His head came up. "Of course. You always do. I'm in the middle of a chapter."

"I didn't know that. As for my letting him in and not telling you, there are exceptions to-"

"Bah. You wanted to see if I would recognize him. I didn't until I heard the name. Did you?"

"Since we're being frank, no. Not his face or voice. With me too it was the name." I went on. It's better to keep going after a lie. "Anyway, it's a new slant on civil rights. She has a right to marry the man she loves, and look who's trying to stop her. He had a nerve to begin by quoting that speech."

He grunted. "I'm obliged."

"Yeah. We're really going to tackle it?"

"You are."

"You leave it to me?"

"No. We'll discuss it later."

"There isn't much to discuss. No matter what we dig up about her, he'll probably-"

There were footsteps in the hall, and Fritz was at the door to announce dinner. Wolfe put the book down, stroked it with his fingertips, and rose.

2

That was Monday, February 24. Forty-two hours later, at one o'clock Wednesday, I had lunch with Susan Brooke at Lily Rowan's penthouse on 63rd Street between Madison and Park.

In the random assortment of facts Whipple had supplied there had been nothing to bite on. She had graduated from Radcliffe four or five years ago, and not long after had come to New York. She was living with her married brother, an electronics engineer, in his Park Avenue apartment, and so was her mother. They were from Wisconsin-Racine, Whipple thought, but wasn't sure. He didn't actually know that she was financially independent; he had assumed it, because for more than two years she had been working for the ROCC as a volunteer, no pay, and she had made cash contributions amounting to $2350. Not office work; she made contacts and arranged fund-raising parties and meetings.