It was our chum Inspector Cramer, head of Homicide. He advanced to the table before he stopped and spoke to Wolfe.

"Hello. Sorry to break in on your meal."

"Good morning," Wolfe said courteously. For him it was always morning until he had finished his lunch coffee. "If you haven't had lunch we can offer you -"

"No, thanks, I'm busy and in a hurry. A woman named Cynthia Nieder came to see you yesterday."

Wolfe put a piece of rice cake in his mouth. I had a flash of a thought: Good God, the client's dead.

"Well?" Cramer demanded.

"Well what?" Wolfe snapped. "You stated a fact. I'm eating lunch."

"Fine. It's a fact. What did she want?"

"You know my habits and customs, Mr. Cramer."

Wolfe was controlling himself. "I never talk business at a meal. I invited you to join us and you declined. If you will wait in the office -"

Cramer slapped a palm on the table, rattling things. My guess was that Wolfe would throw the coffee pot, since it was the heaviest thing handy, but I couldn't stay for it because along with the sound of Cramer's slap the doorbell rang again, and I thought I'd better not leave this one to Fritz. I got up and went, and through the one-way glass panel in the front door I saw an object that relieved me. The client was still alive and apparently unhurt. She was standing there on the stoop.

I pulled the door open, put my finger on my lips, muttered at her, "Keep your mouth shut," and with one eye took in the police car parked at the curb, seven steps down from the stoop. The man seated behind the wheel, a squad dick with whom I was acquainted, was looking at us with an expression of interest. I waved at him, signaled Cynthia to enter, shut the door, and elbowed her into the front room, which faces the street and adjoins the office.