“God, that’s a wad of dough.”

“Isn’t it?”

“It would be a pretty good-sized briefcaseful, figuring a lot of it would be in tens and twenties. What kind of hiding place would you look for, if you had to stash it around a house?”

“It’s an old house,” she said. “A very old house, and a big one. The only thing to do is start at the attic and work down, taking it a room at a time. Look for places that appear to have been repapered recently or where there’s been some repair work, like around window sills and doorframes. Trap doors above clothes closets, in the floors or walls. And remember, she’s plenty smart. She’s just as likely to wrap it in old paper and throw it in a trunk or a barrel of rubbish. Take your time, and tear the house apart if you have to. She’s in no position to call the police.”

“We hope,” I said.

“We know.”

“All right,” I said. “But I still don’t want her to catch me in there just to see if we’re right. So I’ve been trying to figure out some way you can tip me off if she gets away from you and you think she’s on her way home. I think I’ve got it. Call the house, long-distance, and—”

“But, my God, you couldn’t answer the phone if it rang. There’s no way you could tell who it was.”

“Wait till I finish,” I said. “Of course I won’t answer until I’m sure it’s you. Here’s the way. Call right on the hour. I won’t answer, so put the call in again at a quarter past, as near as you can make it. I won’t answer then, either, because it still might be a coincidence. But repeat it again, as near half past as you can, and I’ll pick it up. Just ask if Mrs. Butler is better. I’ll say yes, and hang up and get the hell out of there.”

I thought about it again. “No. Wait. There’s no reason I should have to answer at all. Those three calls, fifteen minutes apart, will be the signal. When I hear the third one, I scram.”

“That’s good,” she said, nodding. “You know how to use your head. It’s funny, but in a lot of ways you’re just like Butler.”

“Not too much, I hope.”

“Why?” she asked.

“He’s dead. Remember?”

She fell silent. We came up out of the river country and ran through rolling hills with dark farmhouses here and there along the road. In a few minutes she said, “We’re almost there. It’s on the left as we go into town.”

I looked, but it was too dark to see much. All I got was the shadowy impression of a house set far back from the street among the darker gloom of big trees. There was no light anywhere. We made a gentle turn to the right and then were on the street going into town, with houses and lawns on both sides. About three blocks up a street light hung out over an intersection. She turned left before we got to it, went a block down a side street, and turned left again.

“When I stop,” she said, “we’ll be right behind the place. There’s a big oleander hedge and a woven-wire fence, but the gate probably won’t be locked. Or if it is, you can climb over or go around in front. Good luck.”

“Check,” I said. “Friday morning at two o’clock. Right here.”

She was slowing. The car came to a standstill for not more than two seconds. I slid out and eased the door shut. Her hand lifted and the car slid away. I was on my own.

The red taillights of the car swung left and disappeared. I stepped off the street and stood for a moment while my eyes adjusted themselves to the darkness. There was no moon, and the night was hot and still. Somewhere across town a dog barked. I could see the dark line of the oleanders in front of me now, and started walking toward them, putting out my hand. I touched the fence, and walked parallel to it, looking for the gate and a break in the hedge.

I’d forgotten to look at my watch again before I got out of the car, but I should have nearly two hours until daybreak. It was plenty of time to find a way into the house.

I went twenty steps along the fence. Thirty. There had to be a gate somewhere. She’d said there was. I