I started to cross to the big globe over by the bookshelves, but he beat me to it. Anything for an excuse to consult the globe. He ran his finger along a meridian, starting at Quebec and ending at the equator. “Several degrees east. An hour later, I suppose.” He twirled the globe, looking disappointed.
I thought it was pure fake and I resented it. “You’re right near the Panama Canal,” I suggested. “Go on through to the other ocean. Try Galapagos. It’s only half-past nine there.”
He ignored it. “Get your notebook,” he growled. “If I’m saddled with this thing, I am. Your program for the morning.”
I obeyed.
Chapter 7
Probably my conception of a widow was formed in my early boyhood in Ohio, from a character called Widow Rowley, who lived across the street. I have known others since, but the conception has not been entirely obliterated, so there is always an element of shock when I meet a female who has been labeled widow and I find that she has some teeth, does not constantly mutter to herself, and can walk without a cane.
Mrs. Sarah Jaffee was not visibly burdened with any handicaps whatever. She was probably more than one-third the age Widow Rowley had been, but not much. That much, along with the shock, took only one good glance as she admitted me to her sixth-floor apartment on East Eightieth Street, and the glance also furnished another mild shock. Although it was ten in the morning of a pleasant and sunny June day, there in her foyer was a man’s topcoat thrown carelessly over the back of a chair, and on a polished tabletop was a man’s felt hat. I kept my brows down, merely remarking to myself, as she led me though a large and luxurious living room, that since I had phoned for permission to come, and so was expected, it might have been supposed that a widow would have taken the trouble to tidy up a little.
When, beyond the living room, we came upon a table in an alcove with breakfast tools in place for two, I will not say that I blushed, but I felt that I had not been properly briefed.
“I was in bed when you phoned,” she said, sitting and picking up a spoon. “I assume you’ve had breakfast, but how about some coffee? Sit down — no, not there, that’s my husband’s place. Olga! A coffee cup, please!”
A door swung open and a Valkyrie entered with a cup and saucer in her hand.