“You picked a fine time, Laurel. He’s on the phone to the office.”
“So I hear,” said Laurel. “Mr. Queen, Mr. Wallace. His other name ought to be Job, but it’s Alfred. The perfect man, I call him. Super-efficient. Discreet as all get-out. Never slips. One side, Alfred. I’ve got business with my partner.”
“Better let me set him up,” said Wallace with a smile. As he slipped back into the room, his eyes flicked over Ellery. Then the door was shut again, and Ellery waved his right hand tenderly. It still tingled from Wallace’s grip.
“Surprised?” murmured Laurel.
Ellery was. He had expected a Milquetoast character. Instead Alfred Wallace was a towering, powerfully assembled man with even, rather sharp, features, thick white hair, a tan, and an air of lean distinction. His voice was strong and thoughtful, with the merest touch of... superiority? Whatever it was, it was barely enough to impress, not quite enough to annoy. Wallace might have stepped out of a set on the M-G-M lot labeled High Society Drawing Room; and, in fact, “well-preserved actor” had been Ellery’s impulsive characterization ― Hollywood leading-men types with Athletic Club tans were turning up these days in the most unexpected places, swallowing their pride in order to be able to swallow at all. But a moment later Ellery was not so sure. Wallace’s shoulders did not look as if they came of! with his coat. His physique, even his elegance, seemed homegrown.
“I should think you’d be smitten, Laurel,” said Ellery as they waited. “That’s a virile character. Perfectly disciplined, and dashing as the devil.”
“A little too old,” said Laurel. “For me, that is.”
“He can’t be much more than fifty-five. And he doesn’t look forty-five, white hair notwithstanding.”
“Alfred would be too old for me if he were twenty.― Oh. Well? Do I have to get Mr. Queen to brush you aside, Alfred, or is the Grand Vizier going to play gracious this morning?”
Alfred Wallace smiled and let them pass.