of his death. I’d think that the money should come to the company, you know, under the law of agency.”
Lindsey shook his head. “I doubt that, frankly. It’s really a question for Legal, of course, but I really don’t think so.”
Mrs. Hanson reached into a purse that appeared miraculously and extracted a jeweled eyeglass case. She unfolded a small pair of glasses and perched them on her nose. Lindsey almost expected her to use a lorgnette. She peered at the Anderson bibliography and sniffed. She shook her head. “No. No.” She shoved the paper back toward Lindsey.
“Do you think your father might have left any personal notes on the company? Correspondence? If I could just get a lead on this girl.…”
“Nothing.” Mrs. Hanson stood up. Her brother and son followed suit. Selena swung one leg over the end of her chair, up and down and up and down.
Doreen reappeared with Lindsey’s hat and coat. She must have been summoned telepathically. She helped Lindsey into the coat and handed him the hat. He turned to Mrs. Hanson and the others. “If you do think of anything, I’ll be at the Drake for a little longer. Or you could try me at International Surety in Chicago after that, they’ll get the message to me. If you do think of anything.”
Paul Paige and Theo Hanson shook his hand. Patti Paige Hanson sniffed, touched her fingertips to his, and turned back into the house. Paul Paige wished Lindsey a safe drive back to Chicago.
Lindsey walked to the LTD and turned on the engine. He left the radio off during his drive back to Chicago, listening to the purr of the Ford’s engine, the hum of its heater, the hiss of its tires on the slick black streets. There had been some snow here, but all that remained were low icy berms along the sidewalk and small patches on the broad lawns.
Somehow the car’s sounds and their rhythms and counterpoints turned into a melody. By the time he pulled the LTD under the Drake’s canopy and handed the keys to the parking valet, he was actually whistling.
All the way up in the elevator, walking along the corridor to his room, crossing the room and staring out again into the black winter night, he whistled, and wondered what the familiar tune could be. At last he remembered what it was. He actually sang a couple of lines.
How much is that doggie in the window/
The one with the waggily tail?
He’d been stymied by Mrs. Hanson and her subservient brother, but somehow, as he fell into bed, he was grinning.
How much is that doggie in the window/
I do hope that doggie’s for sale.
Then the phone rang.
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