tony; listen, old fallow, listen to me, plizze. I want you to let me get the Baron out from here. I want we get him to a private hospital, get a doctor quick, fix it up what we say, so when the police come, and all those damn reporter, we don’t have any mess.”
    “Afraid I couldn’t do that.”
    “Tony, you don’t want no mess either!”
    “Your friend’s dead.”
    Tony motioned toward the desk and added: “Or so I think.” He glanced at the small mirror he had in his hand, polished it with his handkerchief, went behind the desk and knelt down.
    In a moment he stood up and came over to Dmitri, holding up the mirror. “You see anything on that?”
    “No.”
    “Neither do I.”
    He went to the phone, picked up the receiver, jiggled the bar. Dmitri seemed to come out of the trance that had half enveloped him and jumped for the instrument. Tony stepped aside and motioned him back to his seat. But, Dmitri kept grabbing, until the phone was knocked off the desk and Tony had to let go or have the cord torn out by the roots. He swore hotly at Dmitri, who paid no attention. “Tony! Not yet! Don’t call the police till I talk to you!”
    “Sorry, this is nothing I can talk about.”
    “Yes, Tony.”
    “Listen! I don’t know where the hell you come from, but in this state we got laws.”
    “Tony! Don’t you get it? I’m a producer! If this mess comes out, it ruins me, ruins my life, ruins my company, ruins my star!”
    “Once more: There’s nothing I can do for you!”
    “Then do it for Sylvia!”
    “You trying to tell me she shot him?”
    “Who do you think?”
    Tony stared incredulously at Dmitri, who seized the chance to pick up the phone, set it on the desk, and clap the receiver in place. At once it rang. He answered. “Hello. No, nobody called. Fell off the desk. Sorry, plizze.”
    He set the receiver in place, held it with both hands. Sylvia came in, her bravado gone. She sat down. Tony, after looking at her, was no longer incredulous. He went over to her. “We’ve been having an argument, Miss Shoreham. About something that’s happened. I’ve got no choice. I’ve got to report it.”
    “Yes, I know.”
    “It’s none of my affair. But after what’s been going on, it don’t surprise me any. I want you to hear me say that, Miss Shoreham.”
    “Thanks, Tony.”
    “A jury may feel the same way.”
    “I’m not that far