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paid for your labors,” I reminded him. “It won’t be much, granted, but it’ll be walking-around money. That should make both you and the Duchess happy.”
    He was wavering but still not wholly committed and so I played my trump card.
    “There is a young lady who works there,” I mentioned casually. “Quite attractive. You may be interested.”
    He blinked his pale eyes twice. “Oh?” he said. “A cream puff?”
    “A charlotte russe,” I assured him. “A mille-feuille. Possibly even baklava.”
    He sighed. “All right,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
    Many people have accused me of being devious. They may be right.

CHAPTER 4
    O UR SALADS WERE SERVED AND those fried anchovies proved so salty I was forced, forced to order a carafe of the house chardonnay. And dreadful plonk it is, its only virtues being that it’s cold and wet.
    As we munched our greeneries I offered Binky a few suggestions anent his assignment.
    “If you are interviewed by Hiram Gottschalk, the owner,” I said, “I advise you to regale him with the recitation of your birdcalls. He is a confessed bird lover and I think your unusual talent may convince him to hire you on the spot.”
    “Oh sure,” Binky said. “I’ll give him the cry of the yellow-thighed manakin. That’ll impress him. Say, Archy, this is really awful wine. Can’t we have a bottle of Piper-Heidsieck?”
    “No,” I said. “When you arrive at Parrots Unlimited seek out the young lady I mentioned. She’ll aid your application for employment. You may mention my name; I’ve already alerted her to the possibility of your coming in. Her name is Bridget Houlihan.”
    “Oh?” he said. “Of Irish descent?”
    I looked at him. “Possibly,” I said. “Or perhaps Estonian. Binky, if you are hired—and I’m confident you will be—I want you to lavish all your multitudinous charms on the other employees. Learn their names, details of their private lives, observe personal habits, note relationships with fellow workers, including the manager, and especially sound out how they feel about their employer, Hiram Gottschalk.”
    “In other words, you want me to snoop.”
    “Exactly.”
    “That’ll be fun,” he said happily. “I enjoy snooping, don’t you, Archy?”
    “I prefer to consider it unobtrusive investigation,” I said stiffly. “But yes, snooping is what I require of you. I should also mention Mr. Gottschalk’s twin daughters are returning from a European trip tomorrow and will be feted at an informal welcome-home bash at the Gottschalk residence on Wednesday evening. Employees will be invited, so if all goes well I may see you there.”
    “Hey,” he said, brightening, “this case is beginning to sound like one continuous round of merriment.”
    I didn’t believe it would be but didn’t wish to disabuse my eager helot. We finished lunch and, feeling contrite about that blah chardonnay, I treated him to Rémy Martin at the bar. He finished his pony in two gulps—Binky is definitely not an accomplished sipper—and he departed in a blithe mood, vowing to apply for part-time employment at Parrots Unlimited as soon as he had enjoyed a postprandial nap.
    I drove directly home in no mood to return to my claustrophobic office, which I always imagined had originally been designed as a loo for pygmies. What a delight it was to reenter my air-conditioned aerie where every prospect pleased and only I was vile. I shucked off those fuddy-duddy threads I had donned to impress Mr. Gottschalk, lighted my first English Oval of the day, and got on the horn.
    My first call was to Consuela Garcia, the young lady with whom I am intimate when she is not accusing me of real or fancied infidelities. Connie would, I knew, be hard at work as a social secretary to Lady Cynthia Horowitz, one of the wealthiest chatelaines of Palm Beach. Lady Cynthia has six ex-husbands, maybe a PB record, and at least six hundred enemies she zealously enrages with her acidic wit and political