She looked up at him, and shivered.
“And it was you that let Mike Walsh go, when you knew—”
“I knew very little.
Now I know even less. Archie, bring Saul.”
“Johnny is here—”
“No.
Saul.”
I went to the kitchen and got him.
Wolfe asked him,
“How long will it take to get Hilda Lindquist here?”
Saul considered half an instant.
“Fifty minutes if I phone.
An hour and a half if I go after her.”
“Good.
Telephone.
You had better tell her on the phone that Mike Walsh has been killed, since if she sees a Gazette on the way she might succumb also.
Is there someone to bring her?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Use the office phone.
Tell her not to delay unnecessarily, but there is no great urgency. Wipe the spot of grease off the left side of your nose.”
“Yes, sir,” Saul went, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket.
Clara Fox said, in a much better tone, “I haven’t succumbed.” She brushed back her hair, but her hand was none too steady. “I didn’t mean, when I said you let Mike Walsh go—”
“Of course not.”
Wolfe didn’t relent any. “You weren’t in a condition to mean anything. You still are not.
Archie and I have one or two things to do.
You can’t leave this house, certainly not now.
Will you go upstairs and wait till Miss Lindquist gets here?
And don’t be conceited enough to imagine yourself responsible for the death of Michael Walsh.
Your meddlings have not entitled you to usurp the fatal dignity of Atropos; don’t Batter yourself. Will you go upstairs and command patience?”
“Yes.” She stood up. “But I want … if someone should telephone for me I want to talk.”
Wolfe nodded.
“You shall.
Though I fancy Mr. Horrocks will be too occupied with this involvement of his chief for social impulses.”
But it was Wolfe’s off day; he was wrong again.
A phone call from Horrocks, for Clara Fox, came within fifteen minutes.
In the interim Wolfe and I had gone to the office and learned from Saul that he had talked to Hilda Lindquist and she was coming, and Wolfe had settled himself in his chair, disposed of a bottle of beer, and repudiated my advances.
Horrocks didn’t mention the predicament of his noble uncle; he just asked for Clara Fox, and I sent Saul up to tell her to take it in Wolfe’s room, since there was no phone in hers.
I should have listened in as a matter of business, but I didn’t, and Wolfe didn’t tell me to.
Finally Wolfe sighed and sat up.
“Try for Mr. Cramer.”
I did so.
No result.
They talked as if, for all they knew, Cramer might be up in Canada shooting moose.
Wolfe sighed again.
“Archie. Have we ever encountered a greater jumble of nonsense?”
“No, sir.
If only I had gone—”
“Don’t say that again, or I’ll send you upstairs with Miss Fox.
Could that have ordered the chaos?
The thing is completely ridiculous.