I’ll meet you there, and when you get through I’ll file charges against you for slander and defamation of character.”

“Don’t bet on it. I just might have proof.”

“Well, don’t forget to bring it when you come out from under your rock, because you’re sure as hell going to need it.”

“I’m talking about a cigarette lighter. Or didn’t you know that’s where she lost it?”

“I don’t know why it’s any of your business,” I said, “but she hasn’t lost it.”

“Are you sure, now? A thin gold lighter with a couple of fancy initials that look like F.W.? It’s a—hummm—Dunhill. Sweet dreams, Mr. Warren.” This time she hung up.

I sat there for a moment, feeling vaguely uneasy; that was Frances’ lighter she’d described. And now that I thought of it, she had said something about it, two or three weeks ago. Then I remembered. It had needed repairs, a new spark wheel or something, so she’d sent it back to the store in New York where I’d bought it for her. As a matter of fact, it was probably here now. I jumped up and went out to the living room; unless I was mistaken, a small parcel had come for her since she’d been in New Orleans. I yanked open the drawer of the table where I’d put her mail, and was conscious of relief and, at the same time, a faint twinge of guilt that I’d even felt it necessary to check. It was a small, flat package, insured parcel post, and it was from Dunhill’s in New York.

As I dropped it back in the drawer, I noticed the letter under it was from her brokerage firm in New Orleans, and wondered idly if she’d been switching stocks without asking my advice. Not that it mattered particularly; it was only a small account, around six thousand dollars, and hers personally, the money she’d received from the stock and fixtures of the dress shop when we were married.

I sat down with my drink, still trying to clean the telephone call out of my mind. Who was the girl, and what was her object in a thing like that? Some nut with a grudge against the whole human race, or did she have some specific reason to hate Frances, or me? She must have known Roberts pretty well; once she’d referred to him by his first name. The voice had been tantalizingly familiar, but I still couldn’t place her. And how had she described the lighter so well? Of course, she could have seen Frances using it somewhere, but why the odd phrasing? It’s a—hmmm—Dunhill. If that was deliberate, it was damned clever; it gave the impression she was holding it in her hand as she spoke.

She wasn’t that clever, I thought, beginning to feel a chill between my shoulder blades. Cursing, I strode back to the table, and yanked open the drawer again. Tearing off the wrappings, I flipped up the lid of the velvet-covered box. It was the same gold-plated lighter, with the same ornate monogram, but it was a brand-new one.

For what must have been a full minute I stood looking stupidly down at it, and then around the room, trying to re-orient myself the way you do after being hit hard at football. There must be some mistake. Maybe they’d given her this one to replace the old one, on a guarantee, or something. No, the receipted sales slip was under it, with a refund voucher for overpayment. She’d sent a check. I turned and grabbed the telephone, and it wasn’t until the long-distance operator was putting through the call that I wondered what I was going to say to her. This had to be done face to face. Well, I could tell her to come home. The hotel switchboard answered.

“Mrs. Warren, please,” I said.

“I believe she’s checked out,” the girl replied. “One moment, please; I’ll give you the desk.”

She’d said she was going to stay over till Sunday. What had changed her mind so suddenly? “Desk,” a man’s voice said.

“This is John Warren.