I came back to my chair. Noonan watched the top of his desk. His face was gray, flabby, damp, like fresh putty.

“Whisper’s staying at Willsson’s,” I told him.

He jerked his head up. His eyes darkened. Then his mouth twitched, and he let his head sag again. His eyes faded.

“I can’t go through with it,” he mumbled. “I’m sick of this butchering. I can’t stand any more of it.”

“Sick enough to give up the idea of evening the score for Tim’s killing, if it’ll make peace?” I asked.

“I am.”

“That’s what started it,” I reminded him. “If you’re willing to call it off, it ought to be possible to stop it.”

He raised his face and looked at me with eyes that were like a dog’s looking at a bone.