“Yes, sir.” He knew darned well it was, since I had started years ago calling Cramer that.
“He wants to speak with Mrs. Whitten?”
“One of his men did, probably about some trifle, and found out she was here. What he really wants is to see if you’re getting up a charade.”
“He’s barely in time. If he engages to let me proceed without interruption until I’ve finished, admit him.”
“I don’t like it. He’s got Pompa.”
“He won’t have him long. We’re waiting for you. I want a record of this.”
I didn’t like it at all, but when Wolfe has broken into a gallop what I like has about the weight of an undersized feather from a chicken’s neck.
I returned to the front and opened to a crack again and told the inspector, “Mrs. Whitten is in the office with him, chatting. So is Miss Julie Alving, toy buyer at Meadow’s, who was formerly on good terms with the late Whitten. You may have heard of her.”
“Yeah, I have. What the hell is he trying to pull?”
“You name it. I’m just the stenographer. You have a choice. Being an inspector, you can go somewhere for lunch and then take in a ball game, or you can give me your sacred word of honor that you’ll absolutely keep your mouth shut until and unless Wolfe hands you the torch. If you choose the latter you’re welcome, and you can have a chair to sit on. After all, you have no ticket even for standing room, since neither of those females is under a charge.”