I languidly waved a twenty-dollar bill under his snubby nose.
"Now that you put it that way, sir," the little bar-steward admitted, "I do remember hearing that Mr. Willamer say that unless you gave him $100,000 he'd start investigating your books."
"Splendid!" I congratulated him. "Just remember that, when the time comes. Now see if you can get me Mr. Merriwether Vail on the phone. He's in the Manhattan Directory—a lawyer."
"Merry?" I asked, after we had been connected. "I have a feeling I'm going to need your legal services.... No, it's not that one ... it's another kind of jam ... I'm being blackmailed.... No, you dope, it's not a woman, it's an official.... Yes, I'll stick here until you can get over.... What shall I order for you, a double Scotch?... Right! At the Pond Club."
There was one more move to make. I called Bedford Hills, person-to-person call, and asked for my wife. After the usual duel between local and suburban operators, Jimmie's voice answered. "Winnie," she said. "Thank goodness you telephoned me. You'd better come out at once. The most dreadful things have been happening."
"It's not so wonderful here either," I told her. "Listen, Jimmie, you come on in—"
"It's Ponto," she said, paying absolutely no attention to what I was saying. "He's drunk—yes, drunk! He managed to upset that decanter of old brandy you keep on your night table and lapped it up. Now he's howling and hiccoughing like mad and I'm afraid to go near him."
"Oh, Jimmie, to hell with Ponto. Let him sleep it off. You come on in to town. We've got to do some fast thinking. I'll meet you in the Little Bar at the Ritz at five o'clock. Bring your night things, and mine, too. We may have to leave town in a hurry. I'll explain when I see you."