t apartment. She got up
and went to the liquor cabinet and made herself a drink.

She was back on the sofa when a key turned in the lock. The door opened.
Frank Corson came in, walked to her and stood looking down at her. There
was misery in his face, a beaten look in his eyes.

"You knew I couldn't do it."

"Couldn't do what, sweet?"

"Walk out on you. I'm in love with you, goddamn it. If I stayed away
tonight, I'd be back tomorrow."

Rhoda set her glass down and held out her arms. "Darling," she
whispered. "You wouldn't have had to. I'd have been down in the Village
after you."

He kissed her hungrily and she pressed her hand against the back of his
head, holding his mouth tight to hers. His hand slipped inside her
blouse. She laid her own hand on it and held it firm.

"It's for your own good, darling, that I want you to contact this Taber
and demand what you're entitled to. You have a right to know. If you
don't find out, there might be a policeman at your door, any minute of
the day or night."

"I'll call him."

"And if he tells you it's none of your business, stand up to him."

"I will."

She allowed his hand to go on with its exploring now. His finger touched
her nipple, played with it. She closed her eyes as his mouth again
sought hers. "Darling ..." she murmured.

But she was speaking to a man who had come from nowhere and had
identified himself only as John Dennis. She had no number at which to
call him. She could only wait until he returned again, if he ever did.

She thought: _Oh, God, John Dennis. Why do you turn away from me? Why
did you strip me naked and look at me as though I were a statue? Will
you come back again? Please come back and make love to me._

She felt Frank Corson unsnapping her brassiere. She closed her eyes and
lay back and waited, and for all the effect he had on her, Frank Corson
could have been a statue.

At the last moment she insisted, "Remember, Frank, you've got to find
out _everything_!"

9

The man had sallow skin; the look of a consumptive. He sat in a chair
beside Crane's desk and dropped the ash from his cigar on Crane's
wall-to-wall carpeting. Crane scowled, but let it pass.

"All right. Dorfman, what have you got to show for the money I've paid
you?"

Dorfman, an old hand at confidential snooping, refused to quail before
the much-publicized senatorial scowl. "It's tough putting on a hunt when
you're not quite sure what you're after."

"I to