At the door I asked him what the name of the hackie would be, and he told me. Returning, I went on past the door of the office to the kitchen, got a glass from the shelf and a carton of milk from the refrigerator. Fritz, at the center table mincing shallots, gave me a look and spoke. "That is an insult. I pull your nose. My shad roe aux fines herbes is a dish for a king." "Yeah, but I'm not a king." I poured milk. "Also I'm leaving soon on an errand and I don't know when I'll be back." "Ah? A personal errand." "No." I took a sip. "I'll not only answer your question, I'll ask it for you. Having noticed that we haven't had a client worth a damn for nearly six weeks, you want to know if we have one now, and I don't blame you. It's possible but not likely. It looks 8 Rex Stout like more peanuts." I took. a sip. "You may have to invent a dish for a king made of peanut butter." "Not impossible, Archie. The problem would be to crack the oil. Not vinegar; it would take too much. Perhaps lime juice, with or without a drop or two of onion juice. I'll try it tomorrow." I told him to let me know how he made out, took the milk to the office, got at the phone at my desk, dialed the number of the Gazette, and got Lon Cohen. He said he was too busy to spare time for anything but a front-page lead or an invitation to a poker game. I said I was out of both items at the moment but would put them on back order, and meanwhile I would hold the line while he went to the morgue to see if they had anything on Thomas G. Yeager, executive vice-president of Continental Plastic Products, residing at 340 East 68th Street. He said he knew the name, they probably had a file on him, and he would send for it and call back. In ten minutes he did so. Continental Plastic Products was one of the big ones; its main plant was in Cleveland, and its sales and executive offices were in the Empire State Building. Thomas G. Yeager had been its executive vice-president for five years and was in the saddle.