It was absolutely true, and it sounded extremely noble the way he put it, but I was not impressed. He simply hated to work and didn’t intend to if he could get out of it. He had given me a chance to get something started, and I had returned empty-handed, and now there was no telling when — or if — he would really get on the job. I sat and looked at him with his damn magazine. It would have been a pleasure to take a gun from the drawer and shoot it out of his hand, and at that angle it would have been quite safe, but I regretfully decided it was inadvisable. Also I decided that nothing I could say or do would budge him right then. I had only two alternatives: take another leave of absence, or obey orders and get busy on the report. I swiveled, pulled the typewriter to me, got paper and twirled it in, and hit the keys.
Three and a half hours later, at six o’clock, several things had happened. I had typed nine pages. Four journalists had called on the phone, and two in person — not admitted. Fritz had asked me to help him move some furniture in the front room so he could roll up the rug to send to the cleaners, and I had obliged. Wolfe had gone up at four o’clock for his two hours in the plant rooms, and soon afterward there had been a phone call — not from a journalist. I do not gush to strangers on the phone when they ask for an appointment with Wolfe, but when I learned that one’s name and the nature of his business it was hard not to. I told him to come at ten minutes to six, and when he arrived, on the dot, I put him in the front room and closed the door that connected with the office.
When Wolfe came down, on schedule, and crossed to his desk, I thought it only fair to give him a chance to show that he had snapped out of it. But no. He sat and rang for beer, and when Fritz brought it he opened a bottle, poured, selected one from the stack of current books on his desk, leaned back, and sighed comfortably. He was going to have a wonderful time until Fritz announced dinner.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said gently. “There’s a man in the front room waiting to see you.”
His head turned, and a frown appeared. “Who?”
“Well, it’s like this. As you explained last night, you had to have some kind of a wedge to start an opening, and this morning I went out to get one and failed. Seeing how disappointed you were, I felt that I must somehow meet the challenge. I have met it. The man in there is a lawyer named Albert M. Irby, with an office on Forty-first Street. I phoned Parker, and he had never heard of Irby but reported back that he is a member of the New York bar in good standing. As for Irby, he says that he is representing Eric Hagh, the former husband of Priscilla Eads, and he would like to talk with you.”
“Where the devil did you get him?” It was a blurt of indignation.
“I didn’t exactly get him. He came. He phoned for an appointment at four-twenty-one.”
“What does he want?”
“To talk with you. Since you don’t like a client horning in on a case, I didn’t press him for particulars.”