Might as Well Be Dead

“Yeah, I see how it is.” I was wishing I had gone.

“Then promise me you won’t tell him. You look like a decent guy. If I’ve got to die for something I didn’t do, all right, I can’t do anything about that, but not this too. I know I’m not saying this right, I know I’m not myself, but if you only-”

I didn’t know why he stopped, because, listening to him, I didn’t hear the cop approaching from behind. There was a tap on my shoulder, and the cop’s voice.

“Time’s up.”

I arose.

“Promise me!” Paul Herold demanded.

“I can’t,” I told him, and turned and walked out.

Freyer was waiting for me in the visitors’ room. I don’t carry a mirror, so I don’t know how my face looked when I joined him, but when we had left the building and were on the sidewalk, he asked, “It didn’t work?”

“You can’t always tell by my expression,” I said. “Ask the people I play poker with. But if you don’t mind I’ll save it for Mr. Wolfe, since he pays my salary. Coming along?”

Evidently he was. I’ll hand it to him that he could take a hint. In the taxi, when I turned my head to the window to study the scenery as we rolled along, he made no attempt to start a conversation. But he overdid it a little. When we stopped at the curb in front of the old brownstone, he spoke.

“If you want a word with Wolfe first I’ll wait out here.”

I laughed. “No, come on in and I’ll find you some earmuffs.”

I preceded him up the stoop and pushed the button, and Fritz let us in, and we put our hats and coats on the rack and went down the hall to the office. Wolfe, at his desk pouring beer, shot me a glance, greeted Freyer and asked if he would like some beer. The lawyer declined and took the red leather chair without waiting for an invitation.

I stood and told Wolfe, “I saw him and talked with him. Instead of a yes or no, I’d like to give you a verbatim report. Do you want Mr. Freyer to hear it?”

Wolfe lifted his glass from the tray. “Is there any reason why he shouldn’t?”

“No, sir.”

“Then go ahead.”