McCLOUD was coming out of the Hall of Justice, and Sheila Mayo was on her way in, and while he hadn’t been thinking about her particularly, having plenty other troubles on his mind, the sight of her through the glass of the big revolving door did something to his throat. All at once it became imperative that he speak to her, if only for a moment. He followed his segment of the door around and caught her just as she was about to enter an elevator. “Hello, Sheila.” She swung about, fine gray eyes lighting with pleasure. “Stephen, how nice!” She was very smart in tweeds and topcoat; smart, but quite business-like too. She was carrying a brown pigskin briefcase, one McCloud himself had given her when she had first opened her own office. Copper-brown hair curled down from beneath a jaunty little hat that was swagger without being silly.

"I’VE GOT a funny one,” Hammerschlag said. Hammerschlag was detective sergeant working out of the Missing Persons Bureau. Passing McCord’s open door and seeing McCord with his feet on the desk, it was second nature for Hammerschlag to pause and observe that he had a funny one.Sometimes he really had, though McCord always pretended to be skeptical about this.McCord spread his feet a little.“I’ll bet,” he said. He was a long man, long and thin, with an amiably cynical mouth and the eyes of an intelligent but disillusioned spaniel. He ran the Homicide Detail, nights. “I’ll bet.”“Well, I have,” Hammerschlag said aggrievedly. He felt around in a sagging coat pocket of the baggy blue serge and brought out two halves of a sadly mutilated cigar. These he fitted together with great care and joined precariously with a moistened cigarette paper.“I think she’s faking,” he said.“Who?”“Ain’t I been telling you? The girl!” “Oh.” McCord watched Hammerschlag’s futile struggle to draw smoke through the battered cigar.