"I always have. Shoot."

"Stop me if I go too fast. There will be twelve at table. Mr and Mrs Robilotti. Miss Celia Grantham and Mr Cecil Grantham. They are Mrs Robilotti’s son and daughter by her first husband."

"Yeah, I know."

"Miss Helen Yarmis. Miss Ethel Varr. Miss Faith Usher. Am I going too fast?"

I told her no.

"Miss Rose Tuttle. Mr Paul Schuster. Mr Beverly Kent. Mr Edwin Laidlaw. Yourself. That makes twelve. Miss Varr will be on your right and Miss Tuttle will be on your left."

I thanked her and hung up. Now that I was booked, I wasn’t so sure I liked it. It would be interesting, but it might also be a strain on the nerves. However, I was booked, and I rang Byne at the number he had given me and told him he could stay home and gargle. Then I went to Wolfe’s desk and wrote on his calendar Mrs Robilotti’s name and phone number. He wants to know where to reach me when I’m out, even when we have nothing important on, in case someone yells for help and will pay for it. Then I went to the hall, turned left, and pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen. Fritz was at the big table, spreading anchovy butter on shad roes.

"Cross me off for dinner," I told him. "I’m doing my good deed for the year and getting it over with."

He stopped spreading to look at me. "That’s too bad. Veal birds in casserole. You know, with mushrooms and white wine."

"I'll miss it. But there may be something edible where I’m going."

"Perhaps a client?"

He was not being nosy. Fritz Brenner does not pry into other people’s private affairs, not even mine. But he has a legitimate interest in the welfare of that establishment, of the people who live in that old brownstone on West Thirty-fifth Street, and he merely wanted to know if my dinner engagement was likely to promote it.