“Ten thousand.
That would be about right for completing your commission; half for solving the murder of Molly Lauck and half for getting your cousin away from that hell-hole.”
“But, my dear man, you did neither.
You're loony.” His eyes narrowed. “Don't think you're going to hold me up.
Don't think-”
Wolfe snapped,
“Ten thousand dollars.
And you will wait here while the check is being certified.”
“You're crazy.” Frost was sputtering again. “I haven't got ten thousand dollars.
My show's going big, but I had a lot of debts and still have.
And even if I had it-what's the idea?
Blackmail?
If you're that kind of...”
“Please, Mr. Frost. I beg you.
May I speak?”
Llewellyn glared at him.
Wolfe settled back in his chair.
“There are three things I like about you, sir, but you have several bad habits.
One is your assumption that words are brickbats to be hurled at people in an effort to stun them.
You must learn to stop that.
Another is your childish readiness to rush into action without stopping to consider the consequences.
Before you definitely hired me to undertake an investigation you should have scrutinized the possibilities.
But the point is that you hired me; and let me tell you, you burned all bridges when you goaded me into that mad sortie to Fifty-second Street.
That will have to be paid for.
You and I are bound by contract; I am bound to pursue a certain inquiry, and you are bound to pay my reasonable and commensurate charge.
And when, for personal and peculiar reasons, you grow to dislike the contract, what do you do?
You come to my office and try to knock me out of my chair by propelling words like
‘blackmail’ at me!
Pfui!
The insolence of a spoiled child!”
He poured beer, and drank.
Llewellyn Frost watched him.
I, after getting it into my notebook, nodded my head at him in encouraging approval of one of his better efforts.
The client finally spoke.
“But look here, Mr. Wolfe. I didn't agree to let you go up there and… that is…I didn't have any idea you were going…” He stopped on that, and gave it up.
“I'm not denying the contract.
I didn't come here and start throwing brickbats.
I just asked, if we call it off now, how much do I owe you?”
“And I told you.”
“But I haven't got ten thousand dollars, not this minute.
I think I could have it in a week.
But even if I did, my God, just for a couple of hours' work-”
“It is not the work.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “It is simply that I will not permit my self-conceit to be bruised by the sort of handling you are trying to give it.
It is true that I hire out my abilities for money, but I assure you that I am not to be regarded as a mere peddler of gewgaws or tricks.
I am an artist or nothing.
Would you commission Matisse to do a painting, and, when he had scribbled his first rough sketch, snatch it from him and crumple it up and tell him, That's enough, how much do I owe you?'
No, you wouldn't do that.
You think the comparison is fanciful?
I don't.
Every artist has his own conceit.