If Death Ever Slept

I stayed put. “To begin with, you’re here. You couldn’t be Miss Lois Jarrell because you must be married. You couldn’t be Mrs. Wyman Jarrell because I’ve got the impression that my employer feels a little cool about his daughter-in-law and it seemed unlikely he would feel cool about you.”

“Where did you get the impression?”

“From him. When he told me not to discuss his business affairs with anyone, including members of the family, I thought he put some emphasis on his daughter-in-law.”

“Why must I be married?”

I smiled again. “You’ll have to pardon me because you asked. Seeing you, and knowing what men like, I couldn’t believe that you were still at large.”

“Very nice.” She was smiling back. “Very nice. My God, I don’t have to pardon you for that. You don’t talk like a secretary, either.” She pushed the remote-control gadget aside. “Sit down. Do you like leg of lamb?”

I felt that a little braking was required. It was all very well to get on a friendly basis with the mistress of the house as soon as possible, since that might be useful in trapping the snake, and the smiling and sit-downing was very nice, but her concern about feeding the new secretary right after only three minutes with him was going too far too quick. Since I didn’t look a secretary or talk like one, I thought I had better at least act like one, and I was facing up to it when help came.

There were footsteps in the corridor and a man entered. Three steps in he stopped short, at sight of me. He turned to her. “Oh. I don’t need to wake you.”

“Not today, Wy. This is your father’s new secretary. Green. Alan Green. We were getting acquainted.”

“Oh.” He went to her, leaned over, and kissed her on the lips. It didn’t strike me as a typical filial operation, but of course she wasn’t his mother. He straightened up. “You don’t look as sleepy as usual. Your eyes don’t look sleepy. You’ve had a drink.”

“No, I haven’t.” She was smiling at him. She gestured at me. “He woke me up. We’re going to like him.”

“Are we?” He turned, moved, and extended a hand. “I’m Wyman Jarrell.”

He was two inches shorter than me and two inches narrower across the shoulders. He had his father’s brown eyes, the rest of him came from somebody else, particularly his tight little ears and thin straight nose. There were three deep creases down the middle of his brow, which at his age, twenty-seven, seemed precocious. He was going on. “I’ll be talking with you, I suppose, but that’s up to my father. I’ll be seeing you.” He turned his back on me.