“Certainly. That’s what—”
“I’ll go on, please. You were and are convinced that the substitution was made by one of his dinner companions who is a Communist and who learned that your nephew was acting for the FBI, and you so informed Inspector Cramer of the police. You were not satisfied with his acceptance of that information, especially in a subsequent talk with him yesterday morning, Monday, and went yourself to the office of the FBI, saw a Mr. Anstrey, and found him noncommittal. He took the position that a homicide in Manhattan is the business of the New York police. Exasperated, you went to Inspector Cramer’s office, were unable to see him, talked with a sergeant named Stebbins, came away further exasperated, regarded with favor your husband’s suggestion, made this morning, that I be consulted, and here you are. Have I left out anything important?”
“One little point.” Rackell cleared his throat. “Our telling Inspector Cramer about Arthur’s joining the Communist party for the FBI — that was in confidence. Of course this talk with you is confidential too, naturally, since we’re your clients.”
Wolfe shook his head. “Not yet. You want to hire me to investigate the death of your nephew?”
“Yes. Certainly.”
“Then you should know that while no one excels me in discretion I will not work under restrictions.”
“That’s fair enough.”
“Good. I’ll let you know tomorrow, probably by noon.” Wolfe reached to push the paperweight aside and pick up the check. “Shall I keep this meanwhile and return it if I can’t take the job?”
Rackell frowned, perplexed. His wife snapped, “Why on earth couldn’t you take it?”
“I don’t know, madam. I hope to. I need the money. But I’ll have to look into it a little — discreetly, of course. I’ll let you know tomorrow at the latest.” He extended a hand with the check. “Unless you prefer to take this and try elsewhere.”