Who’s the Blonde?

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It was well after seven when he asked them again if he could call Helen. It had become an almost automatic question on Tom Weldon’s part, and each time he had asked there had been neither permission nor denial — just an infuriating obtuseness, as though he had spoken in Arabic, or had been a silly child asking for the moon.

His throat felt dry as he said again, “Please, could I call my wife? She’ll be worried.”

At the moment, there were three of them in the bank president’s office, three of them looking at him with those coldly amused eyes. There was Durand, from the police; Elvinard, one of the bank examiners; and Vic Reisher, the chief teller.

This time Reisher looked at Durand. Durand nodded and gestured toward the telephone with a thick thumb. “On a night plug, isn’t it? Go ahead, Weldon.”

Tom reached over and pulled the telephone toward him. He heard the dial tone and dialed his home number. It rang twice before a man answered. “Who is this?” Tom said. “Who’s talking?”

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