Will you do it?”
“Permit me, please.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “Obviously you know who poisoned the candy, and you know it was meant for you.
You are obsessed with fear that this unfriendly person will proceed to kill you in spite of the fatal bungling of that effort.
Possibly others are in danger also; yet, instead of permitting someone with a little wit to handle the affair by giving him your confidence, you sit there and drivel and boast to me of your stubbornness.
More than that, you have the gall to request me to agree to undertake a commission although I am completely ignorant of its nature and have no idea how much I shall get for it.
Pfui!-No, permit me.
Either all this is true, or you are yourself a murderer and are attempting so elaborate a gullery that it is no wonder you have a headache.
You ask, will I do it.
If you mean, will I agree to do an unknown job for an unknown wage, certainly not.”
McNair still had his hold of the edge of the desk, and kept it there while Wolfe poured beer.
He said,
“That's all right.
I don't mind your talking like that.
I expected it.
I know that's the kind of a man you are, and that's all right. I don't expect you to agree to do an unknown job.
I'm going to tell you about it, that's what I came here for. But I'd feel easier…if you'd just say…you'll do it if there's nothing wrong with it…if you'd just say that…”
“Why should I?” Wolfe was impatient. “There is no great urgency; you have plenty of time; I do not dine until eight o'clock.
You need not fear your nemesis is in ambush for you in this room; death will not stalk you here.
Go on and tell me about it.
But let me advise you: it will be taken down, and will need your signature.”
“No.” McNair got energetic and positive. “I don't want it written down.
And I don't want this man here.”
“Then I don't want to hear it.” Wolfe pointed a thumb at me.
“This is Mr. Goodwin, my confidential assistant.
Whatever opinion you have formed of me includes him of necessity.
His discretion is the twin of his valor.”
McNair looked at me.
“He's young.
I don't know him.”
“As you please.” Wolfe shrugged.
“I shan't try to persuade you.”
“I know. You know you don't have to.
You know I can't help myself, I'm in a corner.
But it must not be written down.”
“On that I'll concede something.” Wolfe had got himself patient again. “Mr. Goodwin can record it, and then, if it is so decided, it can be destroyed.”
McNair had abandoned his clutch on the desk.
He looked from Wolfe to me and back again and, seeing the look in his eyes, if it hadn't been during business hours-Nero Wolfe's business hours-I would have felt sorry for him.
He certainly was in no condition to put over a bargain with Nero Wolfe.
He slid back on his seat and clasped his hands together, then after a moment separated them and took hold of the arms of the chair. He looked back and forth at us again. He said abruptly,
“You'll have to know about me or you wouldn't believe what I did.
I was born in 1885 in Camfirth, Scotland.
My folks had a little money.
I wasn't much in school and was never very healthy, nothing really wrong, just craichy. I thought I could draw, and when I was twenty-two I went to Paris to study art.
I loved it and worked at it, but never really did anything, just enough to keep me in Paris wasting the little money my parents had. When they died a little later my sister and I had nothing, but I'll come to that.”
He stopped and put his hands up to his temples and pressed and rubbed. “My head's going to bust.”
“Take it easy,” Wolfe murmured. “You'll feel better pretty soon.
You're probably telling me something you should have told somebody years ago.”
“No,” McNair said bitterly. “Something that should never have happened.
And I can't tell it now, not all of it, but I can tell enough.
Maybe I'm really crazy, maybe I've lost my balance, maybe I'm just destroying all that I've safeguarded for so many years of suffering, I don't know. Anyhow, I can't help it, I've got to leave you the red box, and you would know then.