The Mother Hunt (Rex Stout Library)

Tell me to in writing and I will. You're very giddy for a girl who doesn't know how to flirt. I started to add, if we refuse to name the client we may be in for trouble, but that's our lookout. We would rather not name you, and we won't, if. If you won't name yourself.

But I why should I?

You shouldn't, but maybe you have already. Three people know that you have hired Nero Wolfe your maid, your cook, and your lawyer. Who else?

Nobody. I haven't told anyone.

Are you sure?

Yes.

Well, don't. Absolutely no one. Not even your best friend. People talk, and if talk about your hiring Nero Wolfe gets to the police, that will do it. Lawyers aren't supposed to talk but most of them do, and on him and the maid and cook we'll have to trust to luck. Don't tell them not to, that seldom helps. People are so damn contrary telling them not to mention something gives them the itch. That doesn't apply to you because you have something to lose. Will you bottle it?

Yes. But you what are you going to do?

I don't know. Mr. Wolfe has the brains, I only run errands. I stood up. The immediate problem is keeping you out, that's why I came. They haven't come at us yet, though they found thousands of my prints in that house and as a licensed private detective mine are on file. So they're being cute. For instance, it would have been cute to follow me here. When I left I didn't bother to see if I had a tail; that takes time if he's any good. I walked and made sure of losing him if I had one. I turned, and turned back. If you think we owe you an apology for letting a mother hunt hatch a murder, here it is.

I owe you an apology. She left the bench. For being rude. That day. She took a step. Are you going?

Sure, I've done the errand. And if I had a tail he may be sitting on the stoop waiting to ask me where I've been.

He wasn't. But I had been home less than half an hour when Cramer came and started the wrangle that finally ended at eighteen minutes to four, when he took me.

When I arrived at the old brownstone shortly after noon on Monday, having been bailed out by Parker and given a lift to 35th Street, I was glad to see, as I entered the office, that Wolfe had kept busy during my absence. He had got a good start on another book, Silent Spring, by Rachel Carson. I stood until he finished a paragraph, shut the book on a finger, and looked the question.