through the notes again.

“Bring me one, Charlie, black,” the detective said.

The detective walked from the door to the window, looked down into the dark street, and walked back again. “I got all night yet,” he said.

“Yeah?”

He walked again. The stenographer had put his overcoat on and gone out.

“What you learn, Jack?” the detective asked. He spat out a little piece of toothpick and sat down opposite Herron.

“Well, for one thing, that Catell didn’t go to New York.”

“Yeah, that Paar sure was anxious for you to think so.”

“Where’s the phone?”

“Next room. Wish Charlie’d hurry up with that coffee.”

Herron went next door and dialed a number. “Hello? Herron here. Who’s on duty?…O.K., give me Agent Polnik.” Herron waited, scribbling in his notebook. “Polnik? Listen. Have somebody check if there was a train for New York at one A.M. Get the New York office to have a man wait for the train, if there was one…What? Not till five A.M.? O.K., then skip that angle. Now, listen. We’re looking for Anthony Catell. Look him up in the file I left in the office…Yes, one of the files I got there. Next, cover the station, airport, bus terminals for the next twenty-four hours…Yes, same man. Pay special attention to anything leaving for Los Angeles…No, I’m not sure. We have one informant to go by, but she was drunk. But Catell might fit into the picture because of other information…Uh-huh, he knew Schumacher. One more thing, and this is important. Have the men carry Geiger counters. And check baggage rooms…Yeah. O.K., ‘bye.”

Herron hung up and went back to the other room. The detective was drinking black coffee and chewing a fresh toothpick. Charlie was spooning a milk shake out of a paper carton.

“How you can eat that stuff is beyond me,” the detective was saying.

“Makes more sense than eating toothpicks.”

“Well, Jack, what next?” The detective looked up when Herron came in.

“We’re covering the usual. Probably useless. Catell is no greenhorn. Lemme have a sip.” Herron took the coffee cup and drank.

“Whyn’t you buy one? Charlie asked you if you wanted one.”

“I don’t want a whole cup, just a sip. Coffee keeps me awake.”

“So let’s have my cup back.”

Herron stacked his notes together and got up to leave. “Does Paar have any connections in L.A.?”

“Yeah,” Charlie said. “Some syndicate tie-up. You can find out downstairs.”

“O.K., I will. Anybody here to take the teletype?”

“Try three doors down the hall, you can’t miss the racket.”

“Thanks. Night, all.”

“Night.”

“Lucky bastard.”

Three doors down Herron dictated his message. In St. Louis, Chief Jones watched the teletype as it hammered out: “Herron to Jones. Circumstantial evidence of association with deceased O. Schumacher and former girlfriend of same make T. Catell definite suspect. Screening of Detroit exits ordered. No present trace of stolen object. Presumably in suspect’s possession. Am proceeding Los Angeles via plane to cover suspect’s connections and possible arrival there. Details follow. Communicate L.A. district office.”

At ten-thirty-five A.M. the next day, Herron boarded a through plane to Los Angeles. He arrived late that evening, checked into the district office, then got himself a hotel room. He slept for nine hours and then went back to work. He checked leads, covered angles, made reports, waited. He did this for days without finding a trace of Tony Catell.

On a hot stretch of road in Arizona, Catell stopped the car and wiped the sweat off his neck. He listened to the gurgling of the radiator, watching the steam hiss out from under the hood. He pulled out a cigarette. Before he got it lit the thought of the smoke made him feel sick and he threw the thing away. He got out of the car. For a moment he fought nausea that rose in his throat like wet cotton. The feeling passed.

It had started a few days after he’d left Detroit, and now it came every day, at odd times, first a vague dizziness, later sick waves of nausea and knots of pain, till the car would swerve and he’d pull himself together again. Then it would pass away. Sometimes he wondered whether Schumacher had been right about the gold. He’d called it rotten. But there was a better reason. Catell looked at his watch and pulled a sticky candy bar out of his pocket. Two o’clock. Time.

Every two hours Catell ate a candy bar, whether he was hungry or not. By the time he reached Los Angeles he would have gained ten, fifteen pounds, maybe. Already he looked like a different man, with more