The Father Hunt

The phone again-an important customer, judging from the conversation-and then she made calls to two employees, giving one of them detailed instructions and the

other one hell. As she hung up she looked at her watch. "It's getting late," she said, "and I have a pile of work."

"So have I, thanks to you." I rose to my feet. "Do you suppose your opinion of Vance rubbed off on Carlotta?"

"I doubt it. If it did she wouldn't have told me. She was very… self-contained."

"Do you shake hands with men?"

She laughed-a good healthy laugh. "Occasionally. If I want them to do something."

"Then I qualify." I put a hand out. "You want me to leave."

Her grip was firm and friendly. "If you get fed up," she said, "I could pay you fifteen thousand to start."

"I'll remember. What color roses do you like?"

"Green with black borders. If you sent me ten dozen roses I'd sell them to some customer. I'm a businesswoman."

She certainly was.

13

When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at six o'clock, I was sprawled in my chair, no necktie, with my shoes off and my feet up on one of the yellow chairs, reading a magazine. As he crossed to his desk I gave him a lazy nod, yawned, and returned to the magazine. The sound came of his chair taking the seventh of a ton. I didn't see his glare because my back was turned, but I felt it. He demanded, "A stroke? The heat?"

I turned my head around casually. "No, sir, I'm fine. I'm just relaxing. Saul phoned a few minutes ago and I invited him to dinner. The job is finished. Floyd Vance is Miss Denovo's father. I was going to ring her and tell her, but maybe you'd rather tell her yourself."

"Pfui. Report."

I got my feet to the floor, no hurry, straightened up, and bent over to put my shoes on. When I am doing desk work the door to the hall and most of the room are behind me, and on the wall back of my desk is a mirror five feet wide and four feet high, for keeping an eye on people. I used it to put my tie on, combed my hair with my fingers, swiveled, and said, "I don't suppose you'll ever want the painful details of what led up to it, but if you do I'll be glad to oblige. An hour and a half ago a woman named Dorothy Sebor who runs, repeat runs, a shopping service in Rockefeller Center, said to me, 'But what can I possibly tell you about Ten East Thirty-ninth Street? I left there eighteen years ago. I loved that dump. Sit down.' If you don't mind I'll use my formula, not yours. I prefer T and 'she' to 'Goodwin' and 'Sebor.' "