“It’s the night watchman, old Walsh!”
Having phoned police headquarters, the reporter approached Lord Clivers and asked him for a statement.
He was brushed aside by Stebbins, who commanded him to leave.
The reporter persisting, Stebbins instructed the patrolman to put him out, and the reporter was forcibly ejected.
The superintendent of the construction, reached on the telephone, said that the name of the night watchman was Michael Walsh.
He knew of no possible connection between Walsh and a member of the British nobility.
No information could be obtained from the suite of Lord Clivers at the Hotel Portland.
At 7:30 Inspector Cramer and various members of the police force had arrived on the scene at 55th Street, but no one was permitted to enter the enclosure and no information was forthcoming.
There was a picture of Clivers, taken the preceding week on the steps of the White House.
I was raving.
If only I had gone up there!
I glared at Wolfe.
“Be prudent!
Don’t expose ourselves!
I could have been there in ten minutes after that phone call!
Great God and Jehosaphat!”
I felt a yank at my sleeve and saw it was Clara Fox.
“What is it?
What—”
I took it out on her. I told her savagely,
“Oh, nothing much.
Just another of your playmates bumped off.
You haven’t got much of a team left.
Mike Walsh shot and killed dead. Clivers standing there—” “Mike Walsb … no!” She jumped up and her face went white. “No! Let me see …”
Wolfe had leaned back and closed his eyes, with his lips working.
I reached for the paper and pushed it at her.
“Sure, go ahead, hope you enjoy it.”
As she leaned over the paper I heard her breath go in.
I said,
“Of all the goddamn wonderful management—”
Wolfe cut in sharply,
“Archie!” I muttered,
“Go to hell everybody,” and sat down and bobbed my head from side to side in severe pain.
The cockeyed thing had busted wide open and instead or going where I belonged I had sat and eaten guinea chicken Brazilisomething and listened to Wolfe hum folk tunes. Not only that, it had busted at the wrong place and Nero Wolfe had made a fool of himself.
If I had gone I would have been there before Cramer or anyone else….
Wolfe opened his eyes and said quietly,
“Take Miss Fox upstairs and come to the office.”
He lifted himself from his chair.
So did Clara Fox.
She arose with her face whiter than before and looked rrom one to the other of us. She announced,
“I’m not going upstairs. I …I can’t just stay here.
I’m going … I’m going …”
Yes.” Wolfe lifted his brows at her. “Where?”
She burst out,
“How do I know where?
Don’t you see I … I’ve got to do something?”
She suddenly flopped back into her chair and clasped her hands and began to tremble.
“Poor old Mike Walsh … why in the name of God … why did I ever …”
Wolfe stepped to her and put his hand on her shoulder.
“Look here,” he snapped. “Do you wonder I’d rather have ten thousand orchids than a woman in my house?”