“And do you have an appointment?” “No, but-“

“He’s not taking any unsolicited interviews.”

“I have a note for him. Can you send that up, please?”

She took the envelope from me and opened it-even though it was sealed and addressed to Hendricks. I’d kept it simple:

Dear Mr. Hendricks,

I am the private investigator who found Marcus Whitby’s body at Larchmont Hall on Sunday night; I got him out of the water and tried to give him CPR. His sister, Ms. Harriet Whitby, has hired me to investigate his death. I’d like to know if Mr. Whitby was working on something that

took him to New Solway on Sunday.

V 1. Warshawski

When the receptionist had read it-taking her time, as if hoping to goad me into some display of impatience that would allow her to throw me out-she made a call on the house phone, speaking too softly for me to overhear. She mutely nodded me to a seat in the lobby. I sat on the scratchy beige upholstery, hoping my message was persuasive enough to open doors closed to Murray’s aggressive style.

After a wait long enough to let me read most of the January issue of T-square, which was on a small table with current copies of the other magazines in the Llewellyn Group, a woman got off the elevator and came over to me. She was about six feet tall, as lean as a whippet, wearing skintight turquoise leather and high-heeled boots that added another three inches to her height. The shiny turquoise made my striped suit look dowdy and conventional.

The woman didn’t sit down, so I got up. It isn’t often I feel like a shrimp, but my eyes just about connected with her breastbone. She ignored the hand I held out as I smiled and introduced myself.

“I’m Mr. Hendricks’s assistant. What is it you’re hoping to get out of a meeting with him?”

I let my hand drop, and spoke with a phony sincerity more grating than outright hostility. “I’m so sorry your receptionist didn’t let you read my note. I’m a private investigator; Marcus Whitby’s sister has hired me to find out how and why he died. It would be helpful to learn what he was working on these days that took him out to New Solway.”

She curled her lip in disdain. “And for proof you offer-?”

I pulled the laminate of my investigator’s license from my wallet. She looked at it, but told me she wanted proof that Harriet Whitby had really hired me.

I pulled out my cell phone and called the Drake. Harriet wasn’t in her room, but when I rang the senior Whitbys I found the client with her mother. She answered cautiously, trying not to give herself away to her mother.

“I’m at the publishing company right now, Ms. Whitby. One of the secretaries wants to make sure you’ve really hired me, that I’m not using your name as a smoke screen for infiltrating Llewellyn Publishing. Can you talk to her?”