"Do I have to spell it out? It's plain to see, either you or Bob took the thing. Who the hell else is there? I credit Bob with brains enough to steal it more neatly. Like setting an 'accidental' fire he could tell me burned it. You had to work fast, though. Play by ear. You grabbed it exactly as Bob thought. Only you realized he'd come back in a few minutes and go howling on your trail. What better way to throw him off it than to let him make a fool of himself before me--me, the owner, who's really got a right to blow his stack?" Clayton stood over Owens with the big fists on his hips, beating him about the head with words. "You left it in one of those empty offices, or maybe in the can. They won't lock the main entrance till five o'clock or so, I guess. You could have picked the thing up again at your convenience, when Bob had gone off with his tail between his legs. It was fun while it lasted, Jabez, but now suppose you tell me where that book is." "I didn't!" screamed Owens. "I don't want to press charges," said Clayton. "Tell me, and we'll call it quits. Otherwise we can all wait right here for the police." Owens began to shake. Kintyre looked away, feeling a little sick himself. "All right," said Clayton and picked up the phone. "No," whimpered Owens. "Don't." "Well?" Clayton paused, one finger in a dial hole. Owens got out a room number. "Under the desk," he added, and lowered his face into his hands. "Can we check that from here?" asked Clayton. Kintyre nodded, took the phone and called the department. He asked one of the girls to look, feeding her a story about having lent the volume out. Then he held the line and waited. "Well," said Clayton. He drew on his cigar, relaxed visibly, and laughed. "Maybe I ought to set up as a private eye. Know any hard-boiled blondes?" "Nice work," said Kintyre inadequately. "Good Lord, if that book really had been lost!" "It wouldn't have been your fault," said Clayton. "Forget it." Kintyre looked down at a shuddering back. "It seems to be my turn now, Owens," he said. "No hard feelings. _Va' tu con Dio._" "No," said Clayton. "I'm afraid not." Kintyre stared up again, into the narrow face and the deeply ridged eyes. "I thought," he said, "I thought you wouldn't--" "Prefer charges? Not about a lousy manuscript. My time's worth too much. But Bruce Lombardi was murdered, remember?" Owens lifted a seared countenance and gasped: "No, you can spare me that much, can't you?" "I hope so," said Clayton impersonally. "But the fact remains, Bruce was a threat to a fat piece of Hollywood cash." "He was going to expose the Borgia fraud publicly, as well as in specialized journals," said Kintyre, not wanting to. "That made it even more urgent," said Clayton. "If Bruce should die and the book disappear, I don't know who'd stand to benefit more than you." Owens emitted a little moaning noise and shriveled back into the mask of his hands. "You see?" said Clayton.