if nothing else.

It was interesting, but I had other things on my mind. And at any rate if I were looking around for somebody else’s patio to play in, it probably wouldn’t be Nunn’s. The silly bastard might blow your head off.

We engaged in the usual inane small talk for a few minutes, and when she started gathering up her packages and said she had to go I merely thanked her again for bringing the shirt.

“I’ll go out to the car with you,” I said, helping her with the parcels.

“Thank you,” she said. “But there’s one more thing I want to get, if you don’t mind.”

I followed her as she prowled among the stands of merchandise. In a moment she found what she was looking for, a bottle of scented bath oil. Just as we turned to take it back toward the clerk at the cash register in the rear, I saw the man in the gray suit come in the door.

He came back too and stood waiting at the counter beside us while the woman clerk was winding up a transaction with another customer off to our left. I was standing between him and Jewel Nunn and perhaps a half-step behind them. He put down his briefcase. She set the bath oil on the counter and started opening her purse.

At that moment the pharmacist came out of his cubbyhole and said inquiringly, “Yes, sir?”

The man pulled out the little black folder I’d been sure he had, flipped it open, and said, “I’m from the Federal Bureau of Investigation . . .”

It unfolded then like some horrible and unstoppable nightmare. I saw it before she even put it down, and recognized it for what it was, but I was frozen. The clerk was coming from the left. It lay there on the open counter, not fifteen inches from the corner of his briefcase.

“I’d like to speak to the owner . . .” he was saying.

He hadn’t seen it. He was looking at the pharmacist. The clerk was almost here. I snapped out of it then, at last.

“Here, here,” I said chidingly, grabbing up the bill at the same time. “Put your money away. It’s the least I can do. . . .”

I grabbed her purse and stuffed it inside and closed it. He was still talking; he hadn’t even looked around. I felt limp.

“Why, Mr. Godwin, I couldn’t. . .” she began.

“Don’t be silly,” I said, smiling at her. “I was just wondering how I could thank you.” I tossed a five on the counter for the clerk.

But what now? My thoughts were racing as I went on exuding the old Good-time Charley from every pore. I hadn’t solved anything yet; she still had it.

“But you didn’t have to do that,” she said uncertainly.

“Hush,” I said, smiling. “I’m doing this. Suppose you wait outside and stop giving me so much trouble.”

“But why?”

“You’ll see.” I gave it the old masterful touch, taking her by the elbow and pointing her toward the door. She went on out, still not too sure about it.

The clerk had finished wrapping the bath oil and was getting my change. The F.B.I, man and the pharmacist had gone into the back. I glanced swiftly around, searching for something. It had to be small. Then I saw it in the showcase. That would do nicely.

“I’ll take one of those small bottles of Escapade,” I said to the clerk. “And gift-wrap it, please.”

I dropped it in my pocket and went out carrying the bath oil and the paper bag that held my shirt. She was putting her packages in the station wagon, across the street. I went over and set the bath oil in the seat and held the door open for her. She got in, and started to say something.

I shook my head at her and then looked down at my hands on the door. “Listen,” I said quietly. “On your way home, about two miles out of town, there’s a little road that turns off to the right in the trees. . . .”

“No,” she said. “I—I couldn’t.”

I raised my eyes to hers then. “Please,” I said earnestly. “I only want to talk to you. Just this once, and I’ll never ask it of you again.”

She hesitated. She wanted to, but any time they did this sort of thing in a soap opera it bitched up the works in a frightful fashion.

“Don’t say anything now,” I said. Just think about it. I think you’ll see there’s no