Plot It Yourself

I stood and looked it over. One of the yellow chairs was at the end of my desk. Six of them were in two rows facing Wolfe’s desk. Five more of them were grouped over by the big globe. The table at the far wall was covered with a yellow cloth, and on it was an assortment of bottles. Wolfe was there, transferring the glasses from the tray to the table.

I spoke. “Can I help?”

“No. It’s done.”

“A big party, apparently.”

“Yes. At nine o’clock.”

“Have the guests all been invited?”

“Yes.”

“Am I invited?”

“I was wondering where you were.”

“Working. I found no envelope. Is Fritz disabled?”

“No. He is grilling a steak.”

“The hell he is. Then the party’s a celebration?”

“No. I am anticipating events by a few hours. I have a job ahead of me that I prefer not to tackle on an empty stomach.”

“Do I get some of the steak?”

“Yes. There are two.”

“Then I’ll go up and comb my hair.”

I went.

Chapter 19

Wolfe, at his desk, put down his coffee cup and sent his eyes to the ex-chairman of the Joint Committee on Plagiarism. “I like my way better, Mr Harvey,” he said curtly. “You may ask questions when I finish if I haven’t already answered them.” His head went right, and left. “I could merely name the culprit and tell you that I have enough evidence to convict her, but while that would complete my job it wouldn’t satisfy your curiosity.”

Mortimer Oshin had the red leather chair ex officio. The committee members and the executive secretary had the six yellow chairs in front of Wolfe’s desk. In the front row were Amy Wynn, nearest me, then Philip Harvey, and then Cora Ballard. In the rear were Reuben Imhof, Thomas Dexter, and Gerald Knapp-the three publishers. Grouped over by the big globe were Dol Bonner, Sally Corbett, Saul Panzer, Fred Durkin, and Orrie Cather. In a spot by herself, at the end of my desk, was Alice Porter, who was sipping root beer from a glass that was prefectly steady in her hand. I had coffee. The others had their choices-gin and tonic, scotch and soda, scotch and water, rye and ginger ale, bourbon on the rocks, and one, Oshin, cognac. Evidently Oshin knew brandy. After he had taken a sip he had asked if he might see the bottle and had studied the label thoroughly, and after another sip he had aslced, “For God’s sake, how much of this have you got?” I had taken the hint and given him a dividend, and he hadn’t lit a cigarette for at least five minutes.