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was something of a scholar and, with his sharp lawyer's mind, contributed

substantially to the discussions.

"You've assumed your X is a man," Paul Yale said. "Have you considered

the possibility of a woman?"

"Yes, but the odds favor a man, mainly because those tape recordings,

received after every bombing, are of a man's voice and it's a reasonable

assumption be is X' Also we concluded that in history almost

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all leaders of armed revolutions have been men; psychologists say women's

minds are too logical and the details of revolution seldom make sense.

Joan of Arc was an exception."

Paul Yale smiled. "What other theories do you have?"

"Well, even though the leader isn't a woman, we're convinced there is a

woman in the so-called Friends of Freedom, and almost certainly she's

close to X-

"Why do you believe that?"

"For several reasons. Number one, X is extremely vain. The tape

recordings show that clearly; our 'think group' played all of them many

times. Number two, be's strongly masculine. One thing we listened for was

any hint of homosexuality, either in intonation or words. There wasn't

any. On the contrary the tone, the choice of words . . . well, the

description we all came up with after playing the tapes over and over was

'a young, robust male."'

Beth Yale bad been listening intently. Now she said, "So your X is macho.

Where does that lead you?"

"To a woman, we believe," Nim. answered. "Our reasoning was that a man

like X would need to have a woman around; he couldn't exist without one.

Also, she has to be a confidante-for the practical reason that she would

be close, also because his vanity demands it. Look at it this way: X sees

himself as a heroic figure, which is something else the tapes show.

Therefore he would want his woman to view him the same way. So that's

another reason she has to know about, and probably share in, what he's

doing."

"Well," Paul Yale said, "you certainly have an abundance of theories."

He sounded amused and skeptical. "I'd say, though, you've pushed

supposition-pure conjecture, unsubstantiated-to the limits and beyond."

Nim conceded, "Yes, I suppose we have." He felt embarrassed, foolish. In

light of a Supreme Court justice's reaction, all that he had just related

seemed unconvincing, even absurd-especially now that he was away from the

other three. He decided not to pass on the remainder of the think group's

conclusions, though they were clear in his own mind.

The police were convinced, because of the modus operandi and a hint in

the latest tape recording, that the Friends of Freedom leader, "X," was

the actual murderer of the two guards. The quartet of Nim, London, Van

Buren and O'Brien, after discussion, shared that view. Furthermore, they

had argued at length among themselves and now believed that 'X"s woman

was at the murder site. Their eventual reasoning: The project had been

'X"s most ambitious to date and, consciously or subconsciously, he would

have wanted her to see him in action. Which made her not only a witness

but an accessory to murder.

So how did that knowledge-or, rather, mpposition-put them closer to

learning the identity of "X"?

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The answer: It didn't. But it revealed a potential weakness, a vulnera-

bility, of "X," to be exploited. How to exploit it, if at all, was some-

thing unresolved.

Now, Nim thought, it all seemed way, way out.

He decided: Paul Yale's assessment was probably the kind of cold douche

they all needed. Tomorrow he would consider dropping the whole "think

tank" idea, leaving detective work where it belongedwith the police, FBI,

and various sheriff's departments, all of whom were working on the

Friends of Freedom case.

His thoughts were interrupted by arrival of the Yales' housekeeper, who

reported, "A car for Mr. Goldman has arrived."

"Thank you," Nim said. He rose to leave. A second company limousine had

been ordered for him from the city since Eric Humphrey, who had a later

engagement, bad left the valley immediately after lunch.

Nim told the Yales, "It was a privilege to meet you both. And when you

need me again, sir, I'm available."

"I'm sure I will soon," Paul Yale said, "and I enjoyed our talk." His

eyes twinkled. "At least, the substantial part of it."

Nim resolved mentally that in future, when dealing with someone of Paul

Sherman Yale's stature, he would confine himself to solid facts.

7

The big break, for Harry London, came swiftly and unexpectedly.

The Property Protection chief was in his small, glass cubicle officethe

department had still not been given permanent quarters and continued to

operate in makeshift space-wben he heard his secretary's telephone ring

outside. A moment later his own extension buzzed.

He picked up the phone lazily because that was how he felt. The past two

months had been a desultory period in which nothing major had occurred

concerning theft of service. Routine prevailed. In late summer a computer

study bad revealed a staggering thirty thousand possible cases of power

theft and, since then, London, his deputy Art Romeo, and their staff-now

increased to five investigators-had been checking out the suspect cases

one by one. As Harry London knew from his experience as a Los Angeles

detective, it was like most police work-plodding, repetitious, wearying.

And results were mixed.

About ten percent of the investigations so far had produced sufficient

evidence for GSP & L to charge customers with cheating and to claim

payment for estimated arrears. Another ten percent showed changes in

consumption levels to be for valid reasons, such as genuine conser-

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vation, the consumers innocent. The remainder of cases were inconclusive.

Of the provable cases, only a handful had been sufficiently serious to

merit prosecution.

To all concerned the task seemed slow and endless. Which was why Harry

London, his chair tilted back, feet up on his desk, had reached a state of

ennui on this particular mid-December afternoon.

"Yeah?" he said into the phone.

A whispering, barely audible voice inquired, "This Mr. London?"

"Yes, it is."

"This here's Ernie, janitor at the Zaco Building. Mr. Romeo said to call

him or you if them guys come back. They're here now."

Harry London's feet bit the floor like slingshots. He snapped upright in

his chair. "The same ones who bypassed the meters?"

"It's them all right. They come in a truck, same's before. They're workin'

now. Listen, cain't stay on this phone more'n a minute."

"You don't have to," London said, "so listen carefully. Get the license

number of that truck."

"Already got it."

"Great! Now, some of us will be down there as fast as we can make it. While

we're on the way, don't do anything to make those men suspicious, but if

they start to leave, try to keep them talking." While speaking, London

pressed a button summoning his secretary.

The caller, still whispering, sounded doubtful. "Do it if I can. Listen,

Mr. Romeo said I'd get paid if . . ."

"You'll get yours, my friend. That's a promise. Now just do what I said.

I'm leaving now." London slammed down the phone.

His secretary, a young, bright Chinese-American named Suzy, was standing in

the doorway. He told her, "I need help from the city police. Phone

Lieutenant Wineski; you know where to get him. If Wineski isn't available,

ask someone else in the Detective Division to meet me at the Zaco Building.

Say the case I told Wineski about is breaking. Then try to get Art Romeo.

Tell him the same thing, and to bust his ass and get to Zaco. Got it?"

"I have it Mr. London," Suzy said.

"Good kid!" London hurried out and ran for the elevator which would take

him to the basement parking garage.

Going down, be calculated that with fast driving and reasonable traffic he

could be at the Zaco Building in ten minutes or less.

Harry London's estimate overlooked two factors-early commuter traffic out

of the city and Christmas shoppers, clogging downtown streets and slowing

movement to a crawl. It took him a frustrating twenty minutes to reach the

Zaco Building, which was on the opposite side of the city's business

district.

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As he pulled up, he recognized an unmarked police car which had preceded

him by seconds only. Two men in plain clothes were getting out. One was

Lieutenant Wineski. London blessed his good luck. Wineski was a friend, a

police officer whom London had cultivated and whose presence would save

time-wasting explanations.

Lieutenant Wineski bad seen London and was waiting, the other officer

beside him. The second man was a detective named Brown whom London knew

slightly.

"What gives, Harry?" Wineski was young, smart, ambitious; he kept his body

trim and, unlike most of his detective colleagues, dressed well. He also

liked unusual cases because, more often than not, they brought publicity.

Around police headquarters the guessing was that Boris Wineski would go

high in the force, possibly to the top.

London answered, "A hot tip, Boris. Let's go." Together the trio hurried

across the forecourt of the building.

Two decades earlier the twenty-tbree story, reinforced-concrete Zaco

Building had been modem and fashionable, the kind of place where a

topflight brokerage house or advertising agency might have rented several

floors. Now, like other office structures of its genre, it was showing

signs of seediness, and some of the first-class tenants bad moved to newer

buildings where glass and aluminum predominated. Most of the Zaco

Building's space was still rented, but to less prestigious tenants with a

high attrition rate. It was a safe assumption that the building was less

profitable than in its heyday.

All of this Harry London knew from earlier investigation.

The building's lobby, of imitation marble, with a bank of elevators facing

the main entrance, was beginning to fill with departing office workers.

Dodging the outgoing flow, London led the way to an inconspicuous metal

door which he knew, from a surreptitious previous visit, opened onto a

stairway providing access to three lower floors.

On the way in he had given the two detectives a quick summary of the phone

call twenty-five minutes earlier. Now, hurrying down cement stairs shielded

by fire doors, he found himself praying that the men they were seeking had

not already left.

Something else the Property Protection chief knew was that the extensive

electric and gas metering and controls were on the lowest floor. From there

the building's general power supplies were monitored-for heating, elevator

operation, air conditioning and lighting.

Near the foot of the last stairway a thin, gaunt man in coveralls, with

unkempt sandy hair and a stubble of beard, appeared to be inspecting

garbage cans. He looked up, then abandoned what he was doing and came

forward as Harry London and the detectives clattered down.