Death of a Doxy (Crime Line)

At nine o'clock Sunday morning I entered the kitchen, told Fritz good morning, got orange juice from the refrigerator, sat at my breakfast table, yawned, sneered at The New York Times, and rubbed my eyes. Fritz came with a piece of paper in his hand and demanded, "Were you drunk when you wrote this?"

I blinked at him. "No, just pooped. I've forgotten what I said. Please read it."

He cleared his throat. "'Three-twenty a.m. There's a guest in the South Room. Tell him. I'll cook her breakfast. AG.'" He dropped it on the table. "I told him, and he asked who, and what could I say? And you will cook her breakfast in my kitchen?"

I took an economy-size swallow of orange juice. "Let's see if I can talk straight," I suggested. "I had four hours' sleep, exactly half what I need. As for telling him who she is, that is my function. I admit it's your function to cook breakfast, but she likes fried eggs and you don't fry eggs. Let's get to the real issue. There is one man who is more allergic to a woman in this house than he is, and you are it. By God, I am talking straight." I drank orange juice. "Don't worry, this woman is allergic to a man in her house. As for the eggs, poach them – you know, in red wine and bouillon -"

"Burgundian."

"That's it. With Canadian back bacon. That will show her what men are for. Her usual hour for breakfast is half past twelve. I'm still willing to cook it if -"

He uttered a French sound, loud, maybe it was a word. He was at the range, with sausage. I reached for the Times.

Since Wolfe goes up to the plant rooms on Sunday morning only for a brief look, if at all, I supposed he would be down around ten o'clock. But it was still ten minutes short of ten when the sound of the elevator came, then his footsteps in the hall. I hadn't seen him since bedtime Friday evening, nearly forty hours ago. Instead of stopping at the office, the footsteps kept coming, and the swing door opened and he appeared.

"Indeed," he said. "You're alive."

I conceded it. "Just barely. Don't count on me for much."

"Who is the guest?"