"It would be interesting to know what Omar had in mind. I do wish we could open that letter he left for you. But I have had a long and ethical career, young man, because I have had the good judgment never to trust myself. We have a Mr. Vitts in this office, a man of truly psychotic dependability. I had him put that letter in his personal safety deposit box. Mr. Vitts delights in sacred trusts. Boiling him in oil would not give anyone access to that letter one day sooner."

"Before the year is up, I may have a better idea of what's in it."

"If you ever have a plausible guess please tell me. Omar was a strange fellow. He made no wrong moves. I've often wondered at the secret of his success, and the only answer that seems even halfway reasonable is that, long ago, he devised certain mathematical procedures which enabled him to predict future events. I keep wondering if those formulae are in that letter. It would account for his anxiety about you. The ability to predict would be a terrifying responsibility."

Kirby frowned and nodded. "It would account for those gambling winnings when I was a kid. And then he lost them back on purpose, so people would leave him alone."

"I intend to live through this year, too. Just to learn what is in the letter."

Kirby walked from Wintermore's office to a neighborhood drugstore for a sandwich and coffee. One little word kept rebounding from the cerebral walls. Ninny. It was a nineteenth-century word, yet he could not find a modern equivalent with the same shade of meaning. Probably it was a corruption of nincomp.o.o.p. Ninny, that soft, smiling, self-effacing, apologetic fellow, the type who is terribly sorry when you happen to step on his foot, the kind you can borrow money from in the certainty he will never demand you repay it. And if he was a little brown dog, he'd wear his tail tucked slightly under, and wag it nervously, endlessly.

He wondered at his own degree of ninnyism. How severe was it? How incurable was it? Could a man walk through life in a constant readiness to duck? On the other hand, were not the opposite traits rather unpleasant? Arrogance, belligerence, domination. Yet the arrogant man seemed to have considerably less difficulty with one primary aspect of existence.

"Girls," he said aloud. A fat woman on the adjoining stool turned and gave him a long cold stare. Kirby felt himself flush and felt his mouth begin to stretch into a meek smile of apology. As he began to hunch over, he straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin and said, "Madame, I was talking to myself, not to you. If you feel you're in the presence of a dangerous nut, I suggest you move to another stool."

"Whaddaya? Some wise guy?"

"You glared at me, so I responded."

"All kinda nuts in Miami," she muttered and hunched herself over her tuna fish.

Kirby felt a small glow of pride. Perhaps not completely a ninny. But one had to start in small ways. One had to emerge, step by step, from ninnyism, acquiring confidence at each small victory.

Actually, at the conference, he hadn't given a true ninny reaction. Ninnyism would require making a detailed statement of what he had been doing for O. K. Devices, and making them believe it. He had told the truth, but as a gesture of revolt, had made it sound like an evasion. In all honesty he had to admit that it was the intransigence of Miss Wilma Farnham which had backstopped his moments of rebellion. Let the executives sweat.

When a chunky girl came to take his money he braced himself and said, "The coffee is lousy."

"Huh?"

"The coffee is lousy."

She gave him a melting smile. "Boy! It sure is."

He went to the phone booths and called Wilma Farnham at her apartment. She answered on the second ring, her voice cool and precise.

"Kirby Winter. I tried to get you yesterday," he said.

"Yes?"

"Well, I thought we ought to talk."

"You did?"

"What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing's the matter with me, Mr. Winter. The office has been closed. I've turned the books over to the attorneys. I'm seeking other employment. Mr. Krepps left me a generous bequest, but I shan't receive it for some months they tell me. The relationship is over, I would say. Good-by, Mr. Winter."

He called her back. "What could you possibly have to say to me, Mr. Winter?"

"Listen, Miss Farnham. Wilma. I heard you burned all the records."

"That is correct."

"So it looks as if the tax people might subpoena us, "

"Mr. Winter! I knew you would call me. I knew that the instant Mr. Krepps died you'd forget your word of honor to him. I intend to keep my word, Mr. Winter. I would rot in prison rather than break my word to that great man. But I knew you would immediately start currying favor with everybody by telling them everything you know. Believe me, there is no longer any doc.u.mentation for anything you have told them or will tell them. And you cannot wheedle me into breaking my word, or frighten me into breaking my word. You are a miserable, sycophantic weakling, Mr. Winter, and I would say your uncle overestimated you all your life. Don't bother me again, please."

And once again the line was dead.

Twenty minutes later he was pressing the bell for her apartment. When she answered over the communicator and he told her who he was, there was a silence. The lock was not released. He pressed other bells at random. The door buzzed 'and he pushed it open and went into the tiny lobby. The elevator was in use. He went up two flights of stairs, found her apartment in the rear and beat upon the door with his fist.

"Go away!"she yelled.

He kept hammering. A door down the hall opened. A woman stared at him. He gave her a maniac grin and she ducked back into her apartment.

Finally the door swung open. Wilma Farnham tried, to block the way, but he pushed roughly by her, turned and shut the door.

"How dare you!"

"Now there's a great line. It swings, Wilma."

"You're stinking drunk!"

"I'm stinking indignant. Now you sit down, shut up and listen." He took her by the shoulders, walked her backward into the couch and let go. She fell back with a gasp of shock and anger.

"Nothing you can say to me, "

"Shut up!" He stared at her. She wore a burly, shapeless, terry-cloth robe in a distinctly unpleasant shade of brown. Her brown hair fell to her shoulders. She was not wearing her gla.s.ses. Her small face was wrinkled with distaste, and she squinted at him myopically. "What the h.e.l.l gives you the impression you've got this monopoly on loyalty and virtue and honor, Wilma? What makes you so d.a.m.n quick to judge everybody else, on no evidence at all? What gives you the right to a.s.sume you know the slightest d.a.m.ned thing about me, or how I'd react to anything?"

"B-but you always just sort of drift with, "

"Shut up! You did as you were told. That's fine. My congratulations. But it doesn't make you unique. I did as I was told, too. I did not tell them one d.a.m.n thing."

She stared at him. "You're trying to trick me somehow."

"For G.o.d's sake, call any of the bra.s.s. Ask them."

She looked at him dubiously. "Not a thing?"

"Nothing."

"But those lawyers told me you would tell everything. They said it was the only way you'd get a dime out of the estate."

"They made just as bad a guess as you did."

"Did you just say, nothing? Just refuse to talk?"

"I did better than that. I told them something they couldn't possibly accept, something they couldn't possible believe."