“And I still am,” Traub declared. “Can you blame me?”

“So,” Wolfe asked Strong, “Mr Traub was a minority of one?”

That's right. We went ahead. Miss Vance, who does research for the programme in addition to writing scripts, got up a list of prospects. I was surprised to find, and the others were too, that more than thirty tip sheets of various kinds are published in New York alone. We boiled it down to five and they were contacted.”

I should have warned them that the use of contact as a verb was not permitted in that office. Now Wolfe would have it in for him.

Wolfe frowned. “All five were invited?”

“Oh, no. Appointments were made for them to see Miss Fraser-the publishers of them. She had to find out which one was most likely to go over on the air and not pull something that would hurt the programme. The final choice was left to her.”

“How were the five selected?”

“Scientifically. The length of time they had been in business, the quality of paper and printing of the sheets, the opinions of sports writers, things like that.”

“Who was the scientist? You?”

“No…I don't know…”

“I was,” a firm, quiet voice stated. It was Elinor Vance. I had put her in the chair nearest mine because Wolfe isn't the only one who likes to have things around that he enjoys looking at. Obviously she hadn't caught up on sleep yet, and ever so often she had to clamp her teeth to keep her chin from quivering, but she was the only one there who could conceivably have made me remember that I was not primarily a detective, but a man. I was curious how her brown eyes would look if and when they got fun in them again some day. She was going on: “First I took out those that were plainly impossible, more than half of them, and then I talked it over with Miss Koppel and Mr Meadows, and I think one or two others-I guess Mr Strong-yes, I'm sure I did-but it was me more than them. I picked the five names.”

“And they all came to see Miss Fraser?”

“Four of them did. One of them was out of town-in Florida.”

Wolfe's gaze went to the left. “And you, Miss Fraser, chose Mr Cyril Orchard from these four?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“How did you do that? Scientifically?”

“No.” She smiled. “There's nothing scientific about me. He seemed fairly intelligent, and he had much the best voice of the four and was the best talker, and I liked the name of his sheet, Track Almanac-and then I guess I was a little snobbish about it too. His sheet was the most expensive-ten dollars a week.”

“Those were the considerations that led you to select him?”

“Yes.”

“You had never seen or heard of him before he came to see you as one of the four?”

“I hadn't seen him, but I had heard of him, and I had seen his sheet.”

“Oh?” Wolfe's eyes went half-shut. “You had?”

“Yes, about a month before that, maybe longer, when the question of having a tipster on the programme had come up again, I had subscribed to some of the sheets-three or four of them-to see what they were like. Not in my name, of course. Things like that are done in my manager's name-Miss Koppel. One of them was this Track Almanac? “How did you happen to choose that one?”

“My God, I don't know!” Madeline Fraser's eyes flashed momentarily with irritation. “Do you remember, Debby?1 Deborah shook her head. “I think we phoned somebody.”

“The New York State Racing Commission,” Bill Meadows offered sarcastically.

“Well.” Wolfe leaned forward to push a button on his desk. “I’m going to have some beer. Aren't some of you thirsty?”

That called for an intermission. No one had accepted a previous offer of liquids I had made, but now they made it unanimous in the affirmative, and I got busy at the table at the far wall, already equipped. Two of them joined Wolfe with the beer, brought by Fritz from the kitchen, and the others suited their fancy. I had suggested to Wolfe that it would be fitting to have a case of Starlite in a prominent place on the table, but he had merely snorted. On such occasions he always insisted that a red wine and a chilled white wine must be among those present. Usually they had no takers, but this time there were two, Miss Koppel and Traub, who went for the Montrachet; and, being strongly in favour of the way its taste insists on sneaking all over the inside of your head, I helped out with it. There is only one trouble about serving assorted drinks to a bunch of people in the office on business. I maintain that it is a legitimate item for the expense account for the clients, and Wolfe says no, that what anyone eats or drinks in his house is on him. Another eccentricity. Also, he insists that they must all have stands or tables at their elbows for their drinks.

So they did.

Wolfe, for whom the first bottle of beer is merely a preamble, filled his glass from the second bottle, put the bottle down, and leaned back.

“What I've been after,” he said in his conversational tone again, “is how that particular individual, Mr Cyril Orchard, became a guest on that programme. The conclusion from the newspaper accounts is that none of you, including Miss Shepherd and Mr Savarese, knew him from Adam. But he was murdered. Later I'll discuss this with you severally, but for now I'll just put it to all of you: had you had any dealings with, or connection with, or knowledge of, Cyril Orchard prior to his appearance on that programme. Other than what I have just been told?”

Starting with Madeline Fraser, he got either a no or a shake of the head from each of the six.

He grunted. “I assume,” he said, “that the police have unearthed no contradiction to any of your negatives, since if they had you would hardly be foolish enough to try to hold to them with me. My whole approach to this matter is quite different from what it would be if I didn't know that the police have spent seven days and nights working on it. They have been after you, and they have their training and talents; also, they have authority and a thousand men-twenty thousand. The question is whether their methods and abilities are up to this job; all I can do is use my own.”

Wolfe came forward to drink beer, used his handkerchief on his lips, and leaned back again.

“But I need to know what happened-from you, not the newspapers. We now have you in the broadcasting studio Tuesday morning, a week ago today. The two guests-Mr Cyril Orchard and Professor Savarese-have arrived. It is a quarter to eleven.

The rest of you are there/at or near the table which holds the microphones.

Seated at one side of the narrow table are Miss Fraser and Professor Savarese; across from them, facing them, are Mr Orchard and Mr Meadows. Voice levels are being taken. About twenty feet from the table is the first row of chairs provided for the studio audience. That audience consists of some two hundred people, nearly all women, many of whom, devoted followers of Miss Fraser, frequently attend the broadcasts. Is that picture correct-not approximately correct, but correct?”

They nodded. “Nothing wrong with it,” Bill Meadows said.

“Many of them,” Miss Fraser stated, “would come much oftener if they could get tickets. There are always twice as many applications for tickets as we can supply.”

“No doubt,” Wolfe growled. He had shown great restraint, not telling her how dangerous she was. “But the applicants who didn't get tickets, not being there, do not concern us. An essential element of the picture which I haven't mentioned is not yet visible. Behind the closed door of an electric refrigerator over against the wall are eight bottles of Starlite. How did they get there?”

An answer came from the couch, from Fred Owen. “We always have three or four cases in the studio, in a locked cab-' “If you please, Mr Owen.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “I want to hear as much as I can of the voices of these six people.”