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been nullified—as had his wife.
    “Something terrible has happened,” Rutledge said. “I’m sure you agree with me it’s important, for all concerned, that the right face be put on it.”
    Flynn looked at Rutledge’s silhouette another long moment.
    Then, without saying anything, he stood up from his chair.
    Wahler had opened the door to the corridor and awaited Flynn.
    D’Esopo went through the door.
    From his chair, Rutledge said, “Paul, wait for Flynn downstairs, will you?”
    Wahler nodded and left, closing the door behind him.
    Rutledge said: “Flynn, would it surprise you to know I’ve talked with the head of No Name this morning?”
    “Yes.”
    “You’re right. I haven’t. And I wasn’t about to say I had. You could find out I hadn’t too easily.”
    “What you’re trying to say is you believe you could, if you wanted to.”
    “Something like that. I have telephoned other people about you this morning. Since D’Esopo recommended you for this job last night.”
    “ ‘This job?’ ” asked Flynn. “I don’t remember applying for a job.”
    “I know something of who you are, Flynn.”
    Discreetly, Flynn yawned. “You’re trying to tell me you’re more important than the Commissioner of Boston Police.”
    “I guess I am.” Rutledge stood up. “I’m sure I don’t need to present images to you of carrots and sticks.” He shook hands with Flynn again, as if they had agreed on something. “Don’t commit yourself in any way, Flynn, or talk to anyone, including your friend, Concannon, until you come back and talk to me.”
    “Kippered herrings,” said Flynn.
    “Beg pardon?”
    “I wouldn’t mind kippered herrings for breakfast. With my toast and marmalade.”

5
     
    “T he idea is, Flynn,” Wahler said, turning the ignition key of the Rolls Royce, “you’re staying in the motel, Timberbreak Lodge, down the road. It will be an easy matter for you to introduce yourself to the local police, and offer your assistance.” He backed the car around. “They’ll be delighted to have you confirm their findings.”
    In response, Flynn committed himself to silence.
    The morning remained gray but the mist had lifted. Along the dirt road to the main gate of The Rod and Gun Club, the fog patches had left all but the deepest dells. The trees along the road seemed uniformly pine, tall and dark, with the odd stand of silver birch. On the rises of the road, broader views could be seen of October foliage muted by overcast.
    The car was stopped at the gate. The armed guard came close enough to the car to ascertain there was no one in the back seat. He noted the names of the two men in the front seat on his clipboard.
    As the car went through the gate, Flynn said, “He didn’t check our pockets for the silverware.”
    “He has to know who is on the place and who has left, Flynn.”
    “Why?”
    There was no answer.
    On the paved road, they turned downhill.
    “Are you Rutledge’s driver?” Flynn asked. “Valet? Secretary?”
    Wahler straightened one sleeve of his expensive three-piece suit. “Lawyer. I’m a graduate of Harvard Law School, member of the bar.”
    “Please accept my personal regrets,” said Flynn.
    “I’m not Rutledge’s only lawyer, of course. Just the one closest to him. I sort of work things out with him, then translate his decisions to other lawyers and all the other people he has to deal with.”
    “So there is never any question about his expressing himself in a legal manner.”
    “That’s right. Before he says or does anything, anything at all, all precedents and documents have been checked. By me.”
    “Ah, the modern world,” said Flynn, spinning his Rs. “We’re all just puppets dancing on strings pulled by lawyers.”
    “That’s about right.”
    “Do you often travel with him?”
    “Usually.”
    “What? Even on a weekend like this, huntin’ and fishin’?”
    Wahler did not answer right away. “Meetings go on at The Rod and Gun Club, Flynn.” More