The Father Hunt

The only footstools in the house were in Fritz's room in the basement. On my way to the kitchen to ask to borrow it and tell him a glass of water was wanted, a glance showed me Saul and Amy in the alcove, and her shoes were off. In Fritz's big cluttered den in the basement, with its 294 cookbooks on eleven shelves, there were three footstools, and I took the biggest one, which was topped with a tapestry with a woven hunter aiming a spear at a woven wild boar.

Back up and in the office, I found that I hadn't missed

any conversation. Jarrett was taking a large blue pill from a little gold box, and I stood with the footstool until he had put the pill in his mouth and got it down with a swallow of water. He may have expected me to lift his feet to get the stool under, presumably Oscar would have, but I wasn't that cordial. After he got the glass back on the stand he lifted them himself and I slid the stool under.

"There's a competent doctor a few doors away," Wolfe said.

"No," Jarrett said. The eyes were as frozen as ever and the bony jaw as set. "I told you mornings are difficult. Talk."

Wolfe shook his head. "I will not hector a sick man. Will the pill help?"

"Damn your impudence." The bony jaw twitched. "I'm old. I'm not sick. You will not hector me, sick or well. Talk."