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 pushed them all off the page that day; we had it solid.

When I looked at the picture of Win's last wife, Shirley of the yellow hair, knowing she was also Christina, you may imagine I had some arguments with myself about staying silent.

A buyer was bothering me all through this time. I'd told the doorkeeper and the telephone girl, "Turn off everybody you can." But weak words had taken no effect upon this gentleman who, by his own account, was one Klangenberg, a keeper of a delicatessen on a fourth-rate street off Larrabee. He demanded to see me personally about a claim over a shipment of Hawaiian pineapple.

"He will see you, sir," my office manager reported. "He says you promised to see him."

I shook my head.

"He says to say to you, sir, if you don't remember," my manager continued, "that when you promised, he asked you about Smetsheen of Minneapolis."

I sat up at that; for Jerry was the one who had last asked me about Smetsheen of Minneapolis. I went out to see Klangenberg, who was a tall, phlegmatic Swede entirely positive