Frederick Braun stared gloomily from the hotel suite’s window at the street below. He peered absently at his thin wrist, looked blank for a moment, then realized all over again that his watch was being cleaned. He stared down at the street once more, his wrinkled face unhappy.
The door opened behind him and Patricia O’Gara came in briskly and said, “No sign of the guinea pig yet, eh?”
“No.”
“Where’s Rossie?”
The doctor cleared his throat. “There was an item on the newscast. A humor bit. It seems that the head waiter of the Gourmet.… Have you ever eaten at the Gourmet, Patricia?”
“Do I look like a millionaire?”
“At any rate, a half pound of the best Caspian caviar disappeared, spoonful at a time, right before his eyes.”
Patricia looked at him. “Good heavens.”
“Yes. Well, Ross has go
