hat on the coat-rack in the corner. The place looked like a fake office in some furniture company's display room.
He turned around to go back out to the hall, and the doorway was suddenly filled by a chunky aggrieved-looking type in a tight black suit, a chauffeur's cap, and grey cloth gloves. He stared at Parker from under bunched eyebrows and said, 'What you doing in there?'
'Looking for Gliffe.'
'What?'
'Bernard Gliffe. He runs this place, he's your boss.'
'I know who Mr. Gliffe is.'
'You know where he is?'
He still looked aggrieved, but not at Parker, more as though it was his normal expression, as though the injustice that had been done him had cut so deep he'd never lose the scar, even though it had happened so long ago, he couldn't really remember what it was any more. He nodded and said, 'Sure I know where he is.'
'Where?'
'Upstairs taking his nap.'
'His what?'
'Whenever we got a morning job out to Greenlawn, he takes a nap afterwards. You want him for something special?'
Parker said, 'I want to talk to him about Joseph Shardin.'
'Who?'
'You buried him this morning,' Parker told him. 'He was the morning job out to Greenlawn.'
'Oh. Oh, him.' He shook his head. 'I never know the name of the stiffs,' he said. 'Unless it's my own family or something, that's different.'
'You want to get Gliffe?'
'Yeah, okay. You can't wait in there, you got to wait out in the viewing-room.'
'The what?'
He meant the room Parker had already gone through, with the flowers and the bier. Parker waited in there five minutes, pacing up and down on the maroon carpet. He wondered if Tiftus was awake yet, if Captain Younger had discovered yet that Parker was no longer in the hotel. He didn't know how much time he had.
Gliffe at last came through the draperies at the far end of the room, like an apologetic Sidney Greenstreet. He was an extremely tall, somewhat heavy-set man, with sloping shoulders and broad beam and flatfooted stance. He was about fifty, black hair turning grey at the temples the way it was supposed to, face pallid as bread dough and jowly as a squirrel. His eyes were pale blue, watery, slightly protuberant beneath skimpy eyebrows; at the moment they were blinking away sleep. He was wearing a black suit and black tie.
He came forward as improbably light as a Macy parade balloon, his dead-fish hand extended. 'I am Bernard Gliffe,' he said. 'You are…'
For Gliffe, Parker put on his businessman face. He shook Gliffe's hand and said, 'Willis. Charles Willis.' It was the name he'd used before on trips to this town, so he was using it this time, too. The way he said the name, he had to be a businessman of some kind. The way he looked, big and square and hard, it had to be a tough and competitive business; used cars maybe, or jukeboxes. Gliffe said, 'A friend of Mr. Shardin's, Benny tells me.' His eyes glittered just a little when he said Joe's name.
Parker said, 'That's right. That's why I'm here.'
'Come into the office. We can sit down and chat.'
The chauffeur – Benny, apparently – was nowhere in sight. Parker followed Gliffe down the hall and back into the office, and Gliffe eased around and settled into the chair behind the main desk like a dirigible mooring. Parker sat in the client chair behind the desk.
Gliffe said, 'A sad thing about Mr. Shardin. Sad indeed.' It was just words, a conversation- filler.
Parker said, 'The paper didn't have much to say about how he died.'
'A heart attack, I believe. You knew Mr. Shardin well?' Again there was that touch of excitement in his eyes, quickly covered.
'Since before he retired,' Parker said.
'Ah.' Gliffe nodded solemnly, eyes hooded, and formed a little tent with his hands on the desk, fingertips together. 'I never met Mr. Shardin in life,' he said. 'A recent resident in our community.' His tone was supposed to inspire confidence, information.
But information was what Parker wanted. He said, 'You never knew him?'
'No, I'm sorry to say I did not. A very pleasant and agreeable man, from all accounts.'
'How come you got the job?'
Gliffe looked slightly offended for just a second, but then it was gone and he said, 'As there were no known living relatives, it fell upon the municipality to make the arrangements for burial, and the assignment devolved upon me.' He spread his hands as though to say that death is terrible but inevitable and someone must perform these sad duties. Then he brightened and said, 'Do you come from Mr. Shardin's home
