The League of Frightened Men

I suppose he was trying to decide whether it was time for him to jump up and begin resenting things. He didn't glance at me as I sat down by him; he was looking at Wolfe.

Wolfe was on the phone. He kept his usual tempo, taking his time, though he had to try three numbers before he reached the man he wanted. He finally got him. Nobody on the chairs moved by a hair while he was talking.

"Inspector Cramer? This is Nero Wolfe.

That's right. Good evening, sir.

–Inspector, I would like you to do me a favor. I have guests in my office, and no leisure at present for long explanations. I believe you know how much reliance may be placed in any positive statement I may make. Well. Will you send a man to my office – perhaps two would be better – for the murderer of Dr. Loring A.

Burton? I have him here. – No. No, indeed. I beg you, explanations can come later. – Of course, proof; what good is certainty without proof. – By all means, if you wish to come yourself. Certainly."

He pushed the phone back, and Bowen jumped up. His knees were trembling, and so were his little lady-hands, which I was watching to see that he didn't make a pass. I took advantage of his being up to feel his rear for a gun, and my hands on him startled him. He forgot what he was going to say to Wolfe and turned on me, and by God he hauled off and kicked me on the shin. I got up and grabbed him and pushed him back into his chair and observed to him:

"You try another friendly gesture like that and I'll paste you one."

Drummond, who had been sitting next to Bowen, on the other side, moved away.

Several others got up. Wolfe said:

"Sit down, gentlemen. – I beg you, there is no occasion for turmoil.

–Archie, if you will kindly bring Mr.

Bowen closer; I would like to see him better while talking to him. If it is necessary to prod him, you may do so."

I I stood up and told the stockbroker to find his feet. He didn't move and he didn't look up; his hands were in his lap twisting in a knot and there were various colors distributed over his face and neck and I was surprised not to see any yellow.

I said, "Get a move on or I'll move you."

From behind me I heard George Pratt's voice:

"You don't have to prove you're tough.

Look at the poor devil."

"Yeah?" I didn't turn because I didn't care to take my eyes off of Bowen. "Was it your shin he kicked? Speak when you're spoken to."