The Rubber Band

Wolfe leaned back with his eyes shut, and I didn't bother him. It was a swell situation for a tantrum, and I didn't feel like a dressing-down. If his observations had been anything at all more than shooting off, this was a bad break and it might lead to almost anything, since if Mike Walsh emptied the bag for Cramer there was no telling what might be thought necessary for protecting the Marquis of Clivers from a sinister plof. I didn't talk, but got out the plant records and pretended to go over them.

At a quarter to one the doorbell rang, and I went and admitted Johnny Keems. I was still acting as hall boy, because you never could tell about Cramer. Johnny, looking like a Princeton boy with his face washed, which was about the only thing I had against him, followed me to the office and dropped into a chair without an invitation. He demanded, "How did I come through on the code? Not so bad, huh?"

I grunted. "Perfectly marvelous. You're a wonder. Where did you find Walsh?"

He threw one leg over the other. "No trouble at all. Over on East Sixty-fourth Street, where he boards. Your instructions were not to approach him until I had a line or in case of emergency, so I found out by judicious inquiry that he was in there and then I stuck around. He came out at a quarter to ten and walked to Second Avenue and turned south. West on Fifty-eighth to Park. South on Park-"

Wolfe put in, "Skip the itinerary."

Johnny nodded. "We were about there anyhow. At Fifty-sixth Street he went into the Hotel Portland."

"Indeed."