"I’VE GOT a funny one,” Hammerschlag said. Hammerschlag was detective sergeant working out of the Missing Persons Bureau. Passing McCord’s open door and seeing McCord with his feet on the desk, it was second nature for Hammerschlag to pause and observe that he had a funny one. Sometimes he really had, though McCord always pretended to be skeptical about this. McCord spread his feet a little. “I’ll bet,” he said. He was a long man, long and thin, with an amiably cynical mouth and the eyes of an intelligent but disillusioned spaniel. He ran the Homicide Detail, nights. “I’ll bet.” “Well, I have,” Hammerschlag said aggrievedly. He felt around in a sagging coat pocket of the baggy blue serge and brought out two halves of a sadly mutilated cigar. These he fitted together with great care and joined precariously with a moistened cigarette paper. “I think she’s faking,” he said. “Who?” “Ain’t I been telling you? The girl!” “Oh.” McCord watched Hammerschlag’s futile struggle to draw smoke through the battered cigar.