He went to the Birdline. The one without any s.p.a.ce between his eyes was at the desk, the one with the volcanic acne. The clerk leaned into the small office beyond the switchboard and yelled to Hoover Hess. Hess came out, rubbing his hands, projecting the smile of agony.

"Kirb, buddy, you ready to talk business? You can't make a better, "

"Not right now, Hoover. I'm a little too rushed. I was wondering about my stuff you've got here. I thought I'd, "

"Understand, I'm a guy appreciates a sweet gesture, but I told you so long as I got the room down there, the storage was on the house, right?"

"Yes."

"And I'm the kind of a guy wouldn't change the deal on account of you inheriting big, right?"

"But, "

"So what I mean is, I'm touched by the fifty bucks, Kirb. It was a nice thing to do, believe me."

"Fifty?"

Hess looked shocked. "Was it more? Did those slimy b.a.s.t.a.r.ds take a clip out of it on the way over here?"

"Uh, no. It wasn't any more."

"Rest easy, Kirb. They come and got the trunk and the big wooden case along about eleven this morning."

"Who?" he said weakly.

"The guys from the Elise! In the truck from the Elise! Chrissake, don't you even remember who you sent after it? Look, if you could come in and sit down for just five minutes, Kirb, I could fill you in on the whole picture. The way I figure, in exchange for consolidating the mortgages and bringing it down to an interest rate that makes sense, instead of the cannibal rates I got to pay, what you should have is a piece of it. I even got an inspiration about your name, to go with the place. The Winter House. How about that!"

"Some other time, Hoover."

"Any time you say. I'll drop everything. Everything."

Kirby headed across the lobby toward the pay phone. He had to skid to a stop to let a sailor by. The sailor had considerable velocity. He was skidding across the tile floor, revolving slowly, his eyes closed. He was smiling. He carried on into three short wide men in tense argument over a racing form, catapulted the three of them into a couch and went on over with them as the couch went over backwards.

He dialed Betsy's memorized phone number.

"Kirby! I was about to come looking for you. I tried the hotel a thousand times. Are you there now?"

"No. Look, I think you were right, at least a little bit right anyhow."

"Thanks a lot!"

"Don't be so sarcastic. The way things are going, how am I expected to trust anybody?"

"Why Kirby, dear! Your teeth are showing."

"I think I did a stupid thing. I mean I thought it was shrewd, but I was drunk at the time."

"It's a poor week for it."

"I know. But it worked, sort of. But I've got the idea they're going to be awfully d.a.m.ned mad. And I was supposed to meet her at two o'clock over there. She was going to take me shopping."

"Standard procedure. She has a wonderful way of getting all her men to end up looking exactly alike. They all end up looking like fairy ski instructors. I think it's the tan, the sideburns and the ascot that does it. She's mad for ascots. And it's a long way after two, Kirby."

"I have the feeling it wouldn't be too smart to go over there now. Let me tell you just what, "

"Come on over here. We can talk. I hate phones."

"I'd rather tell you over the phone."

"Come on over here. I'm alone. We can thrash it all out."

"But, but, but, "

"Get over here on the double, you clown!" She hung up.

A little word started bounding about in the back of his mind. It was made of fat little letters, fabric letters, stuffed. NINNY. The fabric, curiously, was the same shade of pink as the face of the lecher rabbit centered on Miss Farnham's gossamer funsuit. He squared his shoulders. He walked carefully around the broiling brutal confusion of cops, sailors and horse players in the front of the lobby, deaf to the resonant tock of hickory against bone, and took the single cab in front. As they pulled away, the driver said, "Like they got Sat.u.r.day night on Monday afternoon in there, huh?" "What?"

"The riot, man!"

"Sorry, I didn't notice it particularly." After a long silence the driver said, "I don't know what the h.e.l.l kind of date you got, mister. All I know is I wisht I had it."

He had trouble finding the address. It was a crooked little bayfront street, more alley than street. The building had been added onto in random fashion over the years, and each segment of it seemed to sag in a different direction. Apartment Four, when he finally found it, was one flight up, via an open iron stairway bolted to the side of the building. The door was painted an orange so bright it seemed deafening. Over the bell was lettered b. sabbith. He was tempted to press the doorframe with his thumb an inch below the bell, wait ten seconds, then flee down the staircase. "Ninny," he whispered and pressed the bell. There was a tiny porthole in the door. A green eye looked out at him. The door swung open. "Come in and look at this creepy place," she said. She was in stretch pants again. Plaid. And a sleeveless blue blouse. Barefoot. Cigarette in the corner of her mouth. Toffee hair in harsh disarray.

Most of the apartment was a big studio room. He saw a kitchen alcove and a single door which had to lead to a bath. Gla.s.s doors opened out onto a tiny breakfast porch.

She stood, hipshot, and included the whole decor in one wave of her arm. "Observe. Rugs to your ankles. Strategic lighting. Cutie little hearth with, for G.o.d's sake, a dynel tiger skin in front of it. Any chair you sit in, you need a helping hand to get out of. That d.a.m.ned bed is nine by nine, and twenty inches high. I measured it. The little library is all erotica. Seventeen mirrors. I counted. Thirty-one pillows. Counted them, too. In the way of groceries, one-half box of stale crackers, one-half box of stale puffed wheat, twenty-one cans of c.o.c.ktail goodies, two bottles gin, fourteen bottles wine. Make a wild guess, Winter. What is Bernie's hobby?" "Uh, philately?"

She spun and grinned at him. "You come on slow, but sort of nice, Kirby. I figured you for a fatal case of the dulls. Maybe not. I recommend this couch over here. It's the only thing you can get out of without a hoist. It must have come with the place." She sat down, patted the place beside her and said, "The detailed report, friend."

He told her all, with a little editing here and there. She seemed quieter, more thoughtful than the last time he had talked to her. "What's the stuff you had stored?"

"Just personal junk. Books, records, photographs. Tennis stuff. Hunting stuff. Even a pair of ice skates."

"That's a nice touch. Ice skates. That'll make them very happy. But we are forwarder. Now you know for sure they want something. Uncle's personal records. The clue to the edge he had over the compet.i.tion. And you say there aren't any records at all. Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure."

"Could the Farnham broad have something tucked away? She sounds desperately loyal."

"I doubt it."

"Char! a and Joseph are going to be very irritable, Kirby. But I think they'll think you're still the best link to what they want. And I don't think they know exactly what they do want. But they want it bad. Badly enough so they shouldn't treat you too badly. You sure you didn't give them my address? While drunk?"

"If I had, they wouldn't be trying to find out."

"They don't want us to get together on this. They'd rather deal with a goof, not somebody I've toughened up for them."

"I don't care much for that word, Betsy."