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either.”
    “Your timing is perfect. Mr. Cyphre is sitting across the desk from me this very moment. I’ll put him on.”
    There was the muffled sound of someone speaking with his hand over the receiver and then I heard Cyphre’s polished accent purring on the other end. “So good of you to call, sir,” he said. “I’m anxious to know what you found out.”
    I told him most of what I’d learned in Poughkeepsie, leaving out the death of Dr. Fowler. When I finished, I heard only heavy breathing on the other end. I waited. Cyphre muttered, “Incredible!” through tightly clenched teeth.
    I said: “There are three possibilities: Kelley and the girl wanted Favorite out of the way and took him for a ride, in which case he’s long gone. It could be they were working for someone else with the same result. Or Favorite was faking amnesia and engineered the whole setup himself. In any case, it adds up to a perfect disappearing act.”
    “I want you to find him,” Cyphre said. “I don’t care how long it takes or how much it costs, I want that man found.”
    “That’s a pretty tall order, Mr. Cyphre. Fifteen years is a long time. Give a guy that kind of lead and the trail is bound to be cold as ice. Your best bet would be the Missing Persons Bureau.”
    “No police. This is a private matter. I don’t want it dragged out in the open by involving a lot of nosy civil servants.” Cyphre’s voice was acid with patrician scorn.
    “I suggested it because they’ve got the manpower for the job,” I said. “Favorite could be anywhere in the country, or abroad. I’m just one man on my own. I can’t be expected to accomplish the same results as an organization with an international information network.”
    The acid in Cyphre’s voice grew more corrosive. “What it boils down to, Mr. Angel, is simply this: Do you want the job or not? If you are not interested, I will engage someone else.”
    “Oh, I’m interested all right, Mr. Cyphre, but it wouldn’t be fair to you as my client if I underestimated the difficulty of the project.” Why did Cyphre make me feel like a child?
    “Of course. I appreciate your honesty in the matter, as I do the enormity of the undertaking.” Cyphre paused, and I heard the flick of a lighter and the intake of his breath as he set fire to one of his expensive panatelas. He resumed, sounding somewhat mellowed by fine tobacco. “What I want you to do is get started right away. I’ll leave the approach up to you. Do whatever you think best. The key to the whole operation, however, must remain discretion.”
    “I can be discreet as a father confessor when I try,” I said.
    “I’m sure you can, Mr. Angel. I’m instructing my attorney to make you out a check for five hundred dollars in advance. That will go in the mail today. Should you need anything more for expenses, please contact Mr. Winesap.”
    I said that five hundred would certainly take care of things, and we hung up. The urge to crack the office bottle for a self-congratulatory toast was never stronger, but I resisted and lit up a cigar instead. Drinking before lunch was bad luck.
    I started by calling Walt Rigler, a reporter I knew over at the Times . “What can you tell me about Johnny Favorite?” I asked, after the prerequisite snappy patter.
    “Johnny Favorite? You must be kidding. Why don’t you ask me the names of the other guys who sang with Bing Crosby in the A&P Gypsies?”
    “Seriously, can you dig anything up on him?”
    “I’m sure the morgue has a file. Give me five or ten minutes and I’ll have the stuff ready for you.”
    “Thanks, buddy. I knew I could count on you.”
    He grunted goodbye and we hung up. I finished my cigar while sorting the morning mail, mostly bills and circulars, and closed up the office. The fire stairs are always quicker than the coffin-sized self-service elevator, but I was in no hurry, so I pushed the button and waited, listening to Ira Kipnis, C.P.A., rattle off figures next door