I woke up early again, feeling rather ... excited, actually. Several of the plot issues I'd been wrestling with the night before had resolved themselves and whole segments were bright and pristine in my mind - a gift from Morpheus, the son of Sleep and god of Dreams.

Last night, after delivering Barbara Yount to the airport for her New York flight, I'd tried calling John Borne in response to his e-mail message from Bangkok. Unfortunately, in Thailand, it was already Tuesday morning and Mr. Borne was enroute to the Chiang Mai province in northern Thailand.

It wasn't urgent, I'd assured the secretary - in Thai - and I would call again at a better time. I had, however, left my name - both names - and Dan's phone number.

For the moment, I sat zazen above the cliff, watching the gulls, replaying yesterday's revelations in my mind and listening to the muted surf invisible through the coastal fog below.

Hearing that Gregory Thorne had no wife or immediate family had been a relief - a lifting of unknown and uncertain responsibilities. What other missing connections there might be - close friends? business associates? possible lovers? - remained an unknown and might take a life time to rediscover.

Of course, anyone who had known Thorne and was wondering where he had disappeared might well have contacted Brown and Vauxhall. That was another lead I would have to follow.

And what about Joseph Toland - Thorne's agent? Had he been wondering where Thorne was? I should have asked Barbara for Toland's address and phone number. Somewhere in Oakland was all I remembered her saying.

I could check the phone book later. Surely, I assumed, a literary agent would be listed in the yellow pages.

And, sometime, I'd need to fly down to Phoenix and look around - the closing chapters of 'Sucker Game' were set in the Phoenix area and I needed to see the terrain, smell the air and ... well, just get a feel for the area before I could confidently complete the rewrite.

For that matter, what on earth had prompted the previous 'me' to set a plot in Algeria? "I don't speak Arabic" I reminded myself ... in bad Arabic - not that that one phrase made me a liar. On the other hand, most Algerians also spoke some French even if it wasn't the French that Parisians would admit.

For that matter, my own smattering of French would probably go further in Algeria than in Paris or Lyons. In Algers, the speakers were less critical of one's accent than the Paresians.

Still, the first part of the book - which started in Algeria before moving to Arizona - was fine except for some elements of character development and a few details of motivation. No need to plan a flight to northern Africa.

And I wouldn't need a passport for Arizona.

Even so, I was going to need some equipment ... Not a lot, the computer Dan had provided was fine for the moment and I could see about buying my own later. But, at the very least, I'd need a good laptop before heading off to Phoenix.

For that matter, what about the Bank of Shanghai? Were they listed in the San Francisco phone book? And, if I did have an account with them ...

I didn't know why it hadn't occurred to me sooner - stupidity? Or just that so much else had happened?

I pulled my mind back to the present, stretched and stood up. The key ring - the only possession I'd been left with - was sitting on the dresser in my bedroom. I'd transferred the floating compass ball to the keys Dan had provided and had left the rest sitting. After all, there wasn't much point in carrying a set of keys when I didn't have the vaguest idea what - if anything - they fitted ... or where.

* * *

The conical brass weight was still on the ring along with the four keys ... one to an unknown car, one to an office or house - somewhere - and two unknown keys. One a possible padlock key, the other - the cylindrical key - could have fitted almost anything from a steering wheel lock to a coke machine ... or even the keyboard lock for a desktop computer.

The brass weight was what interested me. I really hadn't looked at it before.

A little over an inch in length, conical with a hole for a ring through the small end, the large end was flat, a little over a half-inch in diameter ... and engraved deeply with a fine pattern of characters. They weren't characters I could read.

I found an ink pad in a drawer in Dan's desk. The stamp made a fine, clear impression on the third attempt - the first had too much ink, the second too little. It didn't help any though - I still couldn't read it.

But, it didn't matter. I knew what it was.

I fished the phone books out of the cabinet in the kitchen - carrying them over by the computer - and sat down to do some research.

San Francisco had a lot of banks - and many of them were international. Among them, I found a Banca de Roma, the Bank of Bangkok, a Bank of Canton, the Bank of India, the Hongkong and Shanghai Banking Corporation Ltd, and the Royal Bank of Scotland as well as banks representing Brazil, France, Japan, Laos, Viet Nam ... the list seemed endless.

And none of them would be open this early.

The one I wanted was located at an address on Sansome - in Chinatown.

Under literary agencies, I found Toland and Associates - in the San Francisco yellow pages but with an address and phone number for Oakland.

The Rent-A-Wreck agency had a near down-town address - probably what Dan would have called 'a rough neighborhood'. I dialed the number to ask about rates and availability.

* * *

Seven-thirty San Francisco time made it ten-thirty in New York. For my next call, I dialed the number on Barbara's card, wondering how late her flight had arrived and if she was in this morning.

"Barbara Yount," a now-familiar voice answered.

"Good morning," I responded. "Alex Tam... sorry," I corrected myself, "Gregory Thorne calling. How was your flight?"

"Well enough," she responded. "I followed your advice, Greg ... uh, Alex. Anyway, I had a brandy, put my chair back and slept the entire way."

"Advice?" I asked.

"Sorry, that was years ago. You said that you always slept going east and stayed awake going west - that it made it easier to adjust to time changes."

It sounded reasonable enough - even if I didn't remember saying it.

"Anyway," Barbara continued, "it seems to have worked well enough. I even caught a nap in the limo from the airport. By the time I got home, I was wide awake - so I came in early. The copies you wanted are going out with this afternoon's pickup and I've already pressured Accounting for the check - I'll send it out tomorrow. Priority delivery."

"Uh, that wasn't why I called," I assured her. "I was wondering about something else. When you received the manuscript for 'Sucker Game'?"

"Yes?"

"Did you try to contact Toland?"

"I tried to reach you first," she responded. "But the address you'd left in Algiers said you'd left a month or two before and they didn't know where to reach you. You hadn't returned to Phoenix either. And I tried Marrakech but nobody at any of the listed hotels had heard of you. Finally, I tried to call Toland but I couldn't reach him for a couple of days. When I did, no, he hadn't heard from you. Why?"

"Uh, what about his 'associates' - did they know anything?"

"I suspect," Barbara chucked, "that his associates consist of a cat and a parakeet. I've never talked to anyone but Toland or to his answering service. Don't tell me that I need to caution you not to believe everything you read on a letterhead."

"No memories, remember? I was just wondering if you had found any traces of where I'd been."

"Just the DHL package with a printed copy and two diskettes. Not the first time we've received your manuscripts that way. Of course, you usually call us in a week or so for a conference and give us an address for editor's notes and such but you're really not our usual author, you know. Not that any of our authors are 'usual'," she added.

"You said you tried to reach me in Phoenix? Why Phoenix?"

"You'd called me from there," she responded. "About two, three months ago - when you asked me to mail you a set of royalty statements. You said something about tax questions but suggested it was just routine and didn't mention it again. I tried Marrakech because that's where the last package was sent from. And Algiers since that was where you'd sent the previous package from."

I couldn't think of any more immediate questions. Instead, we chatted a bit while I filled Barbara in on the directions that the rewrite was going to take, my plans for a jaunt down to Phoenix and a odd few thoughts.

"Well, I guess that covers everything," I finally concluded. "By the way, I'll send you an outline for a new book in a week or so. I think you'll like it. But, if you would please, keep it private - just between us - for a while. Okay?"

Barbara agreed readily. She was curious why but that, I promised, I'd explain later. "One other thing," I asked. "Don't tell anyone that you've heard from me? Anyone at all? Just for a few days. I'll let you know when I'm ready to reappear. Okay?"

After Barbara acceded to my second request - still curious but willing to cooperate - we said good-byes and hung up.

Then I was struck with a wild idea. Hey, sometimes the wildest ideas pay off, right?

411 White Pages struck out but Open Text paid off with a web address.

Toland and Associates had a rather nice web page extolling their 'talents', listing titles and authors represented and offering - for a fee - to consider submissions from prospective authors.

'Reading fees,' I realized, were nothing unusual - charging a flat fee to read a submission by a prospective author and to offer criticism on their work. On the one hand, charging a reading fee kept agents from being inundated by unsolicited manuscripts. On the other, would-be writers could, for a usually nominal fee, get critical review from knowledgeable sources.

Once an agent had agreed to represent an author, reading fees were no longer relevant. Instead, an agent commonly received 15% of an author's advances and royalties. In turn, the agent was responsible for handling negotiations with the publishers, reviewing and approving contracts, handling disagreements - in short, all of the dirty work.

Maybe fifteen percent sound's like a lot for a little work - I knew that a lot of authors felt that way and many preferred to handle their own representation instead of using an agent. For my own situation - traveling extensively, no fixed address - having an agent to handle things was cheap at fifteen.

For that matter, did Toland handle other things for me? Taxes? Probably I had an accountant somewhere. But maybe Toland would know who ... and where.

Still, these were minor questions. There'd be time enough to look for answers to them later.

I spent a few minutes more exploring Toland's web page. Web pages - particularly individual's web pages - sometimes offered surprising insights into an individual. In many cases, in addition to whatever individuals posted on their own web sites, a common practice was to include links to other web sites which they, the individual, wanted to bring to other people attentions.

If, for example, I had called up the web page of a chess player, I might find links to chess clubs, other players, discussion groups or even news sites where tournament results were reported. On the other hand, if an individual - or group - was interested in politics, their web page might provide links to other politically-oriented sites. The long and the short of it was that anything an individual felt strongly enough about was likely to appear as links on their web page. In addition to providing links for visitors with shared interests, the nature of the links could also tell a visitor a lot about the owner's interests.

In Toland's case, his web site included one page devoted to authors whom he represented. Several were links to authors' web pages - presumably authors whom Toland represented. One link referred to Gregory Thorne.

I followed the Thorne link and found a publisher's blurb, a list of Thorne's titles with a brief synopsis for each. The page concluded with the boxed comments: "Over a million Gregory Thorne books have been sold." and "Six times New York Times Best Seller".

Returning to the main page, off hand, I didn't recognize any of the other authors represented.

Another page offered a group of links leading to various sites related to jogging. In this group, one link was to a manufacturer of running shoes while another led to a site devoted to the Bay To Breakers marathon. A third link was to a news group. Loosely speaking, the news site was a collection of notes from various people who's primary contact was an interest in jogging and marathons.

Since jogging wasn't my cup of tea - just thinking about it brought a twinge from my left knee - I returned to Thorne's home page.

In addition to jogging, Thorne had also included links to an amateur theater group, a home-brew site and a mountaineering club. Obviously, Mr. Thorne had diverse interests - running, acting, brewing and bouldering. The information helped a little to fill out a picture of the man. Or, if not a picture, a sketch anyway.

Finally, I added a bookmark to Toland's home page - a local link containing Toland's web address - making it easy to find again without requiring a search.

Then, closing the web browser, I brought up a word processor and started typing.

* * *

Somebody was waving a plate of french toast under my nose. I clicked the Save button before looking up.

It was Dan holding the plate - Captain Donavi was in the kitchen, supporting himself against the back of a chair while he dipped bread in a egg-mixture and added slices to the frying pan.

"Sorry to interrupt," Dan offered. "But you ought to eat."

"Way you were hitting the keys," the Captain added, "you'll need the energy. Going well, eh?"

"Well enough," I agreed. "But I'll join you at the table. This can wait." I closed my work files and shut the computer down. Later would be time enough - I had the first part of the outline ... and the last part would have to wait ... until further developments filled in a few blanks.

* * *

"I have three problems this morning," I addressed the table, wiping up the last of the syrup with a final bite of battered toast. "One - I need a car. I can't be borrowing yours all the time. I've called an agency that rents used cars and they have one waiting for pick up. The problem, Dan, is that they'll want a credit card for reference."

"No problem at all," Dan agreed. "We can run down whenever you're ready. Throw me a tough one," he grinned.

"Well, the second problem is that I still need to open a bank account." I had yesterday's check in my pocket along with a generous amount in cash - courtesy of my Japanese guests for the weekend. Plastic - an ATM card - would be easier to carry.

"Simple," Dan shrugged. "What else?"

"I'll show you," I pushed the plate back to make room, removed my belt, then used my thumbnail to open the hidden seam. With the secret compartment opened, I pulled out the remaining hundreds and then fished for the folded piece of paper and the small laminated note, passing both of these across to Dan.

"Here's the tough one," I offered. "The figures on this piece of paper - I think - I may be able to give you a lead on ... tomorrow. But, if I'm right, this is your type of mystery ... an accounting puzzle."

"And this?" Dan held up the laminated note.

"And that," I answered, "is what I was hoping might ring a bell with you. Do any of those figures look like anything familiar?" I paused for a moment, then suggested, "Why don't you make a copy of them and think about it." I selected one of the hundreds and passed it across the table as well. "Consider this a retainer," I added.

Dan turned, holding the bill up to the light, then ran his thumbnail across the paper, then held the bill flat while he tilted it. "And if I find a UV source?" he asked, then added, "I think the barber down the street uses ultraviolet lamps to sterilize his equipment."

"Damned if I know," I returned the grin. "Let me know if there's anything unusual."

Captain Donavi was regarding us with a puzzled expression.

"Hey," I directed Dan, "you explain - you're the detective here."

* * *

The bank account and the car were no problem.

The bank - with Dan's assurances and my 'free-market' driver's license - opened an account, issued me a pad of temporary checks and assured me that I could pick up my ATM card tomorrow. They'd apologized - at first - saying that a two-day hold would be necessary before they could credit the check from Bay Tour Services.

Then, at Dan's suggestion, I countersigned the Bay Tours check to him and accepted his check - for the same amount - for immediate deposit. For Dan's check, they agreed, no hold would be necessary.

The Rent-A-Wreck agency was equally cooperative - renting the maroon GM van to Dan and accepting his credit card and check. The somewhat worn interior carpeting aside, it was quite a decent van - right down to a small propane refrigerator. It was also polished enough not to look like a wreck - despite the agency's name - but still old enough to look commonplace ... and comfortable enough to use for long term surveillance ... just in case that proved necessary.

Dan - despite the doctor's instructions for moderation - insisted he needed to handle some office work but agreed to meet us for lunch. Not for sushi, I insisted - with the Captain's agreement, we'd try some dim sum ... over in Chinatown.

* * *

The same computer store which had supplied me with the bitmap images - with no fee - a few days before was also able to provide a very compact optical disk storage unit with a parallel port interface, compatible with both Macs and PCs. This not one of Paul Robeson's exotic pieces of equipment - this was a straight, off-the-shelf purchase and, together with a couple of extra disks plus tax, cost less than two-fifty and fitted nicely in my shoulder bag ... after I threw away all the extra packaging.

At the same time, I asked for prices and recommendations on laptop units and spent another half-hour discussing requirements, hard drive and display capacities, CPU speeds and other minutia. As far as the Captain was concerned, we might as well have been speaking a foreign language - he amused himself, while waiting, by playing 3-D video pinball on one of the desktop systems.

The portable would have to wait for a couple of days but - I assured the salesman - I'd be back before the weekend to pick up the one I wanted. First, however, I had one further request.

My request was easily satisfied and, when the Captain and I departed, I had three floppy disks - one five-and-a-quarter and two three-and-a-half's - in my satchel. The older, five-inch diskette had been the hardest to supply. It wasn't a format they were asked for any more ... but I preferred being provident over being sorry too late.

* * *

The only problem with the van was finding a place to park it. I'd specified an automatic - no clutch - so that Captain Donavi would be able to drive it in a pinch and, when I found the place I wanted - near Washington Square, which wasn't ... square, that is - I was glad I had. This wasn't an area where I felt comfortable about parking ... even if I could have found a parking place.

Instead, the Captain took the wheel - or helm to use his term - and set a circular course while I went inside to make arrangements.

The best thing I could say for the Morrison Arms was that I was glad I wasn't planning to sleep there.

It seemed odd to react that way - I had clear memories of living in what were certainly less up-scale quarters. I even remembered mosquito netting and having small lizards chasing across the ceilings and gathering around the lights at night to feast on phototropic insects. The differences, however, had been simple. The other places - in other lands - even with hot and cold running ginkos in every room - had been clean.

This place was a dump.

With a corner location, the ground floor was given over to an assortment of shops. A greasy grill had the corner location with the two remaining street-front quarters occupied by a pawn shop and a liquor store. The remaining quarter - beyond the minuscule office/lobby - housed a tattoo parlor.

The skin art store was the best of the four establishments - judging by his designs, the needle artist had some real talent. I wondered for a moment - Malaysian? Or Thai? Maybe Vietnamese? At any rate, the designs were definitely southeast Asian. Since the door was closed - with a hanging clock sign pointing at 4:00 - there wasn't much else to go on.

As for the liquor store, well, if I wanted a bottle of disinfectant, the shelves offered an excellent selection but, as for beverages, T-bird and Mad Dog were not high on my list of vintages.

The poor-man's savings and loan, I ignored. I didn't have anything I wanted to hock and I doubted they had anything I was interested in buying.

Which left the corner grill. The menu - chalked on a blackboard over the drink machine - offered an assortment of traditional American short-order fare. The specialty of the house was anything with cholesterol ...which probably included the coffee.

What remained as a lobby was dark, dingy and mildewed. The pay phone on the wall looked like it deserved a metal for hazardous duty and the wallpaper surrounding it was almost completely obscured by scrawled notes, phone numbers and doodles.

Before agreeing to pay for a room, I insisted on inspecting the accomdations. Not that seeing the room was any improvement over what I already expected. Put it this way - the best feature in the room was a once-overstuffed chair which might have once been covered in green naguahide but which was now a mixture of duct tape silver, cigarette burn brown and highlights of black and ash gray. With the threadbare bedspread - no blanket - folded and spread over the chair, it might even be a place to sit.

As for the bathroom ... well, the water worked ... but I didn't like the color.

Downstairs, I paid the clerk a week in advance. "There's something else," I kept my voice low, spreading a C-note on the counter together with my card and a hand-written phone number..

The clerk - Pakistani by his accent and Muslim by his headdress - looked at the crisp bill without making any move to accept it.

"I'd like two things," I continued. "If anyone asks about me, I've been staying here for more than a month, is it not so?" I added in Urdu.

"To the police," he replied stiffly, "I am not telling false lies."

"If there are two of them and they show you a warrant and an authentic badge, please tell them anything they want to hear," I assured him. "But, if someone comes around asking questions ... unofficially?"

"I am thinking," he smiled, "you have been our guest for some time."

"And," I added, "if they offer you baksheesh," - he looked blank at the term - "dustori," I corrected and saw him nod, "I am thinking you will call me at a number I give you and I will also give you dustori."

"Ah," he reached for the bill and card, "I am thanking the sar for his generosity. I am calling most hastily to tell you of important visitors."

"Shukriyâ," I thanked him, pocketing my key and leaving.

I also felt like I needed a shower - somewhere else. One thing was sure - I preferred the smells of jasmine and honeysuckle over stale disinfectant ... and worse.

"Getting toward lunch time," the Captain suggested as I climbed in the van. "Think we should pull Dan out of his office, eh?"

I'd have agreed to anything to get away from this neighborhood. Still, it was the right address for the effect I wanted.

* * *

At the Dim Sum Palace - downstairs in the basement below a curio shop - I left it to Captain Donavi to handle ordering ... such as it was since the custom in a dim sum restaurant is simply to select from the offerings as they are brought around. Then, when you're finished, you're charged according to the number of saucers and bamboo steamers heaped on the table.

Of course, if you like, you can also order specialties like jellyfish salad - which is delicious - but, in dim sum, all things come to those who wait.

If Dan wanted a change of life, he was getting it with a vengeance. We did, however, have to warn him away from a few of the offerings - too spicy - and to keep him from sampling a couple of the sauces - same reason.

Also, it was rather obvious that Captain Donavi had been here before - either that or he had a knack for making friends before he'd even met them. In either case, all of the waiters and waitresses in the Palace seemed to recognize him and stopped to exchange a few words - in Cantonese.

It also meant that service was excellent.

* * *

"Unless you're in rush to get back to the office," I suggested, as we left the Dim Sum Palace. "I've got one more piece of business near here." Actually, it was further back to where we'd parked the van than it was to the Bank of Shanghai offices.

* * *

The Bank of Shanghai - the San Francisco Chinatown branch - occupied a three-story brick building with a relatively modest frontage.

Inside, instead of marble counters and rows of tellers, we were met by a clerk and, after a brief explanation, escorted past a row of office doors and upstairs to a simple room furnished Chinese fashion with red and black lacquered chairs and ornately carved tables. In one corner, a small fountain trickled lazily behind a miniature and twisted cedar. "Mr. Chin will be with you one moment," we were assured. "Please be comfortable."

A moment later, another young man appeared with tea pot and cups, poured green tea for each of us, then vanished again.

Mr. Chin, when he appeared - the tea hadn't had time to cool to sipping temperature - combined oriental courtesy with professional briskness.

Once introductions had been completed, I explained my business.

"I'm most sorry that I can not explain in full detail," I apologized. "But my name is Gregory Thorne and I believe I have an account with your bank - though another branch, of course. If you would be so kind to check and confirm," I requested, opening the ink pad on the desk and imprinting the seal from my key ring on a blank sheet of paper, then adding my thumbprint and, finally, the indecipherable signature, letting my hand scrawl the name automatically. "I would be pleased to contact you later for further arrangements," I concluded.

"Mr. Thorne," Mr. Chin nodded. "Already, I have confirmed your account. If you will give us an hour to fax your chop and thumbprint for confirmation, I will be happy to serve you in any fashion you require. You understand that, here, we are not a conventional bank? We do not offer checking accounts and other retail services? Our business here is principally a matter of industrial accounts, shipping and transfers."

"This is not a problem," I agreed. "When you have completed confirmation, however, I would like to transfer some funds to a local bank."

"But of course, Mr. Throne. I shall be most happy to expedite your request. It is only a matter of the formalities, you understand. May I call you when the requirements are completed?"

A call, I demurred, would be unnecessary. There was no haste and I would be please to call later with instructions. I offered a deposit slip showing the account number for my local bank.

Yes - the transfer could be handled electronically, Mr. Chin confirmed, and he would expedite my request most promptly.

* * *

"I know about off-shore banks," Dan remarked, once we were out on the street, shaking his head, "but I've never had much to do with them. What I don't understand is ... Okay, the fingerprint I can see. But what was the stamp?"

"My chop," I explained. "I can't write Chinese. Don't speak it either. But a chop is a simple substitute for a signature. A lot of places, a chop and a thumbprint are all that's required. Remember, not everybody in the world is literate and, even where they are literate, thumbprints are often more trusted than signatures."

"Particularly in China," the Captain agreed. "A thumbprint and a chop are the only signatures you need. A name - written in brush strokes - just isn't as distinctive. Besides, a chop is faster - have one myself - aboard ship at the moment. Didn't figure I'd need it here."

"But how'd you know which bank?" Dan queried.

"Mrs. Yount mentioned wiring advances to my Bank of Shanghai account," I explained. "I figured that if I had an account with them once, the odds were that I still had an account. They're a thoroughly international bank - anywhere from New York to Nairobi. Good service, too," I added.

"You missed one item," Dan pointed out.

"What's that?"

"You didn't ask them for your account number. Would you like to lay a wager?"

I thought about it for a moment. "That it matches one of the numbers on the note? The one with the initials 'BS'? Very good - but no bet. Don't like the odds."

"Smart man," Dan smiled, accepting the compliment. "I think I've matched another of your numbers. Let's go by the office - I need your signature - Thorne's signature - on a limited power of attorney form. Authorizing me to make financial inquiries on your behalf."

"You've got it," I agreed. "But if you abscond to South America with my funds ..."

"Be a great way to see the world," Dan suggested.

"Eh?" the Captain questioned.

"Staying one jump ahead of Alex," he explained. "I don't think I'll chance it. Rather travel more leisurely. Besides, did I mention I've finished the outline for 'Murder On Account'? Subject to your criticism, of course. I think I've even got the locked room figured out - we'll see if you can spot it."

I was pleased to see Dan was spending at least some of his time in less stressful pursuits ... at least, I hoped they were less stressful.

* * *

Back at the office, I borrowed the phone for a minute and called the hospital to chat with Caesar.

"Sorry, amigo," Caesar answered my request. "But no, I do not know such a person. I will ask, of course, but this is not a matter I am acquainted with. Documents, yes - many people need papers. But no."

"Este nada," I assured him. "No este problema." It had been a long shot but, if you don't ask, you can't find out. I'd have to try another approach.

After chatting a bit more, I replaced the receiver and turned back to my friends. "How do you feel," I invited, "about stepping out for drink this evening?"

* * *

"I don't understand," Dan complained. "First you transfer several thousand dollars from an overseas account, then you want to go shopping at Goodwill. When you were broke, you went shopping for good clothes - now that you're well off, you're buying rags."

"Not rags," I disagreed. "These are perfectly good slacks - hardly worn." Granted, they were a pin-stripe gray but at least they were the right size ... and clean.

"And the shirt and coat?"

"What's wrong with them?" I'd found a perfectly serviceable dungaree shirt and the leather patches on the jacket's elbows were shiny but still sound.

"It's just not your style," Dan complained. "They don't even match."

"That's right," I agreed. "And I need some shoes as well. Let's see what they have in an eleven. Nothing too dressy though. Just think of it as a mystery," I suggested.

Captain Donavi reserved comment - I had the impression he had his suspicions. If so, the chances were that he was right. Of course, he had a slight advantage over Dan - he'd been with me that morning while Dan had been busy at the office.

* * *

Leaving the puzzle aside - since it appeared it was only Dan who was mystified - we returned to Dan's house and spent the rest of the afternoon pursuing literary endeavors.

While Captain Donavi was reading the first fifteen chapters of 'Sucker Game' - at his own request - I took a turn at Dan's outline.

It was pretty good - especially for a first attempt. If he could pull it off, I thought he might have a real flare for mysteries. The only real problem I could see was developing the detective character - Dan's accountant.

"You can't be too biographical," I cautioned. "You'll get bogged down in the details and that can get dull real easily. Think about your character as if you were looking at him from a distance - you can see some things in detail but others only in outline. Pick out a few details to concentrate on and let the rest go. You'll have enough to present the character's personality."

"The ulcers, obviously," Dan agreed. "And his general frustration with his profession. Is it okay if I let him dream about stowing away on a freighter?"

"Why not? Does he do anything about it? Or just dream?"

"Just dream, I guess. He's got a family - wife, couple of kids, community ties, that kind of thing."

"What about community ties? What kind of ties?" I prompted.

"Rotary Club, Odd Fellows, Lions, that kind of thing, I suppose. Used to belong to several myself - it was good business."

"Fine," I agreed. "Look at these associations as resources - people he can call on for information and such. Make it part of the solution. Look, you were trying to figure out where he'd find an electronics expert - how about the head of a manufacturing firm? Someone he knows through the Rotary? Or maybe someone he golfs with on weekends."

"Or plays poker with?"

"Sure, why not. Just don't spring them as surprises - have various friends show up early in the plot ... even if only by reference. Then, when you call them in later, it's a natural thing."

"Yeah, I see what you mean ... what's really bothering me - trying to follow the old plot structure - is the dénouement."

"Gathering the suspects in the library?"

"Right, it's not exactly conventional any more but I always like the re-enactment bit for tying up all the loose ends. It's just that I don't see how to fit it into a corporate environment," Dan puzzled.

"What about a board meeting," I suggested. "Wouldn't that fit?"

"Perfect," Dan agreed turning back to his laptop. "The conference room instead of the library. And have the police waiting in the lobby!"

"Sounds good to me," I recognized the slightly glazed look and left him to his own devices. I'd missed fixing breakfast, maybe it was time I fixed dinner instead.

* * *

"Well, mate," the Captain considered. "Seems as you've found yourself a good berth. Not as I'm a critic, understand, but it reads smoothly."

"How far have you gotten," Dan asked.

"Only a couple of chapters," Captain Donavi admitted. "Been a while since I've made the Med run but I'd say you have the flavor of the coast. Might have a bit or two you could use about livestock aboard - less you're planning on flying the camels in."

"Read on," I suggested. "Then tell me what you think."

"He's right," Dan agreed. "You've got a bank account and a job - two jobs if you want to keep on as a tour guide. Pretty good spot to be in. Any plans for what you want to do?"

"Several," I admitted. "You make anything out of the figures I gave you?"

"Which set?" Dan grinned. "Your Bank of Shanghai account? Or the other two sets of numbers? One set looks like a Waterhouse Securities account - I'll tell you tomorrow. The third? I don't know. Could be any of several banks. Hey, give me a little time - it's not much to go on.

"On the other hand," Dan dropped the smile, "the three columns of figures? If your guess is right - we'll see tomorrow - then someone's been trimming you. And, I suppose, we can guess who. The question is ...what do you want to do about it?"

"More than trimming me," I agreed. "But the first thing is to prove it."

"Legally?" Captain Donavi considered. "Or will you settle for a drumhead court martial and keelhauling?"

"Legal proof of embezzling maybe can be managed," I admitted. "But there's another matter that might be harder to prove."

"Attempted murder?" Dan asked. "That's good for seven to fifteen ... if you can get a conviction. Even so, it probably only means two years in jail. Besides, it's not exactly like you could testify. And circumstantial evidence is hard to get a conviction on. You were lecturing me about that a few days ago."

He was right - I had. Lectured him, that was. About having his mystery hinge on circumstantial evidence. It was always a weak ending to have the suspect confess all when faced with nothing more than surmise and flimsy circumstances.

For that matter, having the suspect confess all was one of the big weaknesses of a lot otherwise successful mysteries. Granted, Perry Mason - the old TV series - was always getting away with it, having the guilty party confess all during a courtroom confrontation. And, too often, the Murder She Wrote series depended on the same thing - the murder confessing to Jessica Fletcher while someone - usually a local sheriff, police officer or such - was listening in the next room, behind a curtain or, once, on the other end of the phone.

I wasn't interested in confessions. And I was even less interested in trying to build a case on circumstantial evidence. Embezzlement could be proven - that was fine.

But what I really wanted to prove was a case of murder. And I didn't mean 'attempted' - Gregory Thorne was dead even if I wasn't.

"Keelhauling," I considered, "sounds nice. How's the Andromea's hull? Lots of barnacles?"

"On a steel hull - scarce six months out of dry dock? And a fresh coat of anti-fouling paint? If there are, I'll be having a few words with a certain dock master, eh? Now, a dinner party for sharks, I could arrange." Captain Donavi's offer was phrased casually - jokingly - but something in his voice suggested that the offer was sincere and no joking matter at all.

The subtleties weren't lost on Dan either. He looked across the table at the Captain for a moment, then nodded quietly. "Proof," Dan considered slowly, "is a difficult matter. There are different degrees of proof. Guilt may be incontrovertible ... but not provable in court." He paused for a moment, then continued, "It's your call, Alex - you're the victim - but, if you need any help ..."

Some offers are harder to refuse than others ... and, sometimes, the only thing to do is not to try.