Gus concentrated again, and when a minute passed without any sign of contact on his face, Wolfe insisted, “Could his expulsion from those colleges have been on account of trouble with women?”
“Him?” Gus snorted again. “If he went to a nudist camp and they lined the men up on one side and the women on the other, he wouldn’t know which was which. With clothes on I suppose he can tell. Not that he’s dumb, I doubt if he’s a bit dumb, but his mind is somewhere else. You asked if he has complexes—”
There was a knock at the door. I went and opened it and took a look, and said, “Come in.”
Donald Pitcairn entered.
I had surveyed him before, but now I had more to go on and I checked. He didn’t look particularly sensitive, though of course I didn’t know which mood he had on. He had about the same weight and volume as me, but it’s no flattery to say that he didn’t carry them the same. He needed tuning. He had dark deep-set eyes, and his face wouldn’t have been bad at all if he had felt better about it.
“Oh, you here, Gus?” he asked, which wasn’t too bright.
“Yeah, I’m here,” Gus replied, getting that settled.
Donald, blinking in the light, turned to Wolfe. His idea was to make it curt. “We wondered why it took so long to pack Andy’s things. That’s what you said you wanted to do, but it doesn’t look as if you’re doing it.”
“We were interrupted,” Wolfe told him.
“I see you were. Don’t you think it would be a good idea to go ahead and pack and get started?”