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“Follow me.”

He turned and gestured for me to go before him. I ran point down a useless hallway, finally coming to an opulent room that had three desks with a beautiful woman behind each one.

You can tell a lot about an employer by the makeup of her or his staff.

From the feminine bodyguard to the three office workers (all of whom were of a different race), I could tell that Antrobus was a sensualist.

There was a small oil painting of a bathing nude above the central desk, where a broad-faced and striking Asian woman sat. I would have given even odds that that canvas was an original Degas.

“Mr. Beard?” the woman said. Her name tag read HATIM.

“Yes.”

“What is your business, sir?”

“Private between me and him.”

“You must tell me or you won’t be meeting him.”

“Then,” I said with a shrug, “I guess I won’t be meeting him.”

I turned and the young-like lad in the violet suit got ready to block my exit. I decided that I’d have to shoot him if bad came to worse. My disguise was solid. I doubted if anyone would be able to identify me in a lineup.

“Mr. Beard,” a markedly masculine voice boomed.

I turned and saw a man who fit this voice like a fist in a Siberian mitten.

He was tall with broad shoulders and a big belly, wearing a three-piece bright green suit that had gray pinstripes. His shirt was pearl gray and the clasp at his throat was a bright red-and-green garnet. The mane of hair was gray, but the drooping “oilman mustache” was white, almost blue.

Augustine Antrobus’s face was a granite bunker, big with squinty eyes that might have been green. This was the sensualist who had hired the fay violet thug and the women of beauty.

“Mr. Antrobus,” I announced.

“You have something to tell me?”

“The buffalo have come back from extinction and soon there will be pioneers raping the fields of Mars.”

Antrobus’s laugh was a weapon. In it was all the strength of some wild creature.

“Come on in,” he demanded.

I took a step and the violet thug did too.

“Not you, Lyle,” the master said. “Mr. Beard and I will meet mano a mano.”

The corridor behind the room of women was set between a wall and a series of slender windows that looked down on Central Park. The striation of shadow and light made me feel as if I were on a safari behind an as yet unsuspecting lion.

Antrobus’s office was all dark wood and royal blue fabric, bookshelves with only hardbacks, and no computer in sight. There were two plush chairs set side by side in front of his grand piano–size mahogany desk. The chairs were turned ever so slightly toward each other, like old friends sharing cognac and confidence.

“Sit,” the master ordered.

I did as I was told.

When his bulk was situated, he put his hands on the clawed armrests and snorted.

“You talk about buffalo and dress like a buffoon,” came his first salvo of words. “You were obviously christened in America but go by the name Beard, which means you have a sense of humor and are anything but a buffoon.”

“I appreciate the attention, Mr. Antrobus. Most of the time I spend hidden…even in plain sight.”