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confidential—papers at Ajax?”
    Devereux was surprised. “You’re not trying to link his death with Ajax, are you? I thought it was pretty clear that he was shot by one of those drug addicts who are always killing people in Hyde Park.”
    “You make Hyde Park sound like the site of the Tong Wars, Mr. Devereux. Of the thirty-two murders in the twenty-first police district last year, only six were in Hyde Park—one every two months. I don’t think Peter Thayer is just the neighborhood’s July-August statistic.”
    “Well, what makes you think it’s connected with Ajax, then?”
    “I don’t think so. I’m just trying to eliminate possibilities…. Have you ever seen a dead body—or at least a body that got that way because of a bullet?” He shook his head and moved defensively in his chair. “Well, I have. And you can often tell from the way the body lies whether the victim was trying to fight off the attacker. Well, this boy was sitting at his kitchen table in a white shirt—probably ready to come down hereMonday morning—and someone put a little hole smack in the middle of his head. Now a professional might have done that, but even so, he’d have to bring along someone whom the boy knew to get his confidence. It could’ve been you, or Masters, or his father, or his girl friend…. I’m just trying to find out why it couldn’t be you.”
    He shook his head. “I can’t do anything to prove it. Except that I don’t know how to handle a gun—but I’m not sure I could prove that to you.”
    I laughed. “You probably could…. What about Masters?”
    “Yardley? Come on! The guy’s one of the most respected people you could hope to find at Ajax.”
    “That doesn’t preclude his being a murderer. Why don’t you let me know more about what Peter did there.”
    He protested some more, but he finally agreed to tell me about his work and what Peter Thayer had done for him. It just didn’t seem to add up to murder. Masters was responsible for the financial side of the claim operation, reserving and so on, and Peter had added up numbers for him, checking office copies of issued drafts against known reserves for various claims, adding up overhead items in the field offices to see where they were going over budget, and all the dull day-to-day activities that businesses need in order to keep on going. And yet… and yet… Masters had agreed to see me, an unknown person, and a detective besides, on the spur of the moment. If he hadn’t known Peter was in trouble—or even, maybe, known he wasdead—I just couldn’t believe his obligation to John Thayer would make him do that.
    I contemplated Devereux. Was he just another pretty face, or did he know anything? His anger had seemed to me the result of genuine shock and bewilderment at finding out the boy was dead. But anger was a good cover for other emotions, too…. For the time being I decided to classify him as an innocent bystander.
    Devereux’s native Irish cockiness was starting to return—he began teasing me about my job. I felt I’d gotten all I could from him until I knew enough to ask better questions, so I let the matter drop and moved on to lighter subjects.
    I signed the bar tab for Sal—she sends me a bill once a month—and went on to the Officers’ Mess with Devereux for a protracted meal. It’s Indian, and to my mind one of the most romantic restaurants in Chicago. They make a very nice Pimm’s Cup, too. Coming on top of the Scotch, it left me with a muzzy impression of dancing at a succession of North Side discos. I might have had a few more drinks. It was after one when I returned, alone, to my apartment. I was glad just to fling my clothes onto a chair and fall into bed.

3

That Professional Touch
    Peter Thayer was protesting capitalist oppression by running wildly up and down the halls at Ajax, while Anita McGraw stood to one side carrying a picket sign and smiling. Ralph Devereux came out of his office and shot Thayer. The shot