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“We’re talking about Mr. Pilgrim.”

“How do I know Mr. Pilgrim has done anything I’m interested in. Has he?”

“Let’s say, yes.”

“Are you Mr. Pilgrim?”

“I don’t think I’ll tell you that.”

“Are you his friend?”

“Sort of.”

“Well, prove it then. Tell me something that shows me how well you know him.”

“You first. You show me yours.” A nervous giggle. “First time you’re wrong, I hang up.”

“All right, Mr. Pilgrim is right-handed.”

“That’s a safe guess. Most people are.”

“Mr. Pilgrim is misunderstood.”

“No general crap, please.”

“Mr. Pilgrim is really strong physically.”

“Yes, you could say that.”

Graham looked at the clock. A minute and a half. Crawford nodded encouragement.

Don’t tell him anything that he could change.

“Mr. Pilgrim is white and about, say, five-feet-eleven. You haven’t told me anything, you know. I’m not so sure you even know him at all.”

“Want to stop talking?”

“No, but you said we’d trade. I was just going along with you.”

“Do you think Mr. Pilgrim is crazy?”

Bloom was shaking his head.

“I don’t think anybody who is as careful as he is could be crazy. I think he’s different. I think a lot of people do believe he’s crazy, and the reason for that is, he hasn’t let people understand much about

him.”

“Describe exactly what you think he did to Mrs. Leeds and maybe I’ll tell you if you’re right or not.”

“I don’t want to do that.”

“Good-bye.”

Graham’s heart jumped, but he could still hear breathing on the other end.

“I can’t go into that until I know—”

Graham heard the telephone-booth door slam open in Chicago and the receiver fall with a clang. Faint voices and bangs as the receiver swung on its cord. Everyone in the office heard it on the speakerphone.