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return the journals. Then he said that he wanted you to handle the payment and that your services would cost me nothing, because you could take your ten percent off the top. I was surprised when he told me that Myron Greene was your attorney because I had just retained Greene. It was something of a coincidence and I’m not too fond of coincidences.”
    “Neither am I,” I said and we looked at each other for a while as if trying to think of something suspicious to say. When we couldn’t, I said, “What did the thief say he’d do, if you didn’t pay up?”
    “He’d send them to the police.”
    “And you wouldn’t like that?”
    “No, Mr. St. Ives, I definitely wouldn’t like that.” He rose, picked up my cup, and poured me another cup of coffee, not forgetting to put in the sugar. When he handed it to me, he said, “I’ve never dealt with a professional go-between before.”
    “It’ll probably be your last time,” I said. “I don’t have much repeat business.”
    “What I’m trying to ask, I suppose, is whether there’s a code of ethics in your profession?”
    “About as much as there is in yours, I’d say. My ethics are my own and they’re not especially rigid or I wouldn’t be in this business. But if they didn’t protect the person who hires me—I guess I would call him a client—then I wouldn’t be in business. I haven’t had too many complaints.”
    “I’m paying one hundred thousand dollars to ensure my privacy.”
    I shook my head. “You’re paying one hundred thousand dollars to stay out of jail. Your privacy, if you want to call it that, has already been broken. A lot of people know you’re a thief, but none of them can prove it. Those journals can. If you want my guarantee that I won’t peek inside once I get them back, I won’t give it to you. I’m still too much of a snoop. But I can promise you that whatever I learn won’t go any further than me. I don’t know how I can make you believe that, but it’s not really my problem. It’s yours.”
    “Yes,” Procane said, “I can see that.”
    “I should tell you that when Myron Greene first mentioned your name, I told him that I thought you were a thief.”
    Procane frowned. “Was that necessary?”
    “Probably not, but it’s done, and after my nice little talk about ethics, I thought you should know.”
    “What did Greene say?”
    “He said he didn’t care and that it was all hearsay anyhow. Actually, I think Myron likes having a thief for a client.”
    Procane looked at his watch. “It’s now ten forty-five. The man said he would call at eleven to give you instructions.”
    “How’d he sound when you talked to him?”
    “A little nervous, I think, but I couldn’t really tell because his tone was strange.”
    “How strange?”
    “Tinny.”
    “He probably used a distorter,” I said. “They’ve all learned about voice prints from TV so distorters are the latest thing.”
    Procane nodded as if he knew all there was to know about distorters, and then said, “Do you always work alone?”
    “I do now,” I said. “I tried working with someone else a couple of times and both were disasters.”
    “Comegys—the Frenchman I spoke of—encouraged me to work alone whenever possible. But he also told me that as I grew older I would learn of certain opportunities that I’d have to forgo because they were too complex for one man and I would discover there was really no one I could trust. I remember him saying, ‘Find someone and train them just as I found and trained you.’ Two years ago I finally took his advice. I’ve acquired two associates, a young man and a young woman. They’re quite efficient, even brilliant, I think. If you should need assistance, feel free to call on them.”
    “I’ll keep it in mind,” I said and then we sat there in a not uncomfortable silence until the phone rang. After Procane said hello, he handed me the phone and I listened carefully. Whoever was on the other end was using a