"That's not the voice I heard this morning," Arthur mused. "Mine was younger, and Cockney. What did yours say?"

Kevin read from his shorthand. "I am Tim Fitzpeterson, and I am being blackmailed by two people called Laski and Cox. I want you to crucify the bastards when I'm gone."

Arthur shook his head in disbelief. "That all?"

"Well, I asked what they were blackmailing him with, and he said, 'God, you're all the same,' and put the phone down on me." Kevin paused, expecting a rebuke. "Was that the wrong question?"

Arthur shrugged. "It was, but I can't think of a right one." He picked up the phone and dialed, then handed the receiver to Kevin. "Ask him if he's phoned us in the last half hour."

Kevin listened for a moment, then cradled the handset. "Busy signal."

"No help." Arthur patted his pockets, looking for cigarettes.

"You're giving it up," said Kevin, recognizing the symptoms.

"So I am." Arthur began to chew his nails. "You see, the blackmailer's biggest hold over a politician is the threat to go to the newspapers. Therefore, the blackmailers wouldn't ring us and give us the story. That would be throwing away their trump card. By the same token, since the papers are what the victim fears, he wouldn't ring us and say he was being blackmailed." With the air of one who comes to a final conclusion, he finished: "That's why I think the whole thing is a hoax."

Kevin took it for a dismissal. He stood up. "I'll get back to the oil story."

"No," Arthur said. "We've got to check it out. You'd better go round there and knock on his door."

"Oh, good."

"But next time you think of interrupting an editor's conference, sit down and count to one hundred first."

Kevin could not suppress a grin. "Sure."

But the more he thought about it, the less chance he gave the story of standing up. In the car he had tried to recall what he knew of Tim Fitzpeterson. The man was a low-profile moderate. He had a degree in economics, and was reputed to be clever, but he just did not seem to be sufficiently lively or imaginative a person to provide blackmailers with any raw material. Kevin recalled a photograph of Fitzpeterson and family-a plain wife and three awkward girls-on a Spanish beach. The politician had worn a dreadful pair of khaki shorts.

At first sight, the building outside which Kevin now stood seemed an unlikely love nest. It was a dirty gray thirties block in a Westminster backstreet. Had it not been so close to Parliament, it would have become a slum by now. As he entered, Kevin saw that the landlords had upgraded the place with an elevator and a hall porter: no doubt they called the flats "luxury service apartments."

It would be impossible, he thought, to keep a wife and three children here, or, at least, a man like Fitzpeterson would think it impossible. It followed that the flat was a pied-a-terre, so Fitzpeterson might have homosexual orgies or pot parties here after all.

Stop speculating, he told himself; you'll know in a minute.

There was no avoiding the hall porter. His cubbyhole faced the single elevator across a narrow lobby. A cadaverous man with a sunken white face, he looked for all the world as if he were chained to the desk and never allowed to see the light of day. As Kevin approached, the man put down a book called How to Make Your Second Million and removed his glasses.

Kevin pointed to the book. "I'd like to know how to make my first."

"Nine," said the porter in a patiently bored voice.

"What?"

"You're the ninth person to say that."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Then you ask why I'm reading it, and I say a resident lent it to me, and you say you'd like to make friends with that resident. Now that we've got all that out of the way, what can I do for you?"

Kevin knew how to deal with smart alecks. Pander, pander, he told himself. Aloud, he said: "What number's Mr. Fitzpeterson in?"

"I'll ring him for you." The porter reached for the house phone.

"Just a minute." Kevin brought out his wallet and selected two notes. "I'd like to surprise him." He winked, and laid the money on the counter.

The man took the money and said loudly: "Certainly, sir, as you're his brother. Five C."

"Thanks." Kevin crossed to the elevator and pressed the button. The conspiratorial wink had done the trick more than the bribe, he guessed. He got into the elevator, pressed the button for the fifth floor, then held the doors open. The porter was reaching for the house phone. Kevin said: "A surprise. Remember?" The porter picked up his book without replying.

The elevator creaked upward. Kevin felt a familiar physical sensation of anticipation. He always did just before knocking on a door for a story. The feeling was not unpleasant, but it was invariably mixed with a trace of worry that he might not score.

The top-floor landing was graced with a token square of thin nylon carpet and a few fading water-colors, tasteless but inoffensive. There were four flats, each with a bell, a letter box, and a peephole. Kevin found 5C, took a deep breath, and rang the bell.

There was no answer. After a while he rang again, then put his ear to the door to listen. He could hear nothing. The tension drained out of him, leaving him a little depressed.

Wondering what to do, he walked across the landing to the tiny window and looked out. There was a school across the road. A class of girls played netball in the playground. From where he was, Kevin could not tell whether they were old enough for him to lust after.

He went back to Fitzpeterson's door and leaned on the bell. The noise of the elevator arriving startled him. If it was a neighbor, maybe he could askThe sight of a tall young policeman emerging from the elevator shocked him. He felt guilty. But, to his surprise, the constable saluted him.

"You must be the gentleman's brother," the policeman said.

Kevin thought fast. "Who told you that?" he said.

"The porter."

Kevin came at him fast with another question. "And why are you here?"

"Just checking he's all right. He didn't turn up for a meeting this morning, and his phone's off the hook. They ought to have bodyguards, you know, but they won't, these Ministers." He looked at the door. "No answer?"

"No."

"Any reason you know of he might have been… well, ill? Upset? Called away?"

Kevin said: "Well, he rang me up this morning and sounded distressed. That's why I came." It was a very dangerous game he was playing, he knew; but he had not lied yet, and anyway it was too late to back out.

The policeman said: "Perhaps we should get the key from the porter."

Kevin did not want that. He said: "I wonder if we should break the door down. My God, if he's ill in there…"

The policeman was young and inexperienced, and the prospect of breaking a door down seemed to appeal to him. He said: "It could be as bad as that, you think?"

"Who knows? For the sake of a door… the Fitzpetersons are not a poor family."

"No, sir." He needed no more encouragement. He put his shoulder to the door experimentally. "One good shove…"

Kevin stood close to him, and the two men hit the door simultaneously. They made more noise than impact. Kevin said: "It's not like this in the movies," then bit his tongue-the remark was inappropriately flippant.

The policeman seemed not to notice. He said: "Once more."

This time they both put all their weight into it. The doorpost splintered and the female half of the lock came free, falling to the floor as the door flew open. Kevin let the policeman go in first. As he followed him into the hall, the man said: "No smell of gas."

"All-electric flats," Kevin said, guessing.

There were three doors off the tiny hall. The first led into a small bathroom, where Kevin glimpsed a row of toothbrushes and a full-length mirror. The second stood open, revealing a kitchen, which looked as if it might have been searched recently. They went through the third door, and saw Fitzpeterson immediately.