“Not a chance,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m okay on doors, not too happy about filing cabinets, but no safes. That’s not my line.” He looked pensive for a moment. “I know a couple of guys who could do a safe without too much trouble—but I never acquired the skill. And I don’t want to.”

“Who’s that?”

“A pal of mine from the RCMP is pretty good with small safes.”

“Would he do it?”

“Naw. It really wouldn’t be worth his while. I mean, they’d crucify him if he got caught.” He shook his head. “And it’s not even his bust. Eddy might, though. Eddy owes me. He’s pretty good—doors, safes, anything at all. We went to school together.”

“Do you think you could get hold of him—soon? Before six?”

“I could try. Might take a few minutes, though. He travels around a bit.” Dubinsky reached for the phone, and began dialing a number culled from his elephantine memory. Sanders wandered tactfully out of earshot. After twenty minutes of telephone calls and earnest quiet conversations Dubinsky finally put his hand over the receiver, and said, “Eddy wants to know how he’s supposed to get in there.” Sanders picked up the press pass. On it was neatly written the date and the number two, circled in red. No matter how sleepy the guy on the door was, he’d be able to count to two. “I told him about the reception. He asked would it be okay if he comes as a waiter. Then he can blend in if all hell breaks loose.”

“Sure. Anything. He can come as a duck if he wants.”

At six o’clock Dubinsky, Sanders, and a small man in a dinner jacket pulled into the University of Toronto parking lot across the street from Queen’s Park. By the time they were out of the car, Eddy had disappeared. “Jesus,” said Sanders, impressed. “Where did he go?”

“Don’t ask,” said Dubinsky. “I never met a guy who could vanish the way he does.” They walked boldly over to the east entrance with the arrogance of reporters with a perfect right to be there. As they were showing the bored O.P.P. constable their press pass, a small figure nipped by them, squeaking, “Extra catering staff. Which way?” The constable pointed to the left, and Eddy disappeared again. Sanders shook his head in admiration.

They walked confidently through the high-ceilinged corridors to the area in which important members of the current government had their offices—they hoped. Those few people who passed by them paid no attention to them at all; they turned a corner, and there they were, in front of the office of Paul Wilcox, MPP. “How does he rate such a classy corridor?” whispered Dubinsky. “The rest of these guys all seem to be Cabinet ministers.”

“Yeah. And potential Cabinet ministers. Our boy is—was—on his way up. Now where’s Eddy?” And then they heard a soft shuffle of fast-moving feet, and Eddy appeared behind them, a tray under his arm.

“Camouflage,” he said. “Is this the door?” Without waiting for a reply, he loosened his jacket and extracted from a series of pockets inside the front a couple of odd-looking tools. “Simple locks,” he said, fiddled, held his breath, slipped the second tool between the door and the frame, and opened the door. “Get in and close it,” he said, flipping on the light. “Before someone comes along. Jeez, you guys are slow.” They were in a small, well-furnished reception room, with a desk, filing cabinets, and a couple of comfortable chairs, coffee table, and expensive magazines. There was another door behind the desk, also locked. Eddy approached it, looked, murmured “piece of cake,” and slipped open the bolt in a few seconds. In this room, also small, but pleasant, were a window letting in soft evening light; a bare desk, dark, reddish, and opulent; a couch, chair, and a large plant; and, in the wood paneling of the wall, something that was unmistakably a safe of ancient vintage.

Eddy walked over to it, sized it up, and opened his jacket again. He selected a couple of instruments, laid them down on the floor, and then crouched in front of the safe. Meanwhile Dubinsky took a flat tool from his pocket and set to work on the desk drawer. It took him a while, and a few breathy curses, to get that lock snapped back and the first drawer opened. Sanders began to flip rapidly through its contents, while Dubinsky, working on top of him, scrambled through the second one. Finally Eddy spoke. “Do you think you guys could crash around the outer office for a while? I can’t hear anything—I’ll never get this bitch open with all that noise. Besides, you make me nervous.” Abashed, they fled.

“Might as well try the filing cabinet,” said Sanders. “Can you manage that lock?”

“Only if someone has a paper clip,” said Dubinsky in scorn. “I hope they don’t keep important stuff in here. Security is terrible.”

“I don’t suppose they do,” said Sanders. “Come on, let’s go.”

The metallic screech of the top drawer of the filing cabinet opening covered the quiet click of a key in the door. Sanders was already flipping through the contents when his hand stopped at the sound of Wilcox’s pleasantly cultured voice.

“Well, well, gentlemen, isn’t this a surprise! From the press, I assume? I assure you that whatever you might find in there would be very dull from your point of view.” He walked over to the secretary’s desk. “But I don’t think that the police will find someone breaking into my office boring. Not at all.”

Sanders straightened up and looked at Wilcox with casual amusement on his face. “Ah,” he said, “but we are the police. And we don’t mind being bored, not at all. We’re used to it.”

“The police?” Wilcox paused a moment. “Then no doubt you have a warrant of some sort. May I see it?” He looked steadily at them. “Or are you on some sort of fishing expedition here? And just what kind of police are you?” His voice acquired a nasty edge. “Either you produce identification or God help me you’ll never get out of here in one piece. And shut that filing cabinet. There’s nothing in there anyway.”

Dubinsky automatically drew out his warrant card: “Metro Police—Sergeant”—before Sanders could kick him hard enough to shut him up.

“Isn’t that nice?” purred Wilcox. “You gentlemen have made a grave mistake, Sergeant. You have no jurisdiction in this building. You need permission just to set foot in the hallway.” He reached for the telephone on the desk. “I hope you two weren’t set on a career in the department, because you won’t have one.” Then he snarled, “You picked the wrong man to harass this time. I’m not some insignificant backbencher who’s afraid of cops. The police commissioner can deal with this. I’ll be seeing him on Thursday, and that’s about as long as you’ll be on the force.”

Dubinsky looked appalled. An expression of detached amusement settled itself on Sanders’ face. As Wilcox picked up the receiver and began to dial, the door to the inner office opened gently. “There wasn’t much in there—is this what you guys were looking for?” asked Eddy, and held up a small green notebook and a black leather briefcase in front of Paul Wilcox’s horrified eyes. A sound came out of his throat, part scream and part sob, and he flung himself out the door, slamming it in their faces.

“Well I’ll be damned,” said Sanders. “It worked.”

“Aren’t we going after him?” asked Dubinsky.

“Naw. Didn’t you hear the gentleman? We don’t have any jurisdiction in this building. If he’s in the House, no one can get him for now, and if he headed out the door, someone else can pick him up.” He dialed a number. After some rapid instructions, he looked around and said, “Hey. Where’s Eddy?” The office was deserted.

“Long gone,” said Dubinsky. “He’s probably picking up his pay as an extra waiter by now—and helping himself to dinner and someone’s diamonds at the same time.” He picked up the notebook and briefcase. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “This place makes me nervous.”