How couldn't he? This was the only call he had received on his private line since that maniac had last called. Faulkner had had the number changed at least a half a dozen times since, as a matter of course, but still, Fullmaster, if that was his real name, reached him with apparent ease. "Yes, I remember," he said tersely. "What do you want now?" "Just a piece of the action, Mr. Faulkner." "What the hell does that mean?" "Well, according to my records, you have lost quite a sum of money since our last conversation, and it would be such a shame, don't you agree, if California National Bank found out they lost another $2 million to your bad habits?" Sir George instinctively thought Faulkner was a California slime ball, never mind his own actions, and he briefly thought that he might actually be work- ing for the side of good after all. "You have a real doctor's bedside manner. What do you want?" Faulkner conveyed extreme nervousness. "I think, under the circumstances that, shall we say, oh, one million would do it. Yes, that sounds fair." "One million? One million dollars?" Faulkner shrieked from his pool side lounge chair. "Yessir, that sounds just about right." Sir George paused for effect. "Now here is what I want you to do. Go to Las Vegas, and have your credit extended, and acquire small bills. Then, place the money in a silver Samsonite case at Union Station. Locker number 12. Is that simple enough?" British humor at its best. "Simple, yes. Possible, no," Faulkner whispered in terror. "Oh, yes, it is possible, as you well know. You cleared up the $2.4 Million you owed Caesar's only last week. Your credit is excellent." "There's no way you can know that . . ." Then it occurred to him. The mob. He wasn't losing enough at the tables, they wanted more. Losing money was one thing, his way, but a sore winner is the worst possible enemy. He had no choice. There was only one way out. "All right, all right. What locker number?" "Twelve. Within 48 hours. And, I probably needn't mention it, but no police." "Of course," Faulkner smiled to himself. At last the nightmare would be over. "Thank you so very much. Have a nice day." * * * * * "Merrill! It's the blackmailer again. Merrill, do you hear me?" Ken Boyers tried to get Senator Rickfield out from the centerfold of the newest Playboy. "Merrill!" "Oh sorry, Ken. Just reading the articles. Now what is it?" Rickfield put the magazine down, slowly, for one last lustful gaze. "Merrill, that Fullmaster fellow, the one who called about the Credite Suisse arrangements . . ." "Shut up! We don't talk about that in this office, you know that!" Rickfield admonished Ken. "I know, but he doesn't," he said, pointing at the blinking light on the Senator's desk phone. "I thought he went away. Nothing ever came of it, did it?"