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throw, seventy-five cents for three.”
    He nodded. “Put the difference on his bill.”
    Downstairs we marched through the activity without halting. McNair was over at one side talking with a dark medium-sized woman with a straight back and a proud mouth, and I let my head turn for a second look, surmising it was Helen Frost’s mother. A goddess I hadn’t seen before was parading in a brown topcoat in front of a horsey jane with a dog, and three or four other people were scattered around. Just before we got to the street door it opened and a man entered, a big broad guy with a scar on his cheek. I knew all about that scar. I tossed him a nod.
    “Hi, Purley.”
    He stopped and stared, not at me, at Wolfe. “In the name of God! Did you shoot him out of a cannon?”
    I grinned and went on.
    On the way home I made attempts at friendly conversation over my shoulder, but without success. I tried:
    “Those models are pretty creatures. Huh?”
    No sale. I tried:
    “Did you recognize that gentleman we met coming out? Our old friend Purley Stebbins of the Homicide Squad. One of Cramer’s hirelings.”
    No response. I started looking ahead for a good hole.

Chapter 3
    T he first telephone call from Llewellyn Frost came around half-past one, while Wolfe and I were doing the right thing by some sausage with ten kinds of herbs in it, which he got several times every spring from a Swiss up near Chappaqua who prepared it himself from home-made pigs. Fritz Brenner, the chef and household pride, was instructed to tell Llewellyn that Mr. Wolfe was at table and might not be disturbed. I wanted to go and take it, but Wolfe nailed me down with a finger. The second call came a little after two, while Wolfe was leisurely sipping coffee, and I went to the office for it.
    Frost sounded concerned and aggravated. He wanted to know if he could expect to find Wolfe in at two-thirty, and I said yes, he would probably be in forevermore. After we hung up I stayed at my desk and fiddled around with some things, and in a few minutes Wolfe entered, peaceful and benign but ready to resent any attempt at turbulence, as he always was after a proper and unhurried meal.
    He sat down at his desk, sighed happily, and looked around at the walls—the bookshelves, maps, Holbeins, more bookshelves, the engraving of Brilliat-Savarin.After a moment he opened the middle drawer and began taking out beer-bottle caps and piling them on the desk. He remarked:
    “A little less tarragon, and add a pinch of chervil. Fritz might try that next time. I must suggest it to him.”
    “Yeah,” I agreed, not wanting to argue about that. He knew damn well I love tarragon. “But if you want to get those caps counted you’d better get a move on. Our client’s on his way down here.”
    “Indeed.” He began separating the caps into piles of five. “Confound it, in spite of those three outside bottles, I think I’m already four ahead on the week.”
    “Well, that’s normal.” I swirled. “Listen, enlighten me before Frost gets here. What got you started on the Frost girl?”
    His shoulders lifted a quarter of an inch and dropped again. “Rage. That was a cornered rat squealing. There I was, cornered in that insufferable scented hole, dragooned into a case where there was nothing to start on. Or rather, too much. Also, I dislike murder by inadvertence. Whoever poisoned that candy is a bungling ass. I merely began squealing.” He frowned at the piles of caps. “Twenty-five, thirty, thirty-three. But the result was remarkable. And quite conclusive. It would be sardonic if we should earn the second half of our fee by having Miss Frost removed to prison. Not that I regard that as likely. I trust, Archie, you don’t mind my babbling.”
    “No, it’s okay right after a meal. Go right ahead. No jury would ever convict Miss Frost of anything anyhow.”
    “I suppose not. Why should they? Even a juror must be permitted his tribute to beauty. But if Miss Frost is in for an