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had paid his bill and left suddenly, no forwarding address given. They hadn’t heard from him since, but people had been asking about him. “In trouble, eh?” the clerk asked wisely. Locke nodded gravely.
    The clerk leaned closer. “I had a hunch, though, that Cartwright was heading for Des Moines. Something he said—don’t remember what now.”
    Locke took off for Des Moines with a sample ofCartwright’s handwriting from the Abbot register. He canvassed the Des Moines hotels, rooming houses, motels. Finally, at a first-class hotel, he noticed the name “Marshall Carter.”
    Cartwright had left the Abbot on the ninth. Carter had checked into the Des Moines hotel on the tenth. The handwritings seemed similar.
    Locke caught up with Carter in St. Louis. He turned out to be a middle-aged salesman of photographic equipment who hadn’t been near Kansas City in a year.
    End of the trail.
    â€œCan anyone else find him?” Pearce asked.
    â€œNot if he doesn’t want to be found,” Locke said. “A nationwide search—an advertising campaign—they’d help. But if he’s changed his name and doesn’t go signing his new one to a lot of things that might fall into an agency’s hands, nobody is going to find him. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
    Pearce looked at him steadily, not saying anything.
    â€œHe’s got no record,” Locke went on. “That helps. Got a name check on him from the bigger police departments and the FBI. No go. No record, no fingerprints. Not under that name.”
    â€œHow’d you get hurt?” Pearce asked, after a moment.
    â€œThey were waiting for me outside my office when I got back. Two of ’em. Good, too. But not good enough. ‘Lay off!’ they said. Okay. I’m not stupid. I’m laying off, but I wanted to finish the job first.”
    Pearce nodded slowly. “I’m satisfied. Send me a bill.”
    â€œBill, nothing!” Locke growled. “Five thousand is the price.Put the cash in an envelope, take it out a little at a time to avoid notice, and mail it to my office—no checks. I should charge you more for using me as a stakeout, but maybe you had your reasons. Watch your step, Doc!”
    He was gone then, slipping away through the shadows so quickly and silently that Pearce started to speak before he realized that the detective was not beside him. Pearce stared after him for a long, speculative moment before he turned and opened the front door.
    Going up in the elevator, he was thoughtful. In front of his apartment door, he fumbled the key out absently and inserted it in the lock. When the key wouldn’t turn, he took it out to check on it. It took a moment for the realization to sink in that the door was already unlocked. Pearce turned the knob and gave the door a little push. It swung inward quietly. The light from the hall streamed over his shoulder, but it only lapped a little way into the dark room. He peered into it for a moment, hunching his shoulders as if that might help.
    â€œCome in, Doctor Pearce,” someone said softly.
    The lights went on.
    Pearce blinked once. “Good evening, Mister Weaver. And you, Jansen. How are you?”
    â€œFine, Doctor,” Weaver said. “Just fine.”
    He didn’t look fine, Pearce thought. He looked older, haggard, tired. Was he worried? Weaver was sitting in Pearce’s favorite chair, a dark-green leather armchair beside the fireplace. Jansen was standing beside the wall switch. “You’ve made yourself right at home, I see.”
    Weaver chuckled. “We told the manager we werefriends of yours, and of course he didn’t doubt us. Solid citizens like us, we don’t lie. But then, we are friends, aren’t we?”
    Pearce looked at Weaver and then at Jansen. “I wonder. Do you have any friends—or only hirelings?” He turned his gaze back to Weaver.