The Mother Hunt (Rex Stout Library)

And Monday morning at eleven o'clock Wolfe walked into the office as if he were bound for somewhere, put the orchids in the vase, sat, and without glancing at the mail said, Your notebook.

That started the third stage.

By lunchtime we had settled the last detail of the program and all that remained was to carry it out, which of course was my part. It took me only three days to get it act, but it was another four before the ball started to roll, because the Sunday Gazette appears only on Sunday. My three days went as follows.

MONDAY AFTERNOON. Back to the beach to sell the client on it. She balked and I stayed for dinner. It wasn't so much the moving back to town she objected to, it was the publicity, and it would have been no go if I hadn't stretched a point and mixed personal relations with business relations. When I left I had her promise to be back at Eleventh Street by Wednesday noon and to stay as long as necessary.

TUESDAY MORNING. To Al Posner, co-owner of the Posart Camera Exchange on 47th Street, to persuade him to come and help me buy a baby carriage. Back at his place with it, I left the selection of the cameras and their installation to him, after explaining how they were to be used, and he promised to have it ready by Wednesday noon.

TUESDAY AFTERNOON. To Lon Cohen's office on the twentieth floor of the Gazette Building. If Lon has a title I don't know what it is. Only his name is on the door of the small room, the second door down the hall from the big corner office of the publisher. I have been there maybe a hundred times over the years, and at least seventy of them he was at one of the three phones on his desk when I entered. He was that Tuesday. I took the chair at the end of the desk and waited.

He hung up, passed his hand ova his smooth black hair, swiveled, and aimed his quick black eyes at me. Where'd you get the sunburn?

I don't burn. You have no fling for color. I patted my cheek. Rich russet tan.

When that point had been settled, or rather not settled, I crossed my legs. You're one lucky guy, I said. Just because I like you, within reason, I walk in and hand you an exclusive that any paper in town would pay a grand for.

Uh-huh. Say Ah.

This is not a gift horse you have to look in the mouth of. You may have heard the name Lucy Valdon. The widow of Richard Valdon, the novelist?

Yeah.