I crossed to the desks and got between them. “I used this phone.” I touched it. “I put a book here.” I tapped the spot. “After dialing the number I took this in my right hand.” I picked up the paperweight. “At an appropriate moment I hit the book with it, grunted, let the receiver fall to the table, and dropped on the floor.”
That was one of the two or three times, possibly four, that I have seen him speechless. He didn’t even glare. He looked around, saw no chair that appealed to him, went to a couch against a wall, sat, and buttressed himself by spreading his arms and putting his palms flat on the couch.
“I forwent salad, cheese, and coffee,” he said, “and came at once.”
“Yes, sir. I fully appreciate it. I can—”
“Shut up. You regard my rule not to leave my house on a business errand as one of the stubborn poses of a calculated eccentricity. It is no such luxury; it is merely a necessity for a tolerable existence. Without such a rule a private detective is the slave of all the exigencies of his neighbors, and in New York there are ten million of them. Are you too headstrong to understand me?”
“No. But I can—”
“Shut up.” He had relaxed enough to tighten his lips and glare. He shook his head. “No. Talk.”
I moved a chair and planted it in front of him, knowing that he disliked tilting his head to look up at people. When I sat I was close enough to keep my voice down almost to a whisper. “I’m fairly sure this room isn’t wired for sound,” I said, “and that there’s no one hiding in here, but we don’t have to bellow. I would like to tell you what has happened in the last three hours. It will take seven minutes.”
“I’m here,” he growled. “Talk.”
I did so, going overtime some, but not much. There was a pained and peevish look on his face throughout, but I could tell by his eyes that he was listening. Having covered the events, such as they were, I proceeded to cover me.