They were all shocked into silence except the monkey. Mrs. Koven looked at her, looked around, saw the open window, and demanded, “Who did that?”
“I did,” I said manfully.
Byram Hildebrand strode to the window like a general in front of troops and pulled it shut. The monkey stopped talking and started to cough.
“Listen to him,” Pete Jordan said. His baritone mellowed when he was pleased. “Pneumonia already! That’s an idea! That’s what I’ll do when I work up to making Getz sore.”
Three of them went to the cage to take a look at Rookaloo, not bothering to greet or thank her who had come just in time to save the monkey’s life. She stepped to me, asking cordially, “You’re Archie Goodwin? I’m Pat Lowell.” She put out a hand, and I took it. She had talent as a handclasper and backed it up with a good straight look out of clear brown eyes. “I was going to phone you this morning to warn you that Mr. Koven is never ready on time for an appointment, but he arranged this himself so I didn’t.”
“Never again,” I told her, “pass up an excuse for phoning me.”
“I won’t.” She took her hand back and glanced at her wrist. “You’re early anyway. He told us the conference would be at twelve-thirty.”
“I was to come at twelve.”
“Oh.” She was taking me in — nothing offensive, but she sure was rating me. “To talk with him first?”
I shrugged. “I guess so.”