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Bill couldn’t figure out why he was smiling. What happened to Mark was tragic, and yet he couldn’t help wondering who wound up with the lifetime subscription to the Met.

He sighed and rose from the bench. Sideburns just had to be some nut.

The next day Bill was forced to reassess that opinion.

He and Don had spent the morning trying to land another agency’s client - a client they had once represented but who had been snatched away from the Simmons Agency some years before. Don felt encouraged by the reception they got, but Bill, a trifle older and wiser in the ways of the street, got a different message.

‘They let us leave,’ Bill explained to Don as they rode back to the office in a cab.

‘Well, they want to think about it,’ protested Don. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘If they have to think about it, we’ve lost them,’ Bill said with a note of finality.

Bill liked Don Goetz; he was bright, aggressive, loyal, and eager to learn. Bill had taken him as an assistant right out of Princeton three years before. He never regretted the decision.

Approaching his desk, the first thing Bill saw was the interoffice envelope. He glanced briefly at his phone messages before opening it. The envelope contained an eight-by-eight glossy photo of himself - an updated portrait he’d sat for last year at Bachrach’s. It accompanied his bio, which was kept in a file case in Personnel. A handwritten note from Ted Nathan, personnel director of Simmons, was attached: ‘Forgot to include this with your bio. Sorry. Ted,’

Bill shook his head foggily and tossed it aside.

He took care of several of the more important calls on his message sheet before dialling Ted’s interoffice number.

‘What’s the mug shot for, Ted?’ Bill asked when Ted came on the other end.

‘What do you mean?’ Ted said. ‘We always send them along with the bios.’

‘What bio?’

‘The one you asked for.’

‘Hold on, old friend. Let’s start at the beginning. You say I asked you for a bio on myself?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ Ted Nathan’s voice showed a slight nervous strain as he enunciated his words with care.

‘All right, Ted,’ Bill said gently. ‘When did I ask you for it?’

This morning. A little after nine. I had just got in when you called. You wanted it on the double, for your presentation. Don’t you remember, Bill?’

‘Sure, Ted, sure. Slipped my mind for a sec. Thanks, pal.’ And then: ‘Oh, say - by the way - you didn’t tote it up yourself, did you?’

‘Course I did. Nobody else is here at that time.’

Cleared of any wrongdoing, Ted Nathan’s tone became pointedly self-righteous. ‘I put it on your secretary’s desk like you told me to.’

‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Bill said genially. ‘Thanks, Ted.’

Bill hung up the phone lightly. He sat back in his Eames tubular recliner and focused his eyes on the big Motherwell print that dominated the wall opposite him. His eyes burrowed into the soothing brown and black juxtapositions, drawn into the hypnotic spell of the artist’s vision.

Sitting silently, immobile, Bill Templeton had real things to think about.

Somebody wanted to know all about him. Obviously. Somebody who had done his homework. Who knew that Bill’s secretary didn’t arrive at the office till nine thirty. Who knew that Ted Nathan always arrived shortly after nine. Who knew that on this particular morning Bill would go directly to his appointment and not come into the office at all. Who knew how to imitate Bill’s voice well enough to fool a man whom Bill had known for more than nine years. Somebody with the training and resourcefulness to plan a breakin and accomplish his mission without getting caught. A person of talent and dedication - and daring.

One week later Sideburns showed up at school. It was on the first Monday in October. There was a real threat of snow in the air. Bill, as usual, was taking Ivy to school on his way to work.

Their gloved hands clasped tightly together, they would jog down the length of a block, then, coming to a corner, swing suddenly about so that their backs would receive the frigid impact of the crosstown winds, whipping up the narrow side streets. It was a game they played and loved playing together each year at this time.

When they finally reached the school building, they both were out of breath and laughing in total delight at each other. Bill’s eyes watered with the cold, and he could hardly see Ivy as she stood on her toes, kissed his cheek, then turned and scampered up the steps and through the big doors. As Bill turned to leave, he almost collided with a group of mothers, stationed at the base of the steps waving good-bye to their children.

Grunting an apology, he started to move past them when, suddenly, he stopped. Sideburns was standing directly in his path, staring at him. The look in the man’s eyes gripped Bill tightly and seemed to push for a confrontation.

‘My name is Bill Templeton,’ Bill said, and took a step forward. ‘I think you want to know me.’

The man remained transfixed, gravely looking at Bill for a long moment, before quietly speaking,

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’m not certain. I’ll let you know soon.’

And without another word, he turned abruptly and hurried off down the windswept boulevard towards Columbus Circle.

Bill could only watch after him, staggered, replaying the words over and over in his baffled brain.

‘I don’t know. I’m not certain. I’ll let you know soon.’

A week went by.

Each morning Sideburns faithfully kept his rendezvous in front of the school. Bill would find him standing in his customary spot next to the steps, watching them approach from the distance. He’d watch them kiss good-bye, then turn and hurry off towards Columbus Circle the moment Ivy entered the building.

When, for two weeks, the pattern didn’t change, Bill decided to go to the police.

The desk sergeant was paunchy, dyspeptic, and pushing retirement age. He listened to Bill’s story in a bored, detached manner, then sent him upstairs to ‘Detectives’ to see Detective Fallon.

Bill sat opposite a young, ruggedly handsome man in plain clothes and repeated his story to him. The room was large, painted a dreary green, and filled with an odd assortment of tables and chairs. The table where Bill and Detective Fallon were seated was deeply scored by years of use and mischief.

Detective Fallon listened attentively but without surprise or emotion. He made a few notes, flashed a quick look at Bill when he mentioned the man’s disguise, but allowed him to finish before asking, ‘Did this person in any way batter you?’

‘Batter me?’

‘Did he come into purposeful bodily contact with you? Did he push you? Or hit you?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

Fallon’s face softened somewhat. ‘Unless there’s evidence of a battery, there’s very little the police can do in a case like this.’

‘Isn’t it enough he’s been following me, spying on me?’

‘What evidence do you have that he’s spying on you?’

‘I told you, he got into my office. He secured my bio-data sheet by impersonating me.’ Bill’s voice steadily rose in indignation. ‘Isn’t that enough evidence?’

‘How can you prove that he did it? I mean, do you have real concrete evidence that he was the person who entered your office and did this?’

‘Well, no, but …’ The energy in Bill’s voice gradually flattened.

Fallon watched him a moment, almost regretfully.

‘Officially, there’s nothing I can do for you, Mr Templeton, but tell me again, what time do you take your daughter to school?’

‘The schoolbell rings at eight thirty.’

‘Okay. I’m on the nine-to-five this week. I’ll stop by on my way in tomorrow and have a look at this guy for myself.’ And with a small, tight smile, he added, ‘Unofficially, of course.’

The next morning Sideburns didn’t show up.

After Ivy had entered the building, Bill walked over to Detective Fallon, who had been hovering behind a mailbox trying to appear inconspicuous. When Bill informed him that the man had failed to show, Fallon grinned lightly, shrugged and said they’d try again. The next morning the same thing happened: Fallon came; Sideburns didn’t. The third morning Sideburns waited for them in his usual spot, but Fallon had given up.

The leaves crunched satisfyingly under Bill’s feet as he approached the pedestrians’ exit at Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue. Long lines of horse-drawn carriages were parked across from the Plaza Hotel, waiting for tourists to finish their breakfasts and start their day.

Bill waited in a small group for the light to change. In a way, he was glad that Ivy hadn’t gone to school today. He’d have a three-day respite before having to face Monday morning.

Bill thought of the weekend ahead of him. It would be fun staying at home the entire weekend. Bill could do what little food shopping was needed. Maybe they’d have the Federicos up to dinner and some bridge Saturday night.

As he crossed Fifty-seventh Street and veered eastward to Madison Avenue, Bill sensed a light, jaunty bounce to his step. He was almost feeling good for a change. ‘Que sera, sera,’ he thought. Whatever will be, will be.’ The next move is up to Sideburns. Screw him!

While the pressure on Bill had been tremendous over the past weeks, he prided himself that he had never once brought his worries home to Janice. She had been spared any knowledge of his little pas de deux with the man in disguise.

He had kept their fortress inviolate - secure.

The word was M-A-T-E-R-I-A-L.

Ivy giggled excitedly and pushed the letter I into place at the end of the L. Janice considered this deeply, then added a Z to the I. Ivy quickly completed the word with an E.

‘There.’ She laughed triumphantly.

The time was only ten minutes past ten. The morning seemed endless.

Ivy had just placed an X beneath the E, starting a new word in the vertical line, when the telephone rang. Janice added a C beneath the X, pushed herself up from the floor with a funny little grunt, and quickly walked across the long, elegant room to answer it. It was probably Bill; he often called upon arriving at the office.

The telephone sat on a low table which formed the corner of a right angle connecting two black-covered sofas spiced by small bright pillows of green and lemon peel. A large stubby vase filled with autumn leaves spread a canopy of earth colours over the corner.

Janice picked up the phone on the fourth ring.

‘Hello?’ she said.

There was no answer.

‘Hello?’ she said again, in a softer tone, feeling a prickle of apprehension.

Janice was about to hang up when the voice finally came. Male. Quiet. Hesitant.

‘Is she all right?’ it said.

Janice hung up abruptly.

She stood there, eyes shut, steeling herself against the wave of utter panic about to overwhelm her. It was the man. She knew it was he. It could be no one else. He had found their unlisted number. Somehow. She felt herself trembling. Control! Control! She must not let Ivy see her like this!

A small, static smile affixed to her face, Janice gracefully squatted down to resume the game.

Ivy pushed an E under the C.

‘Who was it?’ she asked offhandedly.

‘Secret Service,’ Janice replied with a light, controlled laugh.

Ivy giggled, knowing full well to what her mother alluded. Phone calls with no voice at the other end were a frequent occurrence in the lives of most city dwellers. Whether the calls were simply mistakes, the devilry of children, or the pastime of seriously disturbed persons, there was no accounting for them and certainly no stopping them. One learned to live with the nuisance; it went with the territory. ‘Secret Service’ became their euphemistic way of laughing off these unidentified calls.

As Janice moved an L under the E, the telephone rang again. Janice watched Ivy slide another L beneath hers. The telephone continued to ring. The word on the board had built itself to E-X-C-E-L-L-E-N before Ivy quietly asked, ‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’

‘Nah,’ Janice replied, forcing a cheery note into her voice. ‘I’d rather play this game than that one.’

Ivy dropped the Y on the end of E-X-C-E-L-L-E-N-C-Y with a cackle of merriment.

The telephone continued to ring.

‘I really think we should answer it, Mom,’ Ivy said with concern. ‘It may be Daddy.’

The same thought had occurred to Janice. She could visualize Bill sitting at his desk, worriedly listening to the phone ring and ring, wondering why no one answered it.

Janice rose quickly and started for the telephone when the ringing stopped.

‘Aw!’ said Ivy dejectedly. ‘Missed.’

‘If it was Daddy, he’ll call again.’

Janice reached down and felt Ivy’s forehead. ‘How about some milk and cookies?’

‘Sounds great.’

The ringing started again, and Janice dropped the half-filled milk bottle, spilling the milk on herself and the kitchen floor. But this time the rings came in short, staccato sounds telling Janice that the house phone, which was situated in the hallway, near the door, was summoning her. If it was the man, she would refuse the call since all incoming calls were announced by the desk man in the lobby, Dominick. Still, she let it ring four times before she picked it up.

‘Miz Templeton?’ Dominick’s rough, familiar accent was pleasantly reassuring. ‘It’s your husband.’

‘Thank you, Dominick.’

‘Hey, what gives?’ were Bill’s first words. ‘I called you twice. The first time you were busy. The second time, no answer.’

‘I don’t know,’ she lied. ‘I didn’t hear the phone ring. Maybe you got the wrong number.’

Bill made a small, thoughtful sound. Then: ‘How’s my little princess?’

‘Okay. She doesn’t have a fever. It’s probably just one of those one-day things.’

‘Well, keep her in anyway. I mean, don’t go out - it was really freezing this morning.’

‘I wouldn’t think of it,’ Janice said with a light dramatic flourish.

‘I may be home early.’

‘Swell. Call me later and let me know,’ Janice said, trying to end the conversation.

‘How about calling Carole to see if they’re available tomorrow night for dinner?’

‘All right.’

A pause. Then: ‘Anything else doing there?’