That sounded better, and I turned to Wolfe and told him reproachfully, “You can’t blame her. I doubt if it’s fear or despair or anything normal like that. It’s probably hunger. I’ll bet she hasn’t had a bite since breakfast.”
“Good heavens.” His eyes popped wide open. “Is that true, Miss Nieder? Haven’t you had lunch?”
She shook her head. “They kept me there — and then I had to see you—”
Wolfe was pushing the button. Since it was only five steps from the office to the kitchen door, in seconds Fritz was there.
“Sandwiches and beer at once,” Wolfe told him. “Beer, Miss Nieder?”
“I don’t have to eat.”
“Nonsense. Beer? Claret? Milk? Brandy?”
“Scotch and water. I could use that.”
Which of course halted progress for a good twenty minutes. It wasn’t only his own meals that Wolfe insisted on safeguarding from extraneous matters. When Fritz brought the tray Cynthia wasn’t reluctant about the Scotch, but she needed urging on the sandwiches and got it from both of us. After a taste of the homemade pâté no further urging was required. To make her feel that she could take her time Wolfe conversed with me about the plant germination records. Not about Cramer. His feelings about Cramer were much too warm and too recent. When she was through I put the tray on the table by the big globe, leaving her a glass full of her mixture, and then resumed my seat at my desk.
Wolfe was regarding her warily. “Do you feel better?”