Mercifully they had arrived at 44th Street. Hastings’ ears rang. He paid Goralski, tipped him half a dollar, and got out quickly. A small old lady darted past him into the cab. He walked down 44th Street a few doors to the address the brokers had given his secretary on the phone. It was one of the medium-sized midtown hotels, not far from the Algonquin. Miss Carol McCloud-probably a white-haired old lady, like so many who lived in residential-hotel apartments, clipping her coupons and keeping miniature dogs. Miss McCloud had recently bought a large block of NCI stock. Why? Who had touted her onto it? Rumors were wildfire in the stock market, but not even little old ladies spent a quarter of a million dollars on the sole basis of rumors.

He went into the narrow lobby and found a house phone; after four rings a low female voice answered. The voice sounded younger than he had expected, but it was hard to tell. She seemed drugged with sleep. He glanced involuntarily at his watch.

“Miss McCloud? This is Russell Hastings, Securities and Exchange Commission.”

“Oh yes-of course. What time is it?”

“Ten till two. I realize I’m a little early-we did say two-fifteen. If it’s not convenient, I can-”

“No. Give me five minutes, and come on up-it’s ten-oh-eight. Turn right when you get out of the elevator.”

He went into the coffee shop and had a cup of coffee at the counter, finished it, and went to the elevator. It was self-service. On the tenth floor he found 1008 in an Edwardian rotunda at the end of the corridor. He recalled some literary acquaintance once telling him this old hotel had been one of Stanford White’s less memorable architectural monuments. Before the war it had been the home of several Algonquin Roundtable celebrities. It appeared to have been well kept up-not luxurious, but far from dingy: a select small hotel which would not cater to conventioneers.

Her telephone voice had changed her image in his mind; he wasn’t quite sure what to expect when he knocked. Nevertheless, he had a shock when she opened the door.

She was stunning.

She gave him a radiant smile. “Mr. Hastings.”

“Miss McCloud?” He felt he ought to have a hat, if only so that he could doff it. He walked in past her. The room surprised him, as well. It was large, informally divided by sectional settees and comfortable chairs, punctuated by walnut end tables, stern classic lamps, and a big fireplace that dominated one end of the room. The suite was done in shades of beige, brown, and pale green. A curved bar was built into one corner. The far end of the room opened through glass doors onto a narrow terrace rimmed by potted shrubs, big enough for two lawn chairs and a white iron table.

Hastings brought his attention around to Carol McCloud. She had shut the door and walked into the room ahead of him. Her hair was soft rich brown, full and loose to the shoulders. She had dark, dramatic eyes. She wore blouse, skirt, and sandals; there was no indication she had hurried to get dressed. Her splendidly turned legs would provoke fascinated stares on any sidewalk corner; she had a long waist, high classic breasts, good warm skin tones, and a striking face that was curiously strong and delicate at once. No pose, no artifice-beauty, but not beauty’s arrogance. She had a good fresh pride in her loveliness that was neither vain nor imperfected by false humility.

She laughed. “Well, sit down.”

“I expected you to have white hair and a cane. I feel like a fool.”

Her laugh was low, husky, smoky; she settled on the divan opposite him, full of supple grace. The appraisal she had given him was not the usual casual sizing-up an attractive woman would give a masculine stranger; it was more direct, aware, intense-and slightly provocative, because it was carried on a glance of slightly sardonic private amusement. With gentle irony she said, “I must say your approach is new. What can I do for you that hasn’t already been done?”

She was smiling; but her words took him aback. Before he could answer she was up, briskly moving toward the bar in the corner. “I imagine you’d like a drink.”

“Kind of early in the day,” he said.

She stopped; she seemed puzzled for the first time; she said, “Coffee, then?”

“Just had some, downstairs.”

Her head was tipped quizzically to the side; she touched a finger to the point of her jaw. “Then you’d better tell me what you do have in mind.”

“My secretary must have mentioned on the phone-I’m making a sort of survey of buyers of NCI stock.”

“You mean you’re really doing that?”

Baffled, he was beginning to get angry. “Of course. What did you think it was? Some subtle kind of pitch? Look, if I’ve made a mistake-you are the McCloud who bought a big chunk of NCI a few weeks ago?”

She had begun to laugh; she returned to her chair, still laughing. He noticed for the first time a faint discoloration under the makeup on her cheek-a small bruise. He had never seen her before and had no comparison, but she looked as if she had a slight swelling on that side of her jaw-it showed when she laughed.

Finally she said, “I’m sorry-really I am. I took you for a-for someone else. Please forgive me. Now, what was it you wanted to know about those stocks?”

“You did buy them?”

“I suppose so. I’d have to go look it up.”

He said, “Frankly, you don’t look that rich.”

“What?”

“Are you in the habit of misplacing two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”

She gave him a blank look. “Two hundred and fifty thousand?”

He stood up. “I guess I’ve made a mistake, after all. I’m sorry.”

“No. Wait.” She pulled open a drawer of the end table by the settee, sifted through a small stack of papers, and put them back. When she turned her face toward him, her forehead was creased; she said, “No, it wasn’t a mistake.” She spread her hands with helpless mocking good humor. “You see how it is-sometimes I’m a little scatterbrained.”

Scatterbrained? He shook his head; he said, “But you do remember buying the NCI shares.”

“Yes, I do. I’m very sorry if I confused you.” But her eyes were still mocking.

“Uh-hunh,” he muttered. “Can you remember why you bought them?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Why pick that particular company to invest in? Why not spread the money around in several investments?”

“I suppose someone must have recommended it to me.” She smiled.

It was a blinding smile. He looked away; he closed his eyes and said, “Miss McCloud, we’re talking about a quarter of a million dollars.”

“Yes, I know that,” she said, as if she couldn’t understand what was upsetting him.

“Can’t you at least remember who might have recommended the stock?”

“A broker, I imagine. I really can’t recall.”

He had seen that helpless-female role played enough times on the witness stand in court to know it well enough: the pretty, wide-eyed, innocent misunderstanding of every question. It didn’t fit quite right; she was too obviously intelligent to carry it off.

He said, “You’re not under oath, you know-there’s no reason why you should tell me anything at all.”

“I’m quite aware of that,” she said. “But I’m curious-why are you so interested in my investments?”

“I guess you could just call it a routine check.”

“Sure,” she answered, matching his tone for casual evenness. But her smile was too knowing; it was no accident that after sidestepping his questions so adroitly she had deftly trapped him in his own evasiveness. It was a neat trick-so neat it made him shift his focus once again. His thinking jumped the straight track of his mind. He had built several hypotheses about her; none of them really fit. Clearly she wasn’t just a spoiled heiress, careless about her millions-she wasn’t flighty enough, her surroundings weren’t opulent enough, she didn’t have any air of class consciousness or liberal phoniness. She met him on equal terms, matching wits and subtleties. She was far too bright, and too relaxed, to be some rich married man’s penthouse plaything; and again, the surroundings didn’t fit in with that notion. An actress, perhaps? But if she was successful enough to be that rich, wouldn’t he have heard of her, recognized her face? No-she didn’t have the mannerisms for it; she was too straightforward. A wealthy divorcee, investing her lump-sum alimony settlement? Maybe-but something about her didn’t quite fit that frame, either. Granted she had brains, even a hard cynical edge that showed now and then; he still couldn’t picture her in the role of an adventuress sinking vindictive, greedy teeth into an ex-husband to the tune of a quarter of a million dollars.