“What am I this time? Wife, partner, or secretary?”
“What do you think? You talked to him.”
“‘Wife,’ I’d guess. His voice sounded prissy.”
“O.K.”
“I’ll change to a dinner gown. And you had better get your toys up off the floor, Brain.”
“Oh, I don’t know. It gives a nice touch of eccentricity.”
“Maybe you’d like some shag tobacco in a carpet slipper. Or some Regie cigarettes.” She moved around the room, switching off the overhead lights and arranging table and floor lamps so that the chair a visitor would naturally sit in would be well lighted.
Without answering he gathered up his darts and the bread board, stopping as he did so to moisten his finger and rub the spot where he had marred the radio, then dumped the whole collection into the kitchen and closed the door. In the subdued light, with the kitchen and breakfast nook no longer visible, the room looked serenely opulent.
“How do you do, sir? Mr. Hoag, my dear. Mr. Hoag…Mrs. Randall.”
“How do you do, madame.”
Randall helped him off with his coat, assuring himself in the process that Mr. Hoag was not armed, or — if he was — he had found somewhere other than shoulder or hip to carry a gun. Randall was not suspicious, but he was pragmatically pessimistic.
“Sit down, Mr. Hoag. Cigarette?”
“No. No, thank you.”
Randall said nothing in reply. He sat and stared, not rudely but mildly, nevertheless thoroughly. The suit might be English or it might be Brooks Brothers. It was certainly not Hart, Schaffner & Marx. A tie of that quality had to be termed a cravat, although it was modest as a nun. He upped his fee mentally. The little man was nervous — he wouldn’t relax in his chair. Woman’s presence, probably. Good — let him come to a slow simmer, then move him off the fire.
“You need not mind the presence of Mrs. Randall,” he said presently. “Anything that I may hear, she may hear also.”
“Oh…oh, yes. Yes, indeed.” He bowed from the waist without getting up. “I am very happy to have Mrs. Randall present.” But he did not go on to say what his business was.
“Well, Mr. Hoag,” Randall added presently, “you wished to consult me about something, did you not?”
“Uh, yes.”
“Then perhaps you had better tell me about it.”
“Yes, surely. It — That is to say — Mr. Randall, the whole business is preposterous.”
“Most businesses are. But go ahead. Woman trouble? Or has someone been sending you threatening letters?”
“Oh, no! Nothing as simple as that. But I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“I don’t know,” Hoag answered quickly with a little intake of breath. “I want you to find out.”
“Wait a minute, Mr. Hoag,” Randall said. “This seems to be getting more confused rather than less. You say you are afraid and you want me to find out what you are afraid of. Now I’m not a psychoanalyst; I’m a detective. What is there about this business that a detective can do?”
Hoag looked unhappy, then blurted out, “I want you to find out what I do in the daytime.”
Randall looked him over, then said slowly, “You want me to find out what you do in the daytime?”
“Yes. Yes, that’s it.”
“Mm-m-m. Wouldn’t it be easier for you to tell me what you do?”
“Oh, I couldn’t tell you!”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
Randall was becoming somewhat annoyed. “Mr. Hoag,” he said, “I usually charge double for playing guessing games. If you won’t tell me what you do in the daytime, it seems to me to indicate a lack of confidence in me which will make it very difficult indeed to assist you. Now come clean with me — what is it you do in the daytime and what has it to do with the case? What is the case?”
Mr. Hoag stood up. “I might have known I couldn’t explain it,” he said unhappily, more to himself than to Randall. “I’m sorry I disturbed you. I — ”
“Just a minute, Mr. Hoag.” Cynthia Craig Randall spoke for the first time. “I think perhaps you two have misunderstood each other. You mean, do you not, that you really and literally do not know what you do in the daytime?”