He said he’d try it, he was very particular about coffee, and when Fritz put a cup on the stand by the red leather chair and was going to pour he said the cup was too small and told Fritz to bring a larger one. Ideal company. He must have been fun at dinner parties. He didn’t look his seventy-two years, and I had to admit he didn’t look like a murderer, but murderers seldom do. One thing was sure, if he murdered at all he would use poison, because with a gun or knife or club he might get spots on his perfectly tailored three-hundred-dollar suit or his sixty-dollar shoes or his twenty-dollar tie, or soil his elegant little hands, or even spatter blood on his neat little face with its carefully barbered mustache. He lifted the larger cup and took a sip. “Quite good,” he conceded. He had a thin finicky voice. He took another sip. “Quite good.” He looked around. “Good room. For a man in your line of work quite unexpected. That globe over there - I noticed it when I came in.
