“Much of this charitable work,” Foskett said piously, “benefited the colored workers and their children.”

“Impressive,” I said. I’d finished my lunch. Somehow, despite all his talk, the lawyer had finished his as well. That was almost as impressive as his story. “But what does it have to do with hiring a Chicago private investigator?”

“That’s the problem, Nathan.” His face twitched in a gesture that pretended he wished he could be more helpful. “I’m not really at liberty to say. You see, it’s a personal matter, and Sir Harry wants to present it to you himself. He has asked that I request you meet with him in Nassau.”

“I really am not fond of tropical climes,” I said.

That was no smart-ass remark: Guadalcanal had been less than a year ago. I’d caught malaria there and it still flared up from time to time; only in recent months had the combat nightmares of that sticky, stormy hellhole subsided to where I could get some occasional restful sleep. My condition-what they used to call shell shock-had got me out on a Section Eight.

That’s military for crazy as a bedbug.

He was painting a picture in the air with a tanned, manicured hand; he wore a gold ring with an emerald the size of a doorknob in Oz.

“Nassau is a pleasant place, Nathan-an oasis in this war-torn world of ours.”

Funny how a Southern accent wrapped around crap like that can be seductive.

“Walter, it’s July. A getaway to the tropics is no real inducement. Let’s stick to the job itself. I like to know what I’m getting into.”