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cooperating and we’re at odds. I didn’t threaten you with the gun, Mr. London, for the simple reason that it would have accomplished nothing. Now you have the gun and you can’t do a thing with it. Ask me all the questions you wish. I won’t answer them. What can you do? Shoot me? Beat me? Call the police? You won’t do any of those things. It’s a stalemate, Mr. London.”
    The annoying thing was that he as right all the way: I stood there with the gun in my hand and felt like a clown. I was sorry I hit him. It was a waste of time, for one thing. For another, I was beginning to like the little weasel. I tried to picture myself beating him up or shooting him or calling the cops. The picture didn’t look too sensible.
    “You see what I mean, Mr. London. We’re similar men, you and I. Neither of us is unnecessarily violent. In that respect Mr. Bannister has the advantage on us. He would beat us or have us beaten purely as a matter of course if we stood in his way. That’s why you and I should be allies. But perhaps you’ll come to your senses.”
    He stood up stiffly, still holding himself where I slugged him. Once again his right hand dipped into his pocket. This time he came up with a pigskin pocket secretary. He flipped it open and took out a card which he handed to me. I read: Peter Armin . . . Hotel Ruskin . . . Room 1104 . . . Oxford 2-1560.
    “The Ruskin,” he said. “On West Forty-fourth Street. I’ll be there for the next several days.”
    I put the card in my pocket. He stood still and I realized I was still pointing the gun at him. I lowered it.
    “Mr. London,” he said. He lowered his eyes. “May I have my gun back?”
    “So you can shoot me with it?”
    “Hardly. I just want my gun.”
    “You don’t need it,” I told him. “You’re not a violent man.”
    “I might have to defend myself.”
    “You’re not the only one. Somebody shot at me today.”
    “Mr. Bannister?”
    “Maybe. I think I’ll hold onto your gun. I might need it sooner or later.” I shrugged. “I didn’t invite you here, anyway.”
    His smile returned. “As you wish,” he said. “I have another at the hotel.”
    “A thirty-two? The one you shot the girl with?”
    He laughed now. “I didn’t kill her,” he said. “And if I had, I’d hardly hold onto the gun. No, the other is a Beretta, the mate to the one you’re holding. Good night, Mr. London.”
    I didn’t move. He turned his back on me and walked past me to the door. He left the apartment quickly and closed the door after himself. I listened to his footsteps on the stairway, heard the front door slam behind him. I walked to the window and watched him cross the street and get into a maroon Ford a year or two old. He drove away.
    Something kept me at the window, waiting for him to circle the block and come back for me. This didn’t happen. After ten minutes, with no sight of him or his car, I went to the door and slid the bolt into place. The lock itself wasn’t doing me a hell of a lot of good lately.
    I spilled cognac into a glass and drank it. I juggled names like Peter Armin and Bannister and Alicia and Sheila and Clay and I tried to fit them into the human equation along with X, Y and Z. Nothing added up, nothing took form.
    At least I knew what we were looking for now. A briefcase—but it didn’t do me a hell of a lot of good to know that. First I had to figure out what was in the case.
    Which was a good question.
    Anyway, it was a good thing I hadn’t given in to temptation and spent the rest of the night with Maddy. I would have missed Armin’s visit.
    Or would I have? I couldn’t help smiling. The funny little guy probably would have sat in the darkness all night long, waiting for me with the little toy gun in his hand.
    I looked at the gun, smelled the barrel. It hadn’t been fired recently. I stuck it in a drawer and went to bed.

SIX

    I SAT in an overstuffed chair in the middle of a neat and spacious room. A healthy fire roared in