The voice didn’t belong to the desk. It belonged, unmistakably, to Big Cheese himself. Malone turned and saw him, sitting in the left-hand corner of the room behind a low table. There was another empty chair facing Manelli, and Malone went over and sat in it. “A drink?” he said. “Okay. Sure.” “Bourbon and soda, isn’t it?” Manelli said. He stood up. “Your research department gets fast answers,” Malone said. “Bourbon and soda it is.” “After all,” Manelli said, shrugging slightly, “a person in my position, he has to make sure he knows what is what, and all the time. It’s routine, what you call S. O. P. Standard Operating Procedure, they call it.” “I’m sure they do,” Malone murmured politely. “And besides,” Manelli said, “you are a well-known type. I thought I knew the name when old Fred mentioned it, or I would never talk to you. You know how it is.” Malone nodded. “Well,” he said, as Manelli went over to a small portable bar at the back of the room and got busy, “we’re being frank, anyway.” “And why shouldn’t we be frank, Mr. Malone?” Manelli said. “It’s a nice, friendly conversation, and what have we got on our minds?” For the first time, as he turned, Malone got a glimpse of something behind the structured and muscular face. There was panic there, just a tiny seed under iron control, but it showed in the eyes and in the muscles of the cheek. “Just a nice, friendly conversation,” Malone said. Manelli brought the drinks over and set them on the table. “Take your pick,” he said. “That’s not what a good host should do, ask the guest to pick one, like a game; but I got into the habit. People get nervous about arsenic in the drinks. Which is silly.” “Sure it is,” Malone agreed. He picked up the left-hand glass and regarded it carefully. “If you wanted to kill me, you’d need a motive and an opportunity, and you don’t have either at the moment. Besides, you’d make sure to be far away when it happened.” He hoped he sounded confident. He took a sip of the drink, but it tasted like bourbon and soda. “Mr. Malone,” Manelli said, “you say these things about me, and it hurts. It hurts me, right here.” He pressed a hand over the checkbook side of his jacket. “I’m a legitimate businessman, and no different from any other legitimate businessman. You can’t prove anything else.” “I know I can’t,” Malone said. “But I want to talk to you about your real business.” “This is my real business,” Manelli said. “The advertising agency. I work here. Advertising is in my blood. And I don’t understand the least little bit why you have to do things to me all the time.” “Do things?” Malone said. “What did I do?” “Now, Mr. Malone,” Manelli said. He took a swallow of his drink. “You said let’s be frank, so I’m frank. Why not you?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Malone said, telling part of the truth.