The Doorbell Rang (The Rex Stout Library)

She said yes, and I went. In the foyer the maid came and wanted to hold my coat, and not to hurt her feelings I let her. Down in the lobby, from the look the doorman gave me as he opened the door I deduced that the hallman had told him what I was, and to be in character I met the look with a sharp and wary eye. Outside, some snowflakes were doing stunts. In the taxi, headed downtown, again I ignored the rear. I figured that if they were on me, which was highly likely, maybe one cent of each ten grand of Wolfe's income tax, and one mill of each ten grand of mine, would go to pay government employees to keep me company uninvited, which didn't seem right.

Wolfe had just come down from the plant rooms after his four-to-six afternoon session with the orchids and got nicely settled in his chair with The Treasure of Our Tongue. Instead of going on in and crossing to my desk as usual, I stopped at the sill of the office door, and when he looked up I pointed a finger straight down, emphatically, turned, and beat it to the stairs to the basement and on down. Flipping the light switch, I went and perched on the pool table. Two minutes. Three. Four, and there were footsteps. He stood at the door, glared at me, and spoke.

"I won't tolerate this."

I raised an eyebrow. "I could write it."

"Pfui. Two points. One, the risk is extremely slight. Two, we can use it. As you talk you can insert comments or statements at will which I am to disregard, notifying me by raising a finger. I shall do the same. Of course making no reference to Mr Cramer; we can't risk that; and maintaining our conclusion that the FBI killed that man, and we intend to establish it."

"But actually we don't."

"Certainly not." He turned and went.

So I was foxed. His house, his office, and his chair. But I had to admit, as I mounted the steps, that pigheaded as he was, it wasn't a bad idea. If they really had an electronic ear on the office, which I didn't believe, it might even be a damned good idea. When I entered the office he was back at his desk and I went to mine, and as I sat he said, "Well?"

He should have had a finger raised. He never wastes breath by saying "Well?" when I return from an errand; he merely puts the book down, or the beer glass, and is ready for me to speak.