Markham: The Case of the Pornographic Photos

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It started at the Tafts’, at dinner. All through the meal I had the distinct impression that something more than food was in the offing. The food itself was certainly excellent enough — a fine rare rib roast flanked with roasted potatoes, an excellent red Bordeaux to complement the roast, broccoli au gratin, chef salad with roquefort dressing, all followed up by berry pie, rich strong coffee and snifters of Drambuie. When casual acquaintances invite one in for that sort of meal there’s little cause for complaint, but I couldn’t help thinking that something was a little out of line.

Perhaps it was the conversation — carefully casual, almost elaborately inoffensive. Perhaps it was the air of repressed urgency that permeated the large dining room. Whatever it was, I was not at all surprised when Edgar Taft called me aside.

“Roy,” he said. “Could I talk to you for a minute or two?”

I followed him through the living room to his study, a heavily masculine room with pine-panelled walls and a hunting motif. We sat down in large brown leather chairs. He offered me a cigar. I passed it up and lit a cigarette.

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