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in turmoil. I talked to this young woman, whose job it is to keep an eye on Tommie, help him with his schoolwork, that sort of thing. She’s distraught, blames herself for what happened.”
    “What did happen?” Cather barked.
    Panzer held up a palm. “I’m getting to that. Tommie goes to a pricey private school not far away, the MeadesGate Academy. The family chauffeur takes him and picks him up every day. Yesterday morning around eight, almost an hour before he was to leave for school, Tommie was out on the grounds, gathering different types of leaves from the grass and off trees as part of a school project. Sylvia Moore was with him. Then one of the other members of the household staff hollered from the house that Miss Moore had an urgent telephone call.”
    “Let me guess,” I cut in, tired of being just a listener. “When she picked up the instrument, there was no one on the other end. And when she went back outside, the boy was gone.”
    “Bingo on both counts. He had disappeared just like that,” Panzer said, snapping his fingers. “Williamson was at his office in Manhattan, but his wife, Lillian, and everybody on the staff combed the grounds—eight acres in all, and not a sign of him. And there’s a six-foot wrought-iron fence encircling the property. The only break is the gates at the entrance off the main road.”
    “Did anybody check to find out where the call came from?” Cather asked.
    “I did,” Panzer answered. “No luck. The local telephone company out there doesn’t have that capability.”
    Wolfe finished his first beer and opened the second bottle. “Saul, you were able to meet the entire staff of the Williamson estate this morning, however briefly. Please give everyone your impressions of them, as well as of the estate itself.”
    Panzer flipped open his notebook. “Okay, first off, the house is a real mansion, brick and stone, English style, three stories, slate roof, with a built-in five-car garage, tennis court, and a swimming pool. It’s got outbuildings, too, a greenhouse and stables. Mrs. Williamson is quite an equestrian. That’s a horseback rider to you,” Panzer said with a grin, turning to Orrie.
    “I know what it means,” Cather shot back.
    “As to the staff, there are eight in all,” Panzer said. “The top dog is the butler, Waverly—just goes by one name, although his given handle is Earl. He’s around fifty-five, stuffy, tall, almost bald, speaks with a British accent that I’m guessing might be affected. He’s been with the family for twenty years, and according to Williamson, their trust in him is absolute.
    “Emily Stratton is the housekeeper, a spinster, been on board about fifteen years. She’s thin as a telephone pole and prim as a schoolmarm. I’d put her in her mid-to-late forties. Getting five words out of her is a challenge. Even you, Orrie, with your myriad charms, wouldn’t be able to sweet-talk her.”
    Cather scowled. “Based on your description, I sure as hell wouldn’t want to.”
    “The cook is Mrs. Price, although it’s unclear as to whether she’s ever been married. Short, white haired, sixtyish, and carrying at least twenty-five pounds she could easily do without. Like the butler and the housekeeper, she oozes with self-importance and acts like the entire operation would go to wrack and ruin without her. She is susceptible to flattery, though. When I suggested that she must be good to prepare meals for this family, her face turned as red as a Fifth Avenue stoplight and she got tongue-tied.
    “The housemaid, Mary Trent, figures to be all of nineteen at most. She’s slender, dark haired, and shy in a fetching sort of way. She comes from a blue-collar family in Yonkers, where her father runs a service station and auto garage. She has only been with the Williamsons for a year, since just after she graduated from high school. She does most of the housecleaning and waits on the table at meals along with Emily Stratton.
    “Charles Bell