Do you know if Quinn and Collins got her through an agency?
Yes, they did. The Stopgap Employment Service.
How old is she?
Oh she's under thirty.
Is she married?
No. As far as I know.
What does she look like?
She's about my size. She's a blonde or she was last summer. She thinks she's very attractive; and I guess she is. I guess you would think so.
I'll see when I see her. Of course I won't mention you. I got my wallet out. My instructions from Mr. Wolfe were not to pay you until I have checked your information, but he hadn't met you and heard you, and I have. I produced two twenties and a ten. Here's half of it, with the understanding that you will say nothing about this to anyone. You impress me as a woman who can watch her tongue.
I can.
Say nothing to anyone. Right?
I won't. She put the bills in her bag. When will I get the rest?
Soon. I may see you again, but if that isn't necessary I'll mail it. If you'll give me your home address and phone number?
She did so, West 169th Street, was going to add something, decided not to, and turned to go. I watched her to the entrance. There was no spring to her legs. The relation between a woman's face and the way she walks would take a chapter in a book I'll never write.
Since I had a table reserved in the restaurant downstairs, I went down and took it and ordered a bowl of clam chowder, which Fritz never makes, and which was all I wanted after my late breakfast. Having stopped on the way to consult the phone book, I knew the address of the Stopgap Employment Services 493 Lexington Avenue. But the approach had to be considered because (1) agencies are cagey about the addresses of their personnel, and (2) if Anne Tenzer was the mother of the baby she would have to be handled with care. I preferred not to phone Wolfe. The understanding was that when I was out on an errand I would use intelligence guided by experience (as he put it), meaning my intelligence, not his.
The result was that shortly after two o'clock I was seated in the anteroom of the Exclusive Novelty Button Co., waiting for a phone call, or rather, hoping for one. I had made a deal with Mr. Nicholas Losseff, the button fiend, as he had sat at his desk eating salami, black bread, cheese, and pickles. What he got was the button I had removed from the overalls and a firm promise to tell him the source when circumstances permitted. What I got was permission to make a phone call and wait there to get one back, no matter how long it took, and use his office for an interview if I needed to. The phone call had been to the Stopgap Employment Service. Since I had known beforehand that I might have a lot of time to kill, I had stopped on the way to buy four magazines and two paperbacks, one of the latter being His Own Image by Richard Valdon.
I never got to His Own Image, but the magazines got a big play, and I was halfway through the other paperback, a collection of pieces about the Civil War, when the phone call came at a quarter past five. The woman at the desk, who had known what I wanted Wednesday before I told her, vacated her chair for me, but I went and took it on my side, standing.
Goodwin speaking.
This is Anne Tenzer. I got a message to call the Exclusive Novelty Button Company and ask for Mr. Goodwin.
Right. I'm Goodwin. Her voice had plenty of feminine in it, so I put plenty of masculine in mine. I would like very much to see you, to get some information if possible. I think you may know something about a certain kind of button.
Me? I don't know anything about buttons.
I thought you might, about this particular button. It's made by hand of white horsehair.
Oh. A pause. Why, how on earth do you mean you've got one?
Yes. May I ask, where are you?
I'm in a phone booth at Madison Avenue and Forty-ninth Street.
From her voice, I assumed that my voice was doing all right. Then I can't expect you to come here to my office, Thirty-ninth Street and crosstown. How about the Churchill lobby? You're near there. I can make it in twenty minutes. We can have a drink and discuss buttons.
You mean you can discuss buttons.
Okay. I'm pretty good at it. Do you know the Blue Alcove at the Churchill?
Yes.
I'll be there in twenty minutes, with no hat, a paper bag in my hand, and a white and green orchid in my lapel.
Not an orchid. Men don't wear orchids.
I do, and I'm a man. Do you mind?
I won't know till I see you.
That's the spirit. All right, I'm off. At a wall table in the Admiralty Bar at the Churchill there isn't much light, but there had been in the lobby. Beatrice Epps had been correct when she said Anne Tenzer was about her size, but the resemblance stopped there. It was quite conceivable that Miss Tenzer had aroused in some man,
