He ushered her inside and took her jacket. “Look,” he said, indicating his living room with a sweep of hand. “See that volume of Klee reproductions there next to my reading chair? That proves I’m not a weird. Indicates my culture status. Actually, my appreciation of modern art doesn’t go any further than the Impressionists. But don’t tell anybody. See those books up on my shelves. Same thing. You’ll find everything there that _ought_ to be on the shelves of any ambitious young career man.” She looked at him from the side of her eyes. “You’re really soured, Larry.” “Come along,” he said. “I want to show you something.” He took her down the tiny elevator to his den. “How hypocritical can you get?” he asked her. “This is where I really live. But I seldom bring anyone here. Wouldn’t want to get a reputation as a weird. Sit down, LaVerne, I’ll make a drink. How about a Sidecar?” She sank onto the couch, kicked her shoes off and slipped her feet under her. “I’d love one,” she said. His back to her, he brought brandy and cointreau from his liquor cabinet, lemon and ice from the tiny refrigerator. “What?” LaVerne said mockingly. “No auto-bar?” “Upstairs with the rest of the status symbols,” Larry grunted. He put her drink before her and turned and went to the record player. “In the way of corny music, how do you like that old-timer, Nat Cole?” “King Cole? Love him,” LaVerne said. The strains of “For All We Know” penetrated the room. Larry sat down across from her, finished half his drink in one swallow. “I’m beginning to wonder whether or not this Movement doesn’t have something,” he said. She didn’t answer that. They sat in silence for a while, appreciating the drink. Nat Cole was singing “The Very Thought of You” now. Larry got up and made two more cocktails. This time he sat next to her. He leaned his head back on the couch and closed his eyes. Finally he said softly, “When Steve Hackett and I were questioning Susan, there was only one other person who knew that we’d picked her up. There was only one person other than Steve and me who could have warned Ernest Self to make a getaway. Later on, there was only one person who could have warned Frank Nostrand so that he and the Professor could find a new hideout.” She said sleepily, “How long have you known about that, darling?” “A while,” Larry said, his own voice quiet. “I figured it out when I also decided how Susan Self was spirited out of the Greater Washington Hilton, before we had the time to question her further. Somebody who had access to tapes made of me while I was making phone calls cut out a section and dubbed in a voice so that Betsy Hughes, the Secret Service matron who was watching Susan, was fooled into believing it was I ordering the girl to be turned over to the two Movement members who came to get her.” LaVerne stirred comfortably and let her head sink onto his shoulder. “You’re so warm and ... comfortable,” she said.