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answer he could not restrain himself from addressing him by the nickname Flynn had given him but Sergeant Whelan never had accepted.
    And Grover did not restrain himself from a prolonged sigh. “Yes, Inspector? Not coming in today?”
    It was well past ten o’clock Sunday morning. Flynn seldom went to the office Sundays, which was why Grover usually did.
    Taylor had met Wahler and Flynn at the door. The guard had phoned ahead their arrival. Taylor said he had put Flynn’s breakfast in his room.
    Taylor led the way upstairs, to show Flynn his room. But Flynn went to the wide doorway of the club’s grand hall and looked in.
    A skinny old man, totally naked, sat in a chair by the fire, reading. In the changing firelight the white skin and heavy blue veins of his legs and feet had almost the effect of a flashing neon light.
    Behind Flynn, Wahler said under his breath, “That’s Wendell Oland. He doesn’t like to wear clothes.”
    “And who is he when he’s dressed?”
    “Senior partner at a major law firm. Income in the millions a year.”
    Still dressed for fishing, shoeless, Senator Dunn Roberts sat in a chair within reach of the bar table. Even from across the big room, Flynn could see the man was despondently drunk. He might as well have been sitting in a slum doorway.
    “Looks like the Senator missed breakfast,” commented Flynn.
    “Not much.”
    Four men, one in a heavy, torn bathrobe, sat at a pokertable down the room, playing seriously, silently. The only currency visible, blue in the firelight, was in one hundred dollar demoninations.
    “A quiet Sunday morning in the country,” said Flynn.
    In Flynn’s room instead of tea or coffee a silver pot of plain hot water for his herbal tea had been laid out, as well as a half grapefruit and French toast.
    “Thoughtful of you,” Flynn said to Taylor. “Been working here long?”
    Flynn lowered his tea bag into the pot of hot water.
    “Just since last spring.”
    “Are you from around here?”
    “I’m from New York City.”
    “Rather dead around here, isn’t it?”
    Taylor’s ready grin filled his face again. “Getting deader every minute.”
    Flynn saw that Cocky had been in. The chess set was laid out on a side table.
    White pawn had been moved to King Four.
    Flynn moved Black Pawn to King Four.
    “Anything else you want, sir?”
    “Just need to make a couple of phone calls after breakfast.”
    “Right, sir. Dial seven, wait till you hear a clear line, then dial your number.”
    So Flynn made the most of his breakfast and called Grover.
    “I was called away,” Flynn said lamely.
    “On another one of your mysterious trips, Frank?”
    Grover doubtlessly had his own explanation, or explanations, for Flynn’s odd disappearances. Flynn had no idea what such explanations might be, but he was sure they lacked both accuracy and imagination. Not being able to explain his absences himself, he had never been able to enquire how Grover saw them.
    “I’m on a trip, yes,” Flynn admitted. “And, yes, it is mysterious.”
    “I bet.”
    “Lieutenant Concannon is with me.”
    A snort assaulted Flynn’s ear. “Hadn’t noticed him missing.”
    “Grover, I’m particularly interested in that hit-and-run bicycle death on Tremont Street last night.”
    “No one else is.”
    “You mean, you aren’t. What have you done so far?”
    “This old man was knocked off his bicycle and run over by a car traveling south at high speed about eight fifteen last night. Dead on arrival. A female witness said she could not give a description of car or driver, she was too horrified, she said, but she was able to say the car didn’t stop.”
    “Didn’t stop at all? Not even slow down?”
    “Didn’t even slow down. Just went through the intersection at high speed.”
    “I doubt you could hit an old man on a bicycle, run over and kill him and not know something had happened. How many people were in the car?” Flynn asked.
    Again Grover seemed to be referring to the