I had a fair idea what this was going to be all about. One develops a feel over the years. I turned to the Sikh and told him the place didn’t serve liquor.

“Ah,” he said. “My apologies, good madam. Apple pie and coffee, if you please.”

She brought it, served him, and went away, all without changing expression. I waited. After ingesting the final bite of apple pie and swallowing the final sip of coffee, the Sikh lowered his head and said, “Twelve-fifteen, Hotel Garrand, Room 1304, Mr. Cuttlefish. Godspeed!”

And left.

Of course it was the Chief. Who else sends a costumed Sikh to drink martinis in a Broadway diner? Who else employs couriers who wed the inconspicuousness of the Eiffel Tower to the subtlety of a nuclear warhead?

So I went to the Hotel Garrand, and shortly after twelve I got into the elevator. The Garrand, it turned out, had no thirteenth floor. I went back to the desk and asked about Mr. Cuttlefish, who turned out to be in Room 1403. Well, no one’s perfect.

He opened the door just as I knocked on it. “Tanner,” he said, beaming at me. “Come in, come in. A drink?”

He poured scotch for both of us, gave me a glass, narrowed his eyes, frowned.

“You knew Joe Klausner, didn’t you?” I had. “Then you’ll join me in drinking a toast to his memory.”

“What happened?”

“In Berlin. Stuffed into the engine compartment of his own Volkswagen. The engine had been removed. He’d been onto something and evidently they got onto him. Piano wire around his neck. Eyeballs all popped out of his head. Face all bloody purple. I’m not being British about it. That was the color, bloody purple.”

I made a sound mixing sympathy with nausea. The Chief turned, looked out across the room. Then he turned to face me again. “To Klausner,” he said.

“To Klausner.”

We drank.

I have never been able to decide whether the Chief is particularly intelligent or particularly stupid.