not one of them. You are.”
“Then go ahead and ask. Call me Mr. Goodwin.”
His lips tightened. “Mr. Goodwin,” he said coldly, “I solicit a favor.”
It’s amazing what lengths a man will go to for envy.
Chapter 2
EASTER SUNDAY THE WEATHER wasn’t perfect, but I had seen much worse. As, shortly before noon, I left the old brownstone, the sun was slanting down into West Thirty-fifth Street, and I crossed over to have it on me. The breeze from the river wasn’t as chilly as I had expected, and I unbuttoned my topcoat. I was not arrayed, merely had my clothes on, with the Centrex, loaded and ready, dangling from a strap over my shoulder.
Crosstown to Fifth Avenue, and uptown for five blocks, it was just a pleasant walk with plenty of room, but in front of the library some early birds were already around, moving or standing in the sunshine, and I had to start dodging. From there on it got thicker all the way, and it was a good thing I had allowed extra time, since I had told Tabby I would be in front of Saint Thomas’s at twelve-thirty.
Tabby will do for him, though I know his name and address. Tabby will do. It had been a mistake to bait him with two Cs, one down and one if and when, since a pair of twenties would have been more his speed, and it might make him nervous, but I had followed orders. I had briefed him thoroughly, shown him pictures of Millard Bynoe and his wife, and even introduced Vanda to him by giving him a spray, though not flamingo-pink, from one of Wolfe’s plants. There would be a lot of bosoms sporting orchids in that stampede, from Cattleyas to Calanthes. Also, to cinch it, I was going to give him a sign.
By the time I reached Saint Patrick’s at Fiftieth Street, with three blocks to go, the street was no better than the sidewalks-absolutely solid with dressed-up bipeds, some of them looking pleased and even happy. The display of lipstick colors and patterns, goofy hats, and flossy neckties deserved more appreciation than I had time for as I wormed my way north, rubbing not only elbows but shoulders and hips. As I pushed through to the curb in front of Saint Thomas’s, I was thinking it might be worth while to come back next year on my own time for a thorough survey of the panorama, provided I could rent a suit of armor at a bargain. At Fifty-second Street a six-foot amazon in a purple ensemble had got me in the ribs.
I stretched my own six feet by rising on my toes and spotted Tabby, anchored out of the current in a niche flanking the church entrance. He was a little squirt, several inches under six feet, but I got enough of him to see that the C I had given him had gone down the drain for a new topcoat, a gray plaid, and a new hat, a classy gray snap-brim. The true Easter-parade spirit, I thought, and grinned at him when I caught his eye. It wasn’t necessary to shove through to him, since he had been well briefed.
I needed a vantage point for aiming as they came out of the church, and there it was beside me-a wooden box there on the sidewalk at the edge of the curb, some sixteen inches high, just the elevation I needed. But it was occupied. Standing on it was a young woman in a tan woolen belted coat, with a camera in her hand held at breast level as she faced downtown, scanning the rabble as it shuffled along. I touched her elbow and she looked down at me. I gave her my best smile, which was no strain after one glimpse of her face.
“Have you ever,” I asked her, “stood on a box with a peer of the realm?”
“Certainly,” she declared. “Don’t bother me, I’m busy.” She went back to scanning.
I directed my voice up to her ear. “But you have never stood on a box with a prince of the blood, and this is your chance. My grandmother, the queen dowager, is coming out of that church and I want to get a shot of her. I’ll stand on the edge and I won’t jostle.”
She was facing down again. “I hate to refuse, Your Highness, but it’s not my box. It was lent me by a grandee, and he would-”
“Hey, Archie Goodwin!”
The voice came from behind, and I turned. There was another box at the curb, two paces along, and beyond it still another. On them were men with cameras, and straddling the gap, with his left foot on one box and his right on the other, was a third man with a camera, grinning at me.
He spoke. “You don’t remember me.”
“Sure I do. The
“Yeah, who wouldn’t? Look at her!”
“I have. Any objection if she shares it with me?”
“That’s up to her. I’d rather she shared it with me, but you had the idea first. What are you after? Where’s the corpse?”
“No corpse. I’m just practicing.” I turned to tell her I had cleared it with the grandee, but at that moment all four of them brought their cameras up to their chins, facing the church entrance. The exodus had started. I planted my left foot on the edge of her box, heaved myself up, and caught the edge of the next-door box with my right foot with a fancy spread-eagle. It was too near a split to be comfortable, but at least I was up high enough to focus over the heads of the crowd. A glance showed me that Tabby had left his niche and edged through to the line of exit.
Out they came, all flavors. The men ran from cutaways to sacks and from toppers to floppies, not more than half of them with topcoats, and the women displayed an assortment of furs, coats, jackets, stoles, suits, and hats for the birds. I shot a couple to warm up the camera, and once I thought I spotted my target, but the man with her was not Milliard Bynoe, and as she approached I saw that her orchid spray wasn’t Vanda, but Phalaenopsis. Then suddenly there she was, headed straight toward me, with a man on either side of her, and the one on her right was Bynoe. Her fur jacket, sable or long-haired hamster or something, was open, and drooping below her left shoulder was a ten-inch spray of glowing pink. She was one of the most attractive objects I had seen that day, and as she got closer and I aimed the camera for another shot the back of my mind was reflecting
