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there too, and the three of them went together down to the ballroom floor. They went straight to the reception room. Boone had no hat or coat to check, and he hung onto a little leather case he had with him.'
    'That was the case,' Mrs. Boone put in, 'that Miss Gunther says she forgot about and left on a window sill.'
    I looked at the widow reproachfully. That was the first sign of a split in the BPR ranks, and it sounded ominous, with the nasty emphasis she put on says. To make it worse, Hattie Harding of the NIA immediately picked it up:
    'And Miss Gunther is absolutely wrong, because four different people saw that case in her hand as she left the reception room!'
    Solomon Dexter snorted: 'It's amazing what-'
    'Please, sir.' Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. 'What was this case'A brief case'A vanity case?'
    'No.' Cramer was helping out again. 'It was a little leather case like a doctor's, and it contained cylinders from a dictating machine. Miss Gunther has described it to me. When she took that baby carriage and other stuff to him Tuesday evening, to the room where he was killed, he told her the conference in Washington had ended earlier than he expected, and he had gone to his office and spent an hour dictating before he took the plane to New York. He had the cylinders with him in that case for her to transcribe. She took it to the reception room when she went back there for a cocktail, and left it there on a window sill. That's the last of it.'
    'So she says,' Mrs. Boone repeated.
    Dexter glared at her. 'Nonsense!'
    'Did you,' Hattie Harding demanded, 'see the case in her hand when she left the reception room?'
    All eyes went to the widow. She moved hers and got the picture. One word would be enough. She was either a traitor or she wasn't. Confronted with that alternative, it didn't take her long to decide. She met Hattie Harding's gaze and said distinctly:
    'No.'
    Everybody breathed. Wolfe asked Cramer:
    'What was on the cylinders, letters'What?'
    'Miss Gunther doesn't know. Boone didn't tell her. No one in Washington knows.'
    'The conference that ended earlier than Boone expected, what was it about?'
    Cramer shook his head.
    'Who was it with?'
    Cramer shook his head again. G. G. Spero offered, 'We've been working on that in Washington. We can't trace any conference. We don't know where Boone was for about two hours, from one to three. The best lead is that the head NIA man in Washington had been wanting to see him, to discuss his speech, but he denies-'
    Breslow exploded. 'By God,' he blurted, 'there it is! It's always an NIA man! That's damned silly, Spero, and don't forget where FBI salaries come from! They come from taxpayers!'
    From that point on the mud was flying more or less constantly. It wasn't on account of any encouragement from Wolfe. He told Breslow:
    'The constant reference to your Association is unfortunate from your standpoint, sir, but it can't be helped. A murder investigation invariably centers on people with motives. You heard Mr. Cramer, early in this discussion, say that a thorough inquiry has disclosed no evidence of personal enemies. But you cannot deny that Mr. Boone had many enemies, earned by his activities as a government official, and that a large number of them were members of the NIA.'
    Winterhoff asked, 'A question, Mr. Wolfe, is it always an enemy who kills a man?'
    'Answer it yourself,' Wolfe told him. 'Obviously that's what you asked it for.'
    'Well, it certainly isn't always an enemy,' Winterhoff declared. 'For an illustration, you couldn't say that Mr. Dexter here was Boone's enemy, quite the contrary, they were friends. But if Mr. Dexter had been filled with ambition to become the Director of the Bureau of Price Regulation-and that's what he is at this moment-he might conceivably have taken steps to make the office vacant. Incidentally, he would also have placed under grave suspicion the members of an organization he mortally hates-which also has happened.'
    Solomon Dexter was smiling