So they settled it on a basis of reciprocal nobility, and the pair turned to go. Not caring to appear churlish, I went to open the front door for them. As they were passing through, Jane suddenly realized I was there and stopped and impulsively extended her hand.
“I take it back, Archie. You’re not a rat. Shake on it. Is he, Emil?”
“He certainly is not,” Emil baritoned heartily.
“Gee,” I stammered with moist eyes, “this is the happiest day of my life. This will make a new rat of me.” I closed the door.
Back in the office, Wolfe, in his own chair with only one bullet hole that could easily be repaired, and with three bottles of beer on a tray in front of him, was leaning back with his hands resting on the chair arms and his eyes open only to slits, the picture of a man at peace.
He murmured at me, “Archie. Don’t forget to remind me in the morning to telephone Mr. Viscardi about that tarragon.”
“Yes, sir.” I sat down. “And if I may, sir, I would like to offer a suggestion.”
“What?”
“Only a suggestion. Let’s advertise for a man-eating tiger weighing around two hundred and sixty pounds capable of easy and normal movement. We could station him behind the big cabinet and when you enter he would leap on you from the rear.”
It didn’t faze him. He was enjoying the feel of his chair and I doubt if he heard me.