Stone leaned down and kissed the top of a breast, accessible above the low-cut dress. “Not long enough for what I have in mind,” he said. “By the way, you look spectacular. It’s a wonderful dress.”

She laughed. “You like cleavage, don’t you?”

“The sight of breasts is good for morale.”

“You look pretty sharp yourself. The suit suits you.”

“I had good advice.”

The elevator door opened. A uniformed maid answered the door and took their coats.

“Well, good evening,” Hi Barker said, sweeping into the hall from the living room.

Stone introduced Cary.

“You’re a fine judge of women, Stone,” Barker said, kissing Cary’s hand.

“Why, thank you, sir,” Cary responded. She turned to Stone. “You didn’t prepare me for this man.”

“How could I?”

Barker ushered them into the living room, where two other couples and a woman waited. “Meet everybody,” he said. “This is Frank and Marian Woodman.”

Stone shook their hands. “Mr. Woodman and I have met,” he said.

“Oh?” Barker said. “You’re better acquainted around town than I thought.”

“All in the line of duty,” Stone said, “just the way I met you.”

“That’s right,” Woodman said. “Sasha Nijinsky was my client, and Detective Barrington came to see me. Or, I should say, Mr. Barrington. My congratulations; I hear that sort of medical retirement is every police officer’s dream.”

“Most of the cops I know would rather serve the thirty years healthy,” Stone said.

“Oh, the penny just dropped,” Mrs. Woodman said. She was a small, handsome woman some years her husband’s junior. “You’re the detective in the papers.”

“I’m afraid so,” Stone said.

“You’ll have to interrogate him later, Marian,” Barker said, pulling Stone and Cary away. “He has other guests to meet.” He took them to the other couple. “This is Abbott Wheeling and his wife, India. Stone Barrington and Cary Hilliard.”

Wheeling was an elderly man, a former editor of the New York Times, now a columnist on the Op-Ed page. He shook hands warmly, and, before Stone had a chance to speak to him, the other woman in the room approached.

“I’m Edith Bonner,” she said, shaking hands with both of them. She was tall, on the heavy side, but quite pretty and elegantly dressed.

“Edith is my date for the evening,” Barker explained.

A waiter approached and took their drink orders. Bonner excused herself, and Cary pulled Stone to the window.

“It’s quite a view, isn’t it?” she said, pointing at the United Nations building.

“I hadn’t seen it at night,” Stone said.

“Do you know who Edith Bonner is?”

“No, the name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“She’s a sort of society psychic,” Cary explained. “She’s a wealthy widow who does readings of her friends—strictly amateur—but she has quite a reputation.”