IX

Saturday noon, the next day, Wengert and Cramer stood there in the office, at the end of Wolfe’s desk. They were standing because, having been there nearly an hour and covered all the points, they were ready to leave. They had not admitted in so many words that Wolfe had done the American people, including them, a favor, but on the whole they had been sociable.

As they were turning to go I said, “Excuse me, one little thing.”

They looked at me. I spoke to Wengert. “I thought Mr. Wolfe might mention it, but he didn’t, and neither did you. I only bring it up to offer a constructive criticism. An FBI undercover girl, even one disguised as a Commie, shouldn’t get in the habit of hurting people’s feelings just for the hell of it. It didn’t do a particle of good for Carol Berk to call me a crummy little stooge before a witness. Of course she was sore because I found her in the closet, but even so. I think you ought to speak to her about it.”

Wengert was frowning at me. “Carol Berk? What kind of a gag is this?”

“Oh, come off it.” I was disgusted. “How thick could I get? It was so obvious Mr. Wolfe didn’t even bother to comment on it. Who else could have told you about my talk with Delia Devlin? She trusted Miss Berk enough to let her hide in the closet, so of course she told her about it. Do you want to debate it with me on TV?”

“No. Nor with anybody else. You talk too damn much.”

“Only with the right people. Say please, and I’ll promise not to tell. I just wanted to make a helpful suggestion. I may be crummy and I may be a stooge, but I’m not little.”