know, I know."

"Anyway, that explains it."

"Yes."

"A half hour to drive only three miles uptown.""

"Yes."

"But you did drop her off at Ainsley and Eleventh, is that right?"

"Oh yes."

a "

,. "No stops along the way, "Well, yes. I pulled over to the curb while she.." uh did..."

"Where?"

"I don't remember. A dark street. I picked a spot that looked dark."

"And then went directly to Ainsley and Eleventh afterward, is that right?"

"Yes. Dropped her right at the curb."

"Where'd she go then, did you happen to notice?"

"Well, no. I guess she went off with these people who were waiting for her."

"What?" Ollie said.

"Some people were waiting for her."

"Who? What people?"

"Three white kids and a black guy," Liebowitz said. "Tell me what they looked like," Ollie said.

The night manager at the Hotel Powell had given Priscilla the addresses and phone numbers of both the manager and doorman who'd been on duty when the tall blond man delivered the envelope containing the key to the pay locker. The letter had been delivered at a little past eleven on Sunday morning and this was now a little before two on Monday morning, but Priscilla felt it wouldn't be tomorrow until she went to bed and woke up again.

This was not a view shared by James Logan, who was asleep at one-fifteen A.M. when Priscilla telephoned him to say she was coming over, and who was still asleep at one fifty-eight A.M. when she rang his doorbell. Swearing mildly, Logan got out of bed in his pajamas, pulled on a robe, and went mutteringly to the front door. He would have told anyone else where to go at this hour of the night, but Miss Stetson was a performer who brought mucho bucks into hotel's cafe. Putting on a false smile, he opened the door and welcomed her as if she were Princess whom she slightly resembled, to tell the truth. Logan was gay.

He would have combed his hair had he known she was bringing two men along, one of whom wasn't at all bad looking. As it was, he stood there the in doorway wearing his tatty robe, his wrinkled pajamas, his worn bedroom slippers, and unconvincing smile, and asked them all to please come in, wouldn't they? They all went in. Logan offered them a drink. The good-looking one Georgie, that his name? said he wouldn't mind a little if Logan had some, thanks a lot. Rough trade if Logan was any judge. He poured the Scotch. The other Tony, said he'd thought it over, and he would have a little Scotch, too, please. Logan poured another glass. With a splash of soda, please, Tony said. Logan went to fetch a bottle of club soda from the refrigerator. This was turning into a regular little party at two o'clock in the morning. With a black named Daryll in the bedroom.

"I want to know whatever you can tell me about the man who delivered that letter to me this morning,! Priscilla said.

"Yesterday morning," Logan corrected, since he himself had already gone to bed and awakened, had been awakened, more accurately.

"Did he give you his name?" Priscilla asked.

"You asked me that yesterday morning," Logan said. "No, he didn't give me his name."

"What did he say exactly?"

"He said to be sure to have the envelope was delivered to your suite."

"He said suite?"

"Yes."

"Not room?"

"He specifically said suite."

"So he knows I have a suite there," Priscilla said to Georgie. Georgie nodded wisely and sipped at his Scotch. His job here was to make sure she never found this tall blond guy, whoever he was, because then he would tell her the envelope was very fat when he'd left it in the locker. Then it would become a matter of believing some tall blond stranger or two Italian guys who looked like they just got off the boat from Napoli, albeit in Armani threads. In Georgie's experience, blond broads always trusted blond men over swarthy wops. So next thing you knew, she'd be asking them how come the envelope was now so skinny, and before you could say Giuseppe Umberto Mangiacavallo, she'd actually be accusing them of having stolen the fuckin ninety-five K all because they were Italian.. Boy. "Tell me what he looked like," Priscilla said. "Tall blond man." "How tall?" "Six-two."

"Would you say a blond blond or a dirty blond?" "More like a dirty blond." "Like Robert Redford?"

"Not as blond. Redford tints, I'll bet."

"But a dirty blond, right?"

"Muddy, I'd say. Actually, he looked like

"Robert Redford delivered the envelope?" I said, astonished.

"No, no. But he resembled Redford. Except for accent."

"What accent?"

"I told you. Some kind of heavy accent."

"Russian?"

"I really couldn't say. There are so many accents in this city."

"What was he wearing?"

"A dark blue overcoat."

"Hat?"

"No hat."

"A scarf?."

"Yes. A red muffler."