Murder by the Book

One or two of the other seven may have been crowding thirty, but most of them still had some twenties to cover. One was a little more than I had counted on. Her name was Dolly Harriton, and she was a member of the bar. She wasn't yet one of the firm, but judging from the set of her good-looking chin and the smooth quick take of her smart gray eyes, she soon would be or else. She had the air, as she moved along the aisles, of collecting points for cross-questioning an orchid-grower being sued by his wife for non-support.

Nina Perlman, a stenographer, was tall and straight with big slow-moving dark eyes. Mabel Moore, a typist, was a skinny little specimen wearing red-rimmed glasses. Sue Don-dero, Emmett Phelps's secretary, with fine temples and no perceptible lipstick, came close from all angles to my idea of a girl to have around. Portia Liss, a filing clerk, should either have had something done to her teeth or quit laughing so much. Claire Burkhardt, a stenographer, was either just out of high school or was cheating. Eleanor Gruber, Louis Kustin's secretary, was probably the one I would have invited if I had

invited only one. She was the kind you look at and think she should take off just one or two pounds, and then you ask where from and end by voting for the status-quo. He eyes didn't actually slant; it was the way the lids were drawn.

By the time we went down to dinner I had picked up a few little scraps, mostly from Blanche Duke, Sue Dondero, and Eleanor Gruber. Tuesday at quitting time Corrigan, the senior partner, had called them into his room to tell them that PE 3-1212 was Nero Wolfe's phone number, and Archie Goodwin was Wolfe's confidential assistant, and that Wolfe might have been engaged by an opposing interest in one of the firm's cases. He had suggested that it might be desirable to ignore the notes in the boxes of orchids, and had warned them to guard against any indiscretion. Today, Wednesday, when the idea of making a party of it had caught on (this from Blanche Duke after she had been toting the shaker around a while), Mabel Moore had spilled it to Mrs. Adams, and Mrs. Adams, presumably after consulting with Corrigan, had decided to come along. I got other scattered hints of personalities and quirks and frictions, but not enough to pay for the drinks.