“Your face is dirty, Purley.”
“Go to hell.”
“I was just starting. Excuse me.”
I began to dodge my way back to the hall door, thinking that I had better find my employer and inform him that I had delivered as usual, but I was only halfway there when he and Demarest appeared, coming in to us. After one swift glance at the assembly, the lawyer sidled off along the wall to a remote chair over by the bookshelves, evidently not being in a welcoming mood. Wolfe headed for his desk, but in the middle of the room found himself blocked. George Dickson was there, facing him.
“Nero Wolfe?” Dickson put out a hand. “I’m Jean Daumery. This is a real pleasure!”
Wolfe stood motionless. The room was suddenly quiet, painfully quiet, and all eyes were going in one direction, at the two men.
“How do you do, Mr. Daumery,” Wolfe said dryly, stepped around him, and walked to his chair. Except for the sound of that movement the quiet held. Jean Daumery let his hand fall, which is about all you can do with a rejected hand unless you want to double it into a fist and use it another way. After solving the hand problem, Jean turned a half-circle to face Wolfe’s desk and spoke in a different tone.
“I was told that my nephew sent for me. He didn’t. You got me here by a trick. What do you want?”
“Sit down, sir,” Wolfe said. “This may take all night.”
“Not all of my night. What do you want?”