Some Buried Caesar

Pratt nodded. Then he glanced at his watch, jerked him- self up and turned to the man with the brief case, who was stowing papers away. "All right, Pavey, you might as well make the 6 o'clock from Albany. Tell Jameson there's no reason in God's world why the unit should drop below twenty- eight four. Why shouldn't people be as hungry this September as any other September? Remember what I said, no more Fairbanks pies…" He went on a while about dish breakage percentages and new leases in Brooklyn and so forth, and shouted a last minute thought about the lettuce market after Pavey had disappeared around the comer of the house. Then our host asked abruptly if Wolfe would like a highball, and Wolfe said no thanks he preferred beer but doubtless Mr. Goodwin would enjoy a highball. Pratt yelled "Bert!" at the top of his voice, and Greasy-face showed up from inside the house and got orders. As we sat down the trio from the other end came over, carrying their drinks.

"May we?" Miss Pratt asked her uncle. "Jimmy wants to meet the guests. Mr. Wolfe, Mr. Goodwin, this is my brother."

I stood to acknowledge, and became aware that Wolfe was playing a deep and desperate game when I saw that instead of apologizing for not raising his poundage, as was customary, he stood too. Then we sat again, with Lily the blonde doing a languid drape on a canvas swing and a beautiful calf protruding from one leg of her yellow slacks.

Pratt was talking." Of course I've heard of you," he was telling Wolfe. "Privately too, once or twice. My friend Pete Hutchinson told me that you turned him down a couple of years ago on a little inquiry he undertook regarding his wife."

Wolfe nodded. "I like to interfere with natural processes as little as possible."

"Suit yourself." Pratt took a gulp of highball "That's my motto. It's your business, and you're the one to run it. For instance, I understand you're a fancy eater. Now I'm in the food business, and what I believe in is mass feeding. Last week we served a daily average of 42,392 lunches in Greater New York at an average cost to the consumer of twenty-three and seventeen-hundredths cents. What I claim – how many times have you eaten in a pratteria?"

"I…" Wolfe held it while he poured beer. "I never have."

"Never?"

"I always eat at home."