Back a few years, when we had been in G2 together, it had been Archie, but then he hadn’t had a corner room with five phones on his desk. I crossed my legs to show there was no rush.
“Not a thing,” I told him. “Mr. Wolfe just wants to clear. Yesterday a man and wife named Rackell came to see him. They want him to investigate the death of their nephew, Arthur Rackell. Do you know about it, or do you want to call someone in? Mrs. Rackell has talked with a Mr. Anstrey.”
“I know. Go ahead.”
“Then I won’t have to draw pictures. Our bank says that Rackell rates seven figures west of the decimal point, and we would like to earn a fee by tagging a murderer, but our country right or wrong. We would hate to torpedo the ship of state in this bad weather. The Rackells came to Mr. Wolfe because they think the FBI and the NYPD regard the death of Arthur as a regrettable but minor incident. They say he was killed by a Commie who discovered that he was an FBI plant. Before we proceed on that theory Mr. Wolfe wants to clear with you. Of course you may not want to say, even under the rug to us, that he was yours. May you?”
“It’s hotter than yesterday,” Wengert stated.
“Yeah. Would you care to make any sign at all, for instance a wink?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll try something more general. There has been nothing in the papers about the Commie angle, not a word, so there has been no mention of the FBI. Is the FBI working on the murder, officially or otherwise?”
“Much hotter,” he said.
“It sure is. How about the others, the five dinner guests? Of course they’re our meat. Any suggestions, requests, or orders? Any strings you wouldn’t want us to trip on?”