“Maybe I should speak to the Inspector.”
“He’s busy. So the Rackells have hired Wolfe?”
I lifted my nose. “Mr. and Mrs. Rackell have asked Mr. Wolfe to investigate the death of their nephew. Before he starts to whiz through it like a cyclone he wants to know whether he will be cramping the style of those responsible for the national security. I’ve seen Wengert, and the heat has got him. He’s not interested. I am now seeing you because of the Commie angle, which has not appeared in the papers. If it is against the public interest for us to take the job, tell me why. I know you and Cramer think it’s against the public interest for us to eat, let alone detect, but that’s not enough. We would need facts.”
“Uh-huh,” Purley growled. “We give ’em to you and Wolfe decides he can use ’em better than we can. Nuts. I’ll tell you one fact: this one has got stingers. Lay off.”
I nodded sympathetically. “That’s probably good advice. I’ll tell Mr. Wolfe.” I arose. “We would like you to sign a statement covering the substance of this interview. Three copies, one—”
“Go somewhere,” he rasped. “On out. Beat it.”
I thought he was getting careless, but my escort, a paunchy old veteran with a pushed-in nose, was waiting in the hall. As I strode to the front and the entrance he waddled along behind.
It was past eleven by the time I got back to the office, so Wolfe had finished his two hours in the plant rooms and was behind his desk, with beer. It would have been impossible for anything with life in it to look less like a cyclone.
“Well?” he muttered at me.
I sat. “We deposit the check. Wengert sends his regards. Purley doesn’t. They both think you sent me merely to get the dope for free and they sneer at the idea of our caring for the public welfare. Wengert phoned Cramer the minute I left. Not a peep from either one. We only know what we see in the papers.”