“And Mr. Goodwin must be present to take notes. He will be available when you want him. You can’t legally detain him, anyhow, unless you are prepared—”
Cramer snorted in exasperation. “Oh, for God’s sake. Discuss orchids. All I want is Goodwin when I want him.”
He crossed the sill with the other two, and the door was closed behind them. I glared at Wolfe without any attempt to cover it, and Purley Stebbins gazed at him suspiciously. Neither of us was making any impression on Wolfe, who had got up from his chair and was speaking to Lewis Hewitt in an undertone. Hewitt, frowning, nodded without enthusiasm, and moved toward the door to the anteroom with Wolfe at his heels.
“Come, Archie,” Wolfe said.
Purley blocked me. “Where you going?”
“The other end of the anteroom,” Hewitt said. “A room there.”
Purley hated it. He did hate it. Me detained and going through doors like that. He didn’t even smile when I playfully stuck a thumb in his ribs as I went by.
The room at the other end of the anteroom wasn’t much more than a cubbyhole, with one window, a couple of small wooden tables, and four wooden chairs. The sad woman in the anteroom came in and turned on the light and went out again and closed the door. Wolfe scowled at the skimpy chairs and darted a glance at me, but I ignored it because I was in no mood to lug in the comfortable seat he had left in the other room. He compressed his lips and sat down, taking care to center himself on what seat there was.
“Sit down, Mr. Hewitt,” he invited.
Hewitt stood. “This is an odd performance.” He looked at me and back at Wolfe. “What you can possibly have to say to me so confidential as to require—”