I faced Wolfe. “I’ll do my best to see that everybody understands that I’m not working for you. Some of them won’t believe it, but I can’t help that. I’ll come back for some things, and if I can’t make it until late I’ll phone to tell you what hotel I’m at. If you decide you’d rather have me quit, okay. I haven’t got time to discuss it now because I want to catch a guy before lunch.”
He sat with his lips pressed tight, scowling. I turned and went. Passing the hall rack, I snared my straw hat, not that I don’t hate to monkey with a hat in summer, but I might need the tone. Descending the seven steps of the stoop, I turned east as if I knew exactly where I was headed for, walked to Tenth Avenue and turned downtown, and at the corner of Thirty-fourth Street entered a drugstore, mounted a stool at the soda fountain, and ordered a chocolate egg malted with three eggs.
There was no guy I wanted to catch before lunch. I had got away from there because I knew I had to as soon as I saw there was no chance of harassing Wolfe into taking a hand. I didn’t blame him; he had no personal problem like mine. I wasn’t fussing about the problem. That was settled. Until further notice I had only one use for my time and faculties: to find out who the strangler was that I had sent Priscilla Eads to in a taxi, and wrap him up for delivery to the proper address, with or without help. I had no great ideas about galloping down Broadway on a white horse with his head on the point of a spear. I just wanted to catch the sonofabitch, or at least help.
I considered the notion of helping. I could go to Inspector Cramer, explain my problem, and offer to stick strictly to orders if he would take me on as a special for the case. I might have done it but for the fact that Rowcliff would probably be giving some of the orders. Nothing on earth could justify a man’s deliberately putting himself under orders from Rowcliff. I gave that up. But then what? If I went to Priscilla’s apartment I wouldn’t be let in. If I got to Perry Helmar, supposing I could, he wouldn’t speak to me. I had to find a crack somewhere.
When I had finished the malted, and a glass of water for a chaser, I went to a phone booth, dialed the number of the Gazette, and got Lon Cohen.
“First,” I told him, “this call is strictly personal. Nero Wolfe is neither involved nor interested. With that understood, kindly tell me all facts, surmises, and rumors connected directly or indirectly with Miss Priscilla Eads and her murder.”
“The paper costs a nickel, son. I’m busy.”
“So am I. I can’t wait for the paper. Did she leave any relatives?”
“None in New York that we know of. A couple of aunts in California.”
“Have you got any kind of a line that you can mention on the phone?”