“The trouble with him,” Cynthia was telling me with a frown, “is that he can’t bear to decide anything. Especially if it’s important, you might think he had to wait to see what the stars say or maybe a crystal ball. Then when he does make up his mind he’s as stubborn as a mule. The way I do when I want him to agree about something, I act as if it wasn’t very important—”
The door came open and a man was there. He shut the door and approached her.
“I’m sorry, Cynthia, it was Miss Dougherty of Bullock’s-Wilshire, and Brackett was with her. She thinks you’re better than ever, and she’s lost her head completely over those three— Oh! Who—?”
“Mr. Goodwin of Nero Wolfe’s office,” Cynthia told him. “Mr. Daumery, Mr. Goodwin.”
I got up to offer a hand and he took it.
“Nero Wolfe the detective?” he asked.
I told him yes. His exuberance about Miss Dougherty of Bullock’s-Wilshire evaporated without a trace. He sent Cynthia a look, shook his head, though not apparently at her, went to a chair, not the one at his desk, and sat. Cynthia’s statistics had informed me that he was four years younger than me, and I might as well concede them to him. On account of the intimate way he had beamed at Cynthia on entering, naturally I looked upon him as a rival, but to be perfectly fair to him he was built like a man, he knew where to get clothes and how to wear them, and he was not actually ugly.
Now the exuberance was gone. “This godawful mess,” he glummed. “Where does Nero Wolfe come in?”
“I went to see him,” Cynthia said. “I’ve hired him.”
“What for? To do what?”