“Yeah. So we deduct something? How do I word it?” Wolfe half opened his eyes. “You are sure of your figures?” “Only too sure.” “Did you cheat much?” “Average. Nothing indecent.” “I have to pay the amounts you named?” “Either that or forfeit privileges.” “Very well.” Wolfe sighed clear down, sat a minute, and straightened his chair.

“Confound it. There was a time when a thousand dinars a year was ample for me.

Get Mr Richards of the Federal Broadcasting Company.” I frowned at him, trying to guess; then, because I knew he was using up a lot of energy sitting up straight, I gave up, found the number in the book, dialled, and, by using Wolfe's name, got through to Richards three minutes under par for a vice-president. Wolfe took his phone, exchanged greetings, and went on: “In my office two years ago, Mr Richards, when you handed me a cheque, you said that you felt you were still in my debt-in spite of the size of that cheque. So I'm presuming to ask a favour of you. I want some confidential information. What amount of money is involved, weekly let us say, in the radio programme of Miss Madeline Fraser?” “Oh.” There was a pause. Richard's voice had been friendly and even warm. Now it backed off a little: “How did you get connected with that?” “I'm not connected with it, not in any way. But I would appreciate the information-confidentially. Is it too much for me?” “It's an extremely unfortunate situation, for Miss Fraser, for the network, for the sponsors-every one concerned. You wouldn't care to tell me why you're interested?” “I'd rather not.” Wolfe was brusque. “I’m sorry I bothered you-” “You're not bothering me, or if you are you're welcome. The information you want isn't published, but everyone in radio knows it. Everyone in radio knows everything. Exactly what do you want?” “The total sum involved.” “Well…let's see…counting air time, it's on nearly two hundred stations…production, talent, scripts, everything…roughly, thirty thousand dollars a week.” “Nonsense,” Wolfe said curtly.