Entering, he shot a glance and a smile at Dorothy Keyes, ignored the others, came to a stop in front of Wolfe’s desk, and said pleasantly, “You’re Nero Wolfe, of course. I’m Vic Talbott. I suppose you’d rather not shake hands with me under the circumstances — that is, if you’re accepting the job these people came to offer you. Are you?”
“How do you do, sir,” Wolfe rumbled. “Good heavens, I’ve shaken hands with — how many murderers, Archie?”
“Oh — forty,” I estimated.
“At least that. That’s Mr. Goodwin, Mr. Talbott.”
Evidently Vic figured I might be squeamish too, for he gave me a nod but extended no hand. Then he turned to face the guests. “What about it, folks? Have you hired the great detective?”
“Nuts,” Wayne Safford squeaked at him. “You come prancing in, huh?”
Ferdinand Pohl had left his chair and was advancing on the gate-crasher. I was on my feet, ready to move. There was plenty of feeling loose in the room, and I didn’t want any of our clients hurt. But all Pohl did was to tap Talbott on the chest with a thick forefinger and growl at him, “Listen, my boy. You’re not going to sell anything here. You’ve made one sale too many as it is.” Pohl whirled to Wolfe. “What did you let him in for?”
“Permit me to say,” Broadyke put in, “that it does seem an excess of hospitality.”
“By the way, Vic” — it was Dorothy’s soft voice — “Ferdy says I was your accomplice.”
The remarks from the others had made no visible impression on him, but it was different with Dorothy. He turned to her, and the look on his face was good for a whole chapter in his biography. He was absolutely all hers unless I needed an oculist. She could lift her lovely brows a thousand times a day without feeding him up. He let his eyes speak to her and then wheeled to use his tongue for Pohl. “Do you know what I think of you, Ferdy? I guess you do!”