Poison à la Carte

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I slanted my eyes down to meet her big brown ones, which were slanted up. “No,” I said, “I’m neither a producer nor an agent. My name’s Archie Goodwin, and I’m here because I’m a friend of the cook. My reason for wanting it is purely personal.”

“I know,” she said, “it’s my dimples. Men often swoon.”

I shook my head. “It’s your earrings. They remind me of a girl I once loved in vain. Perhaps if I get to know you well enough — who can tell?”

“Not me,” she declared. “Let me alone. I’m nervous, and I don’t want to spill the soup. The name is Nora Jaret, without an H, and the number is Stanhope five, six-six-two-one. The earrings were a present from Sir Laurence Olivier. I was sitting on his knee.”

I wrote the number down in my notebook, thanked her, and looked around. Most of the collection of attractive young females were gathered in an alcove between two cupboards, but one was over by a table watching Felix stir something in a bowl. Her profile was fine and her hair was the color of corn silk just before it starts to turn. I crossed to her, and when she turned her head I spoke. “Good evening, Miss— Miss?”

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