"Wait a second," Elshawe interrupted. "When was he born? Repeat that." "March fourth, nineteen-thirty." "Fifty-three," Elshawe said, musingly. "Older than he looks. O.K.; go on." "He retired in '77 and came to L.A. to live. He--" "Retired at the age of forty-seven?" Elshawe asked incredulously. "That's right. Not on a teacher's pension, though. He's got some kind of annuity from a New York life insurance company. Pays pretty good, too. He gets a check for two thousand dollars on the third of every month. I checked with his bank on that. Nice, huh?" "Very nice. Go on." "He lives comfortably. No police record. Quiet type. One servant, a Chinese, lives with him. Sort of combination of valet and secretary. "As far as we can tell, he has made four trips in the past three years. One in June of '79, one in June of '80, one in June of '81, and this year he made the fourth one. In '79, he went to Silver City, New Mexico. In '80 and '81, he went to Hawaii. This year, he went to Silver City again. Mean anything to you?" "Not yet," Elshawe said. "Are you paying for this call, or is the City of Los Angeles footing the bill?" "Neither. You are." "Then shut up and let me think for a minute." After less than a minute, he said: "Martin, I want some more data on that guy. I'm willing to pay for it. Should I hire a private detective?" "That's up to you. I can't take any money for it, naturally--but I'm willing to nose around a little more for you if I can. On the other hand, I can't put full time in on it. There's a reliable detective agency here in L.A.-- Drake's the guy's name. Want me to get in touch with him?" "I'd appreciate it. Don't tell him who wants the information or that it has any connection with Porter. Get--" "Hold it, Terry ... just a second. You know that if I uncover any indication of a crime, all bets are off. The information goes to my superiors, not to you." "I know. But I don't think there's any crime involved. You work it from your end and send me the bills. O.K.?" "Fair enough. What more do you want?" Elshawe told him. When the phone call had been completed, Elshawe sat back and made clouds of pipe smoke, which he stared at contemplatively. Then he made two calls to New York--one to his boss and another to a private detective agency he knew he could trust. * * * * * The Malcom Porter case quickly became a _cause celebre_. Somebody goofed. Handled properly, the whole affair might have been hushed up; the Government would have gotten what it wanted, Porter would have gotten what _he_ wanted, and everyone would have saved face. But some bureaucrat couldn't see beyond the outer surface of his spectacle lenses, and some other bureaucrat failed to stop the thing in time. "Gall, gall, and bitter, bitter wormwood," said Oler Winstein, perching himself on the edge of Terry Elshawe's desk. "You don't Gallic, bitter, wormy, or wooden. What's up?"