Joe moved, taking a folder of matches from his pocket, but I intercepted him. “Wait a minute. Gimme.” I took the percolator. “The rest of you go in the hall. I’ll light it.”
Fritz went, and so did Helen, but Joe merely backed to a corner and Wolfe didn’t move from his chair.
I told Wolfe, “I saw Poor’s face and you didn’t. Go in the hall.”
“Nonsense. That little thing?”
“Then I’ll put a blanket over it.”
“No. I want to see it.”
“So do I,” Joe said, “What the hell. I’ll bet it’s a dud.”
I shrugged. “I hope Helen has had a course in first aid.” I put the percolator on the floor over by the couch, about five paces from Wolfe’s desk, lit a match and applied it to the end of the wick, and stood back and watched. An inch of the wick burned in three seconds. “See you at the hospital,” I said cheerily, and beat it to the hall, leaving the door open a crack to see through.
It may have been ten seconds, but it seemed like three times that, before the bang came, and it was a man-size bang, followed immediately by another but different kind of bang. Helen grabbed my arm, but not waiting to enjoy that I swung the door open and stepped through. Joe was still in the corner, looking surprised. Wolfe had twisted around in his chair to gaze at a bruise in the plaster of the wall behind him.
“The percolator lid,” he muttered. “It missed me.”