JOHN D. MACDONALD
WHO’S THE BLONDE?
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.
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