stabbing into her back. Fraser closed the door.
His office was the typical, bureaucratic Washington office, but he had decorated it in
style, stamping it with his personal taste in furniture and art.
“Sit down, Miss…”
“Alexander, Catherine Alexander.”
“Sally tells me that you came up with the Life magazine.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I assume you didn’t just happen to have a three-week-old issue in your purse.”
“No, sir.”
“How did you find it so quickly?”
“I went down to the barber shop. Barber shops and dentists’ offices always have old
issues lying around.”
“I see.” Fraser smiled, and his craggy face seemed less formidable. “I don’t think that
would have occurred to me,” he said. “Are you that bright about everything?”
Catherine thought about Ron Peterson. “No, sir,” she replied.
“Are you looking for a job as a secretary?”
“Not really.” Catherine saw his look of surprise. “I’ll take it,” she added hastily.
“What I’d really like to be is your assistant.”
“Why don’t we start you out as a secretary today?” Fraser said dryly. “Tomorrow you
can be my assistant.”
She looked at him hopefully. “You mean I have the job?”
“On trial.” He flicked down the intercom key and leaned toward the box. “Sally,
would you please thank the young ladies. Tell them the position is filled.”
“Right, Mr. Fraser.”
He flicked the button up. “Will thirty dollars a week be satisfactory?”
“Oh yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Fraser.”
“You can start tomorrow morning, nine o’clock. Have Sally give you a personnel
form to fill out.”
When Catherine left the office, she walked over to the Washington Post. The
policeman at the desk in the lobby stopped her.
“I’m William Fraser’s personal secretary,” she said loftily, “over at the State
Department. I need some information from your morgue.”
“What kind of information?”