My doorbell buzzed just as I reached that point in Elsie’s manuscript. The sound rasped angrily in the utter silence of the hotel room, and I must have jumped a foot. The cops, I thought. Here it is, Mr. Halliday. Gird up your loins and prepare for one of those interrogations you’ve described in your books so often. The innocent hero striving desperately to convince the cynical and brutal bluecoats that he is innocent. I laid Elsie’s manuscript down unhappily, wishing to God they’d given me time to finish reading it, went to the door and opened it. In all my life I’ve never seen such a welcome sight as Ed Radin’s broad face wearing a friendly grin. I wrung his hand hard and pulled him inside and demanded, “How bad is it, Ed? What did you find out?” “It’s pretty bad, Brett.” He shook his head and moved his solid body across to the brandy glass and bottle. He poured himself a moderate drink, downed it, and sat down wearily.
