“You have newspapermen on the brain,” I told him courteously but firmly. “I happen to be a detective.” I got my card case from my pocket. “Like this.” I pulled my license card, with photograph and thumbprint, from under the cellophane and handed it to him, and he inspected it.
“This does not indicate,” he asserted, “that you are a member of the police force.”
“I didn’t say I was. I merely—”
“What’s the trouble, Borly?” a voice came from behind him. He turned, and the pressure of my foot made the door swing in more. Since an open door is universally regarded as an invitation to enter, I crossed the threshold.
“There’s no trouble, Mr. Landy,” I said cheerfully. “The butler was just doing his duty.” As I spoke two other men came in sight from a door to the right, which made it four to one. I was going on. “My name’s Goodwin, and I work for Nero Wolfe, and I want to see Mrs. Whitten.”
“The hell you do. On out.” With a gesture he indicated the door he wished me to use. “I said out!”
He took a step toward me. I was mildly confused because I hadn’t expected to have to deal with a whole quartet immediately on entering. Of course it was no trick to spot them, from their pictures in the papers and descriptions. The one outing me, which he might possibly have done since he was a little bigger, up to heavyweight specifications, with a big red face having eyes too far apart, was Mortimer. The one with dark hair slicked back, wirier and smaller and smarter looking, was his elder brother Jerome. The middle-sized one, who looked like a washed-out high school teacher, was their brother-in-law, the famous columnist who was more widespread than AMBROSIA, Daniel Bahr.
“You can,” I admitted, “put me out, but if you wait half a minute you can still put me out. I have come to see Mrs. Whitten on behalf of Miss Julie Alving. It would be only fair to let Mrs. Whitten herself decide whether she wants to see someone who wishes to speak for Miss Alving. If you—”
“Beat it.” He took another step. “You’re damn right we can put you out—”
“Take it easy, Mort.” Jerome was approaching, in no haste or alarm. He saw the license card in the butler’s hand, took it and glanced at it, and handed it to me. “My mother’s upstairs asleep. I’m Jerome Landy. Tell me what you want to say for Miss Alving and I’ll see that it gets attention.”