“Yeah, and that might explain why Gillis was in such a hurry to sic us onto Gresham, too,” McKenna added.  “I thought of something like that.  And this high-brown girl that works for Rivers says that Gillis and Mrs. Rivers played all kinds of games together, when Rivers was away.”

“Well, who’s in charge of the investigation?” Rand wanted to know.  “I heard, on the radio ...”

“You’re liable to hear anything on the radio, including slanders on Bing Crosby’s horses.  But for the record, I am in charge of this investigation.  And don’t anybody forget it, either,” he added, in the direction of the rear seat.

“That’s what I thought.  Well, Stephen Gresham has just retained me to make an independent investigation,” Rand said.  “It is not that he lacks confidence in the State Police, or in you; he was afraid that other parties might get into the act and try to make political capital out of it.  Which appears to have happened.”

“Well, if Gresham retained you, I’m satisfied,” McKenna said.  “You can take care of that end of it.  Glad you’re in with us.”

“Well, I ain’t satisfied!” Olsen began yelling, again.  “And Mr. Farnsworth won’t be, neither.  Why, this here private dick is like as not workin’ for the very man that killed Rivers!”

McKenna turned slowly in his seat, to face Olsen.

“One time, ten years ago,” he began, “Jeff Rand had a client who was guilty of the crime he hired Jeff to investigate.  It was an arson case; this guy set fire to his own factory, and then got Jeff to run down a lot of fake clues he’d planted.  I know about that; I was on the case, myself.  That’s where I first met Jeff, and he saved me from making a jackass out of myself.  And what happened to this guy who’d hired Jeff was something that oughtn’t to happen even to Molotov, and it happened because Jeff fixed it to happen.  If anybody hires Jeff Rand, he’s one of two things.  He’s either innocent, or else he’s out of luck....  I don’t know why the hell I bother telling you this.”

“Ten to two, you say,” Rand considered.  “Look.  A couple of days ago, Rivers put out a new price-list to his regular customers.  A lot of them, in different parts of the country, order by telephone, and some of them live in the West, where there’s a couple of hours’ time-difference.  One of them, calling at, say, eight o’clock, local time, would get his call in at ten, Eastern Standard.  If you checked the long-distance calls to Rivers’s number last night, now, you might get something.”

“Yeah.  And if he took a call after nine twenty-two, that would let Gresham out.  Even Farnsworth could figure that out.  Sure.  I’ll check right away.”

“Who’s at Rivers’s now?”

“Skinner and Jameson, of our gang.  And Farnsworth, and some of his outfit.  And the hell’s own slew of reporters, of course,” McKenna said.  “Aarvo’s going back there, in a little.  We’re still trying to locate Mrs. Rivers; we haven’t been able to, yet.  The maid says she went to New York day before yesterday.”