“That’s the Treasury Department does that,” he said defensively. “I’m Justice.”
“Well, I haven’t, to my knowledge, broken any other laws. So why have you been following me?”
“F-following you?” stammered Lambert, blushing.
Daisy gave him an old-fashioned look. It proved as effective in American as in English.
“I … er.” He swallowed. “That is, my boss, Mr. Hoover, sent me to keep an eye on you.”
“Indeed!” said Daisy, hearing echoes of her mother in her tone. “And does Mr. Hoover—am I correct in assuming you refer to J. Edgar Hoover, whom my husband is at present advising, in Washington?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Does Mr. Hoover make a practice of spying on his colleagues’ wives?”
“I don’t think you could exactly say that Mr. Hoover makes a practice of anything,” Lambert said dubiously. “He’s not actually officially in charge yet. He’s assistant director. Only we don’t have a director at present.”
“Well, if he suffers from persecution mania, or delusions of grandeur, or whatever ails him, I don’t expect he’ll remain in charge very long,” Daisy predicted with asperity. “Kindly tell him I strongly object to being treated as a prospective criminal.”
“Gee whiz, it’s not that. The surveillance is to stop you getting into … er … for your own safety, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Then tell him I’m no babe in arms and I can take care of myself.”
“I can’t do that!” Lambert looked horrified at the thought. “This is my first assignment, see. If I fail, I’m out on my ear. But I guess I’ve already failed,” he concluded miserably. “You’ve gotten mixed up in this horrible business. I suppose I better call Washington now and confess … report. Is there a telephone somewhere I can use privately, sir?”
Mr. Thorwald started. “Eh? Tephelone?” He waved his bottle—nearly empty—at the apparatus on his desk. “Be my guesht.”
Daisy stood up. “Mr. Lambert wants to talk privately,” she said. “I think it would be a good idea if we went to find something to eat, Mr. Thorwald.”
“Lunch,” he agreed, and followed her docilely from his office.
The outer office was long and narrow, lined with shelves of magazines, interrupted by several doors. Against one wall stood a table piled with manuscripts and unopened manila envelopes, with chairs around it. In one corner of the room was a round table and more chairs. As Daisy entered, the murmur of which she had been distantly aware resolved itself into the voices of five or six men and a smart, rigidly marcelled and carefully made-up woman. They looked round as the door of Thorwald’s office clicked shut. Silence fell.
“Howdy, ma’am.” One of the men pushed forward. His sack suit looked as if it might once have actually held potatoes, and his tie was that bilious green potatoes turn when exposed to light. He looked, in fact, like a well-dressed tramp, except for the eye shade and ink-blotched cuff protectors.Daisy guessed he was an editor. “Hey, Thorwald,” he continued, “is it true Otis Carmody’s dead?”
“Shtiff,” Thorwald said succinctly, and sat down rather suddenly on a nearby chair.
“Not actually stiff,” said Daisy. Everyone turned to her. “He hasn’t been dead long enough forrigor mortisto set in. And I’m not absolutely certain it was Otis Carmody.” She had not seen his face, having avoided a close examination of the corpse. “Though if you know him, and he was here this morning, I’m about ninety-nine percent sure.”
“He was here, all right,” said the man in the sack. “He brought me an article. Pascoli, editor ofTown Talk.”
He stuck out his hand, so Daisy shook it. “How do you do. I’m Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Pleased to meetcha, Mrs. Fletcher.Town Talk’sa weekly news magazine, anti-administration.”
“Anti-administration?”
“The New York administration, that is. We got nothing against Coolidge—yet—but our publisher would sure like to get the goods on Tammany. Carmody looked like the guy who was going to do it. He brought me an article, hot stuff, but it wanted a few loose ends tying up. I left him to finish up when I went to lunch.”
“Lunsh!” said Mr. Thorwald loudly, and hiccuped.
“Oh, you poor things!” said the marcelled woman. “Haven’t you had lunch yet? I’ll send out to the corner drugstore. Thorwald usually has bratwurst on rye. Will that do for you, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Uh, yes, thank you.” Daisy wondered just what she was saying yes to, but she decided she was so hungry she could eat practically anything. “It’s very kind of you, Miss … ?”
“Louella Shurkowski, Mrs.,Ladies’ Gazette,and you’re welcome.”
“Lunsh,” repeated Mr. Thorwald, plaintively this time.
