He shut the door and picked up the French phone from a night table by his bed. As soon as central answered he called a Stamford number.
“Mr. Evans there?” he asked when a man’s voice answered.
“Evans speaking. It sounds like Bill Bolton?”
“Bill Bolton is right, Mr. Evans. I’m home—in New Canaan—just got here by plane. Deborah gave me your number.”
“Then it must be important. Spill the story, boy. Tell me why you’re not up in Maine looking after my interests.”
Bill told him, and it took him more than ten minutes to do so. “You see,” he ended, “while Deborah was giving us a midnight lunch on Pig Island, the five of us, Deborah, old Jim, Osceola, Ezra and myself, went into a session of the ways and means committee. After some argument, it was decided that on Charlie’s account, I must come down here, and at least pretend to follow Sanders’ orders—to report to Johnson at Gring’s Hotel, anyway.”
“Yes,” concurred Mr. Evans, “I’m afraid there’s nothing else that you can do.”
“I thought that perhaps you might have some men about, rush the joint and capture this Johnson. Kind of tit for tat, you know. We could swap him back to friend Sanders for Charlie. That would even up things a bit. Just now it seems to me that they have the bulge on us.”
“There’s no doubt about it, Bill—they have. Your plan’s a good one, but it is impossible.”
“But why?”