The Second Confesion

“Come in here,” he commanded. “Fritz, will you bring in a tray?” Another oddity. I followed him into the office. As I was soon to learn, he had news that he would have waited up all night to tell me, but something I had said had pushed it aside for the moment. No concern at all, not even life or death, could be permitted to shove itself ahead of food. As he lowered himself into the chair behind his desk he demanded, “Why are you so hungry? Doesn't Mr Sperling feed his guests?” “Sure.” I sat. “There's nothing wrong with the grub, but they put something in the drinks that takes your appetite. It's a long story. Want to hear it tonight?” “No.” He looked at the clock. “But I must. Go ahead.” I obliged. I was still getting the characters introduced when Fritz came with the tray, and I bit into a sturgeon sandwich and went on. I could tell from Wolfe's expression that for some reason anything and everything would be welcome, and I let him have it all. By the time I finished it was after two o'clock, the tray had been cleaned up except for a little milk in the pitcher, and Wolfe knew all that I knew, leaving out a few little personal details.

I emptied the pitcher into the glass. “So I guess Sperling's hunch was good and he really is a Commie. With a picture of the card and the assortment I got of Rony, I should think you could get that lined up by that character who has appeared as Mr Jones on our expense list now and then. He may not actually be Uncle Joe's nephew, but he seems to be at least a deputy in the Union Square Politburo. Can't you get him to research it?” Fritz had brought another tray, with beer, and Wolfe poured the last of the second bottle.