“Oh, have a heart,” I protested. “People in love aren’t supposed to think, that’s why they have to hire trained thinkers. You should be happy and proud they picked you. What’s a good big lie or two when you’re in love? When I saw—”
“Shut up,” he repeated. His eyes came open. “Your notebook. Those letters must go at once.”
III
Monday evening’s party lasted a full three hours, and murder wasn’t mentioned once. Even so, it wasn’t exactly jolly. The letters had put it straight that Wolfe, acting for Mrs. Mion, wanted to find out whether an appropriate sum could be collected from Gifford James without resort to lawyers and a court, and what sum would be thought appropriate. So each of them was naturally in a state of mind: Gifford James himself; his daughter Clara; his lawyer, Judge Henry Arnold; Adele Bosley for Public Relations; Dr. Nicholas Lloyd as the technical expert; and Rupert Grove, who had been Mion’s manager. That made six, which was just comfortable for our big office. Fred and Peggy had not been invited.
The James trio arrived together and were so punctual, right on the dot at nine o’clock, that Wolfe and I hadn’t yet finished our after-dinner coffee in the office. I was so curious to have a look that I went to answer the door instead of leaving it to Fritz, the chef and house overseer who helps to make Wolfe’s days and years a joy forever almost as much as I do. The first thing that impressed me was that the baritone took the lead crossing the threshold, letting his daughter and his lawyer tag along behind. Since I have occasionally let Lily Rowan share her pair of opera seats with me, James’ six feet and broad shoulders and cocky strut were nothing new, but I was surprised that he looked so young, since he must have been close to fifty. He handed me his hat as if taking care of his hat on Monday evening, August 15, was the one and only thing I had been born for. Unfortunately I let it drop.
Clara made up for it by looking at me. That alone showed she was unusually observant, since one never looks at the flunkey who lets one in, but she saw me drop her father’s hat and gave me a glance, and then prolonged the glance until it practically said, “What are you, in disguise? See you later.” That made me feel friendly, but with reserve. Not only was she pale and tense, as Peggy Mion had said, but her blue eyes glistened, and a girl her age shouldn’t glisten like that. Nevertheless, I gave her a grin to show that I appreciated the prolonged glance.
Meanwhile the lawyer, Judge Henry Arnold, had hung up his own hat. During the day I had of course made inquiries on all of them, and had learned that he rated the “Judge” only because he had once been a city magistrate. Even so, that’s what they called him, so the sight of him was a let-down. He was a little sawed-off squirt with a bald head so flat on top you could have kept an ashtray on it, and his nose was pushed in. He must have been better arranged inside than out, since he had quite a list of clients among the higher levels on Broadway.
Taking them to the office and introducing them to Wolfe, I undertook to assign them to some of the yellow chairs, but the baritone spied the red leather one and copped it. I was helping Fritz fill their orders for drinks when the buzzer sounded and I went back to the front.
It was Dr. Nicholas Lloyd. He had no hat, so that point wasn’t raised, and I decided that the searching look he aimed at me was merely professional and automatic, to see if I was anemic or diabetic or what. With his lined handsome face and worried dark eyes he looked every inch a doctor and even surgeon, fully up to the classy reputation my inquiries had disclosed. When I ushered him to the office his eyes lighted up at sight of the refreshment table, and he was the best customer — bourbon and water with mint — all evening.
The last two came together — at least they were on the stoop together when I opened the door. I would probably have given Adele Bosley the red leather chair if James hadn’t already copped it. She shook hands and said she had been wanting to meet Archie Goodwin for years, but that was just public relations and went out the other ear. The point is that from my desk I get most of a party profile or three-quarters, but the one in the red leather chair fullface, and I like a view. Not that Adele Bosley was a pin-up, and she must have been in the fifth or sixth grade when Clara James was born, but her smooth tanned skin and pretty mouth without too much lipstick and nice brown eyes were good scenery.