Harcourt murmured to the engraving that unconditional surrender was _his_ name, too, but that Tompkins was making so much trouble for himself that he was damned if he could see how the F.B.I. could make it any worse. In any case, he added more directly, he would keep in touch with me and let me know whether I was wanted up at the Federal Court House. "See here, Harcourt," I replied. "One good turn doesn't make a spring. This is the screwiest case you've ever been on. If you can drop in and visit Miss Briggs and myself on Saturday after lunch at our place, I'll give you a fill-in that will rock the F.B.I. from its gats to its toupees." "That's mighty white of you--and Miss Briggs," the Special Agent allowed. "If the chief lets me, I'll meet you up there, say about 2:30." "Swell!" I said. "And which do you prefer--Scotch or rye?" "I don't drink on duty," he told me, "but I find Bourbon helps fight off colds this early spring weather." After his departure, I locked myself in the office and with Arthurjean's help, brought myself up to date on Winnie's business operations. Tompkins, Wasson & Cone were not, as I had believed, a high-toned bucket-shop. The proposed Fynch swindle was only the result of a dopey old maid who practically insisted on helping beat the Axis by turning her money into Government bonds. There was plenty of honest graft and many a solid perquisite in straight commission work and supervision of estates. The firm was not, of course, very scrupulous but it always gave value for its transactions. It was, in fact, a pretty slick set-up. There was a buzz on my inter-office telephone and the receptionist announced: "Mr. Axel Roscommon to see you, Mr. Tompkins." "Oh, ask him to see one of the other partners, will you?" "I told him that you were too busy, but he said he must see you and would wait." "He too?" I asked. "Okay. Send him in. Do you know an Axel Roscommon, Arthurjean?" "Uh-uh!" She shook her head. "The name's sorta familiar. Something in oil before Pearl Harbor. I can find out if you'll wait a bit." "Never mind," I told her. "I'll see him. You stay in the next room and keep the door ajar so you can take a record." She laughed. "I can do better than that, boss. I'll switch down the inter-office phones and keep the door shut. That way. I'll hear every word you say. It's like a dictaphone." Mr. Roscommon was an extremely well set up man in the middle fifties, about six-feet two, lean, with iron grey hair, a grey moustache, steel-blue eyes and a bear-trap grip. He looked prosperous but not worried by it. He spoke with a faint Irish lilt in his voice but his manner was most direct and unHibernian.