“Is that just a publicity trick or does he really like it?” “I guess both. He's very lazy, and he's scared to death of moving objects, especially things on wheels.” “Wonderful! Tell me all about him.” “Some other time, Lina,” Deborah Koppel put in. “Mr Goodwin has a suggestion for you, and you have a broadcast tomorrow and haven't even looked at the script.” “My God, is it Monday already?” “Monday and half-past three,” Deborah said patiently.

The radio prima donna's torso popped up to perpendicular as if someone had given her a violent jerk. “What's the suggestion?” she demanded, and flopped back again.

“What made him think of it,” I said, “was something that happened to him Saturday. This great nation took him for a ride. Two rides. The Rides of March.”

“Income tax? Me too. But what-” “That's good!” Bill Meadows exclaimed. “Where did you get it? Has it been on the air?” “Not that I know of. I created it yesterday morning while I was brushing my teeth.” “We'll give you ten bucks for it-no, wait a minute.” He turned to Deborah. “What percentage of our audience ever heard of the Ides of March?” “One-half of one,” she said as if she were quoting a published statistic. “Cut.”

“You can have it for a dollar,” I offered generously. “Mr Wolfe's suggestion will cost you a lot more. Like everyone in the upper brackets, he's broke.” My eyes were meeting the grey-green gaze of Madeline Fraser. “He suggests that you hire him to investigate the murder of Cyril Orchard.” “Oh, Lord,” Bill Meadows protested, and brought his hands up to press the heels of his palms against his eyes. Deborah Koppel looked at him, then at Madeline Fraser, and took in air for a deep sigh. Miss Fraser shook her head, and suddenly looked older and more in need of makeup.