“No doubt.” Wolfe grunted. “I can’t speak about him, I didn’t know him. I know you. I would hold up your heart if I could. Obviously you are capable of holding your chin up yourself.” He looked around at the chairs that were empty, saw they were of equal dimensions, and moved to one and got himself onto it, with the usual lapping over at the edges. “Where was it?”
“Sicily,” Ryder said.
“He was a fine boy,” John Bell Shattuck put in. “I was his godfather. No finer boy in America. I was proud of him. I still am proud of him.”
Ryder closed his eyes, opened them again, reached for the phone on his desk, and spoke in it. “General Fife.” After a moment he spoke again, “Mr. Wolfe has come, General. We’re all here. Shall we come up now? Oh. Very well, sir. I understand.”
He pushed the phone back and told the room, “He’s coming here.”
Wolfe grimaced, and I knew why. He knew there was a bigger chair up in the general’s office, in fact two of them. I moved to Ryder’s desk, put my briefcase on it, unbuckled the straps, and took out the grenade.
“Here, Colonel,” I said, “I might as well do this while we’re waiting. Where shall I put it?”
Ryder scowled at me. “I said you could keep it.”
“I know, but I have no place to keep it except my room at Mr. Wolfe’s house, and that won’t do. I caught him tinkering with it last night. I’m afraid he’ll hurt himself.”
Everybody looked at Wolfe. He said testily, “You know Major Goodwin, don’t you? I wouldn’t touch the thing. Nor will I have it on my premises.”