“That’s what I’m telling you.”
“What happened to them?”
“I fixed them up elsewhere.”
I chewed this over.
“Look, Martha, between you and me and the coffee beans, I’m trying to get the lowdown on Janet’s death. I’ve had a tip, and it might or might not be worth working on. I’m not entirely sold on the idea she died of heart failure. I’d like to talk it over with some of the old staff. They may have seen something. The butler, for instance. Who was he?”
“John Stevens,” Mrs. Bendix said after a moment’s thought. She finished her drink, tossed three beans into her mouth, put her glass and the Scotch out of sight and dug her thumb into a bell-push on her desk. The bunny-faced girl crept in.
“Where’s John Stevens working now, honey?”
The bunny-faced girl said she would find out. After a couple of minutes she came back and said Stevens worked for Gregory Wainwright, Hillside, Jefferson Avenue.
“How about Janet’s personal maid? Where’s she now?” I asked.
Mrs. Bendix waved the bunny-faced girl away. When she had gone, she said, “That bitch? She’s not working any more, and I wouldn’t give her a job if she came to me on bended knees.”