The Missing Chapter

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“You’re almost fifteen minutes early,” I told the elegant-looking visitor who stood erect on our front stoop. “We don’t deny admission on a technicality like that, though. And I’ve seen your picture in the newspapers — more than once. Come on in.”

“Thank you,” Horace Vinson said with a smile, smoothing well-tended salt-and-pepper hair that had been ruffled by rude April winds. “I thought the cab ride down here would take a lot longer. You, of course, are Archie Goodwin. I, too, have seen your picture in the papers. And I recognize your voice from yesterday.”

I grinned back and held out a paw. “Guilty as charged. He won’t be down until eleven, but there’s no reason you can’t park yourself in his office. I’ll even keep you company at no extra charge,” I said as I hung his expensive Burberry on a peg and led him down the hall.

Vinson squinted cornflower-blue eyes as he stood in the doorway to the largest room in the house and nodded approvingly. “Just as I pictured it. Arguably the most famous work space in Manhattan. And from a quick look, very possibly the most comfortable, too.”

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