“This is V. I. Warshawski,” I said crisply. “Mr. Thayer is expecting me.”

The soft female voice at the other end apologized, but “Mr. Thayer hasn’t been in all week. We’ve even tried calling him at home, but no one answers.”

“Then I think I’d better talk to someone else in your office.” I kept my voice hard. She wanted to know what my business was.

“I’m a detective,” I said. “Something rotten’s going on which young Thayer wanted to talk to me about. If he’s not in, I’ll talk to someone else who knows his job.” It sounded pretty thin to me, but she put me on hold and went off to consult someone. Five minutes later, the guard still glaring at me and fingering his gun, the soft-voiced female came back on the line, rather breathless. Mr. Masters, the Claim Department vice-president, would talk to me.

The guard hated letting me go up-he even called back up to Ms. Softy, in hopes I was lying. But I finally made it to the fortieth floor. Once off the elevator, my feet sank deep into green pile. I made my way through it to a reception area at the south end of the hall. A bored receptionist left her novel and shunted me to the soft-voiced young woman, seated at a teak desk with a typewriter to one side. She in turn ushered me in to see Masters.

Masters had an office big enough for the Bears to work out in, with a magnificent view of the lake. His face had the well-filled, faintly pink look a certain type of successful businessman takes on after forty-five, and he beamed at me above a well-cut gray summer suit. “Hold my calls, Ellen,” he said to the secretary as she walked out.

I gave him my card as we exchanged firm handshakes.

“Now what was it you wanted, Miss-ah-?” He smiled patronizingly.

“Warshawski. I want to see Peter Thayer, Mr. Masters. But as he’s apparently not in and you’ve agreed to see me, I’d like to know why the boy felt he needed a private detective.”

“I really couldn’t tell you that, Miss-ah-do you mind if I call you-” He looked at the card. “What does the V stand for?”