After I hung up I asked, “Why the Long Spoon?”

“I’ve thought of something. I was one of the last customers out last night. I don’t think you cleaned up.”

“I was feeling peculiar. We cleaned up a little, I think.”

“Did you empty the wastebaskets?”

“We don’t usually. There’s a guy who comes in in the morning and mops the floors and empties the wastebaskets and so forth. The trouble is, he’s been home with the flu the last couple of days. Louise and I have been going early.”

“Good. Get dressed, Frazer. We’ll go down to the Long Spoon and count the pieces of Monk cellophane in the wastebaskets. They shouldn’t be too hard to identify. They’ll tell us how many pills you took.”

* * *

I noticed it while I was dressing. Morris’s attitude had changed subtly. He had become proprietary. He tended to stand closer to me, as if someone might try to steal me, or as if I might try to steal away.

Imagination, maybe. But I began to wish I didn’t know so much about Monks.

I stopped to empty the percolator before leaving. Habit. Every afternoon I put the percolator in the dishwasher before I leave. When I come home at three A.M. it’s ready to load.

I poured out the dead coffee, took the machine apart, and stared.

The grounds in the top were fresh coffee, barely damp from steam. They hadn’t been used yet.

* * *

There was another Secret Service man outside my door, a tall Midwesterner with a toothy grin. His name was George Littleton. He spoke not a word after Bill Morris introduced us, probably because I looked like I’d bite him.

I would have. My balance nagged me like a sore tooth. I couldn’t forget it for an instant.

Going down in the elevator, I could feel the universe shifting around me. There seemed to be a four-dimensional map in my head, with me in the center and the rest of the universe traveling around me at various changing velocities.