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wouldn’t know.”
    “You wouldn’t know?”
    “That’s not my bag. I don’t think about stuff like that.”
    “What do you think about?”
    “Music.”
    “That’s all?”
    “You got it.”
    “I’d say that wasn’t all.”
    An hors d’oeuvre paused on its way to Cracks’ mouth. “What?”
    “Every time I’ve looked at you, you seemed to be displaying an unusually healthy interest in Miss Dearborn.”
    Cracks flushed, and his face contorted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, angrily.
    “Where did you go after rehearsal?”
    “Which rehearsal?”
    “The opening night rehearsal.”
    “There were three opening night rehearsals.”
    “I don’t follow you.”
    “Okay, Mr. Insurance Guy, let me explain to you. First, the band and I rehearsed for two hours. Then Muffy and the band and
     I rehearsed for an hour. Then the band and I rehearsed for almost three hours.”
    “A lot of rehearsal.”
    “They needed it. Tired old men. Dogs. And Muffy paid for it.”
    “According to my information, that would give you a pretty good alibi.”
    Cracks was back to popping hors d’oeuvres again, fighting a losing battle to keep his eyes from zeroing in on Muffy Dearborn.
     He didn’t answer.
    “Bands take breaks, though. Do you remember where you went on yours?”
    Cracks seemed to speak to him through a haze, as if responding from another time and place. “Maybe. I don’t know. No. I can’t
     remember.”
    Lockwood studied him for a moment, and then shrugged. He’d try another time, perhaps. “Okay. I’ll see you again.”
    Cracks didn’t bother to reply, perhaps never even heard what he’d said. He was back to where he’d been when Lockwood had walked
     up, whiskey in hand, tidbits in mouth, eyes drinking in every last bit of the woman he played piano for.
    Lockwood had no trouble locating Jabber-Jabber. The press agent was in front of Muffy, behind her, to the side of her, excitedly
     directing a photographer, flashbulbs popping as Jacoby arranged one photo grouping after another, guiding Muffy into one composition,
     then leading her on into the next. Lockwood loomed up over Jacoby. “I’d like to talk to you.”
    Jacoby was perspiring, nerve ends quivering, dark patches of fatigue forming under his eyes. “To me? You wanna talk to
me? Now?
Listen, I’m busy, see, it’s a helluva night, I mean, you know what it’s like to be a press agent on an opening night at a
     posh, glittering opening like this? All the celebrities I gotta photograph, all the papers I gotta service, all the begging
     and praying I gotta do….”
    Lockwood cut off the flow of verbiage. “About the jewels.”
    Jabber-Jabber stopped dead for a moment, his eyes skittering. “I don’t know what you mean.”
    “I’d like to find out what you know about the robbery.”
    “I don’t know anything. Listen, I’ve got to leave now; get these photos developed and then get ’em to the papers before their
     deadline.”
    “Don’t stall me, Jabber-Jabber.”
    “What stalling? I’m telling you, you got me on the wrong night. Do I look like a guy who’d stall you? I’d be happy to talk
     to you, believe me, what, do you think I’m afraid or something? Do I look like a jewel thief to you? Hah? Am I some sort of
     Raffles? Big, handsome, a neat little mustache, a dame on each arm—you got the wrong guy, right?” Jabber-Jabber jabbered,
     arms and hands jerking through variegated patterns. “Look, see me in my office tomorrow, okay, Right after breakfast? Okay,
     Charlie, that’s it!” and he grabbed his photographer and sped out of the room.
    Lockwood shrugged, and took a final pull at his drink before he left the room. As he went through the door, he sensed the
     continued scrutiny of Stephanie, felt her intent, storm cloud-colored eyes fixed on him unswervingly. He turned, and he was
     right. She did not drop her lids, but continued to stare at him, her breasts heaving slightly as she and he once