THE COCKTAIL HOUR
I suppose the most spectacular view in town comes with the tallest building—that?s if you have the
money to make the view worthwhile. Babs Thomas had them both and the taste to do it right. The
penthouse was like a glass box surrounded by gardens. Glass walls everywhere: the living room,
bedrooms, kitchen, even the bathrooms. Floor-to-ceiling drapes provided whatever privacy was
necessary, although the only danger of eavesdroppers seemed to be from low-flying aircraft.
The penthouse was lit by slender tapers, an effect both unusual and stunning, since the glass walls
reflected every flickering pinpoint and then re-reflected it, over and over, bathing the rooms in a soft,
yellow glow.
There were at least thirty couples there, Babs? idea of a few friends, all of them old-monied and well
pedigreed. I assume only a death in the family would have been a suitable excuse for missing the
soiree. That or, as in the case of Charles Seaborn, the bank examiners.
Babs, a vision in yellow silk wearing a white hat with a brim wide enough to roller-skate around,
swept over to me as I entered, pulled me into a neutral corner, and filled in my dance card for me,
advising me on who was worth talking to and whom to skip.
My top priority was to meet the remaining members of the infamous Committee.
Arthur Logan, the lawyer, was forty and looked sixty. Poor posture made him appear almost
humpbacked, his face was pinched into a perpetual frown, and his eyes were paranoiacally intense and
busy, like a man who expects to hear bad news at every turn. Ten minutes of conversation proved him
to be as senile in mind as in body, a man so fanatically conservative that even Calvin Coolidge would
have found him an anachronism. His wife, also singularly unattractive, appeared to have lost her chin
somewhere along the way. She complemented him by smiling and keeping her mouth shut.
On the other hand, Roger Suffer, the big-shot journalist, was just the opposite, the epitome of the
young man on the go. His handshake was painfully sincere, his gaze intense, his attitude open. He
talked to me for five minutes before he figured out I wasn?t there to invest money in Dunetown, then
his gaze became less intense and began to wander from one female rear end to the other. His wife,
who let inc know she was the best tennis player at the club thirty seconds after we met, was busy
flirting with the men in the room.
Charming.
No wonder the city had fallen prey to Tagliani. Dutch had said it the night I arrived. Dunetown had
been entrusted to wimps. Were they involved with Seaborn and Cohen?
Doe caught me by surprise. I was ordering a drink when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and she
was standing there. My knees started to wobble again.
