Ninety minutes of video got us to half-past ten, and got us nothing else, especially me. I was still on the fence about Barry Rackham. Television is raising hell with the detective business. It used to be that a social evening at someone's house or apartment was a fine opportunity for picking up lines and angles, moving around, watching and talking and listening; but with a television session you might as well be home in bed. You can't see faces, and if someone does make a remark you can't hear it unless it's a scream, and you can't even start a private inquiry, such as finding out where a young widow stands now on scepticism. In a movie theatre at least you can hold hands.

However, I did finally get what might have been a nibble. The screen had been turned off, and we had all got up to stretch, and Annabel offered to drive Leeds and me home, and Leeds had told her that we would rather walk, when Barry

Rackham moseyed over to me and said he hoped the television hadn't bored me too much. I said no, just enough.

“Think you'll get anywhere on your job for Leeds? he asked, jiggling his highball glass to make the ice tinkle.

I lifted my shoulders and let them drop. “I don't know. A month's gone by.

He nodded. “That's what makes it hard to believe.

“Yeah, why?

“That he would wait a month and then decide to blow himself to a fee for Nero

Wolfe. Everybody knows that Wolfe comes high. I wouldn't have thought Leeds could afford it. Rackham smiled at me. “Driving back to-night?

“No, I'm staying over.

That's sensible. Night driving is dangerous, I think. The Sunday traffic won't be bad this time of year if you leave early. He touched my chest with a forefinger. That's it, leave early. He moved off.