closet.â âAn unusual choice of words, Norman.â Tomâs laugh was chill. âWere you speaking literally or figuratively?â What I had said came back to me and I flinched. I suddenly felt the blood slapping under my feet as I groped through the closet of Room 307. âLetâs drop it, Tom.â My fingers were tight around the receiver. âWould you like some searing psychological insight into my behavior? Iâve spent good money on analysis and I can offer you multiple choice between Freudian, Gestalt, and Behavioral versions.â âShut up, Norman. Please. I didnât call to pass judgment. Maybe it was less painful for you to lie to me, but it wasnât necessary. All right?â âOkay, Tom. Sorry.â He seemed relieved to hear the ragged edge leave my voice. âI donât want you to be too disappointed over the file. Thereâs not much in it you donât already know. Neither the police nor the FBI ever found any suspects. Their only lead was Catherine Maurois, the maid at the Moana who vanished. She must have left the islands, but no one ever caught up with her. By now sheâs been declared legally dead.â âI know the case is unsolved. Iâm more interested in the Klein background before they came to Hawaii. Martha Klein told me she and her husband lived in St. Petersburg, Florida. Any relatives? Neighbors? Friends?â âHang on.â Papers softly rustled. âHereâs something. After the murders, the FBI talked to the neighbors of the Kleins, a Fred and Mima Heinley.â âWait a minute.â I grabbed a pen and had Tom spell the names, jotting them on a back cover of Paris Match . âWhat did they have to say?â âIt couldnât have been anything useful, Norman. The FBI agent on the case didnât even quote them in his summary.â âDoes it give their address?â âTheir 1941 address. Not much use now, I wouldnât think.â âTom, I know itâs a big favor to ask, but do you think you could trace their current address?â âNorman â¦â âYouâve already got the file. A request for follow-up information wouldnât be suspicious â¦â âNorman â¦â âGod knows you donât want Hoover and the Yard on your tail, but â¦â âNorman!â âYes, Tom?â âDid it ever occur to you to try a phone book?â Tomâs idea was easier said than done. Jan and I spent most of the following morning combing through libraries. The BibliothÃ¨que Nationale was the logical starting point. Phone directories? Yes, monsieur, this way. St. Petersburg, Florida? Silver pince-nez glinted blankly. A search and a shrug. Perhaps the BibliothÃ¨que Mazarine, monsieur. The Mazarine was another dry well. But we finally hit pay-dirt at the BibliothÃ¨que Forney. The phone book was dated 1959, but it would have to do. I spread the book flat on the table and scanned the Hâs. There it was: H EINLEY, FRED 2121 Gulf Blvd. West KL5-9421. When we got home, Jan pointed at the phone. âYou or me?â I pondered for a moment. âGo ahead.â âWhat exactly am I going to say, Norman?â âAsk them if theyâll consent to an interview.â âI know that. When?â âAs soon as I can hop a plane.â She shook her hands unhopefully. âWeâll give it a try. The poor people might be dead for all you know.â Jan is a pessimist. Mr. and Mrs. Heinley were alive and eager to meet a reporter from World magazine. Yes, Tuesday morning was fine. The Bahia-Belle CabaÃ±as. Just check at the managerâs office. While Jan and I were pawing through phone books at the BibliothÃ¨que Forney, the bathyscaph Marianas sighted the Titanic . The story filled the tube Sunday night. Blotchy photos showed a few patches of crumbly metal peering out of the gloom.