Thereupon Wolfe paid me a high compliment. He gazed at me with a severely suspicious eye. Obviously he suspected me of pulling a fast one — of somehow, in less than two hours, digging up Albert M. Irby and his connection with Priscilla Eads, and shanghaiing him. I didn’t mind, but I thought it well to be on record.
“No, sir,” I said firmly.
He grunted. “You don’t know what he wants?”
“No, sir.”
He tossed the book aside. “Bring him in.”
It was a pleasure to go for that lawyer and usher him in to the red leather chair, but I must admit that physically he was nothing to flaunt. I have never seen a balder man, and his hairless freckled dome had a peculiar attraction. It was covered with tiny drops of sweat, and nothing ever happened to them. He didn’t touch them with a handkerchief, they didn’t get larger or merge and trickle, and they didn’t dwindle. They just stood pat. There was nothing repulsive about them, but after ten minutes or so the suspense was quite a strain.
Sitting, he put his briefcase on the little table at his elbow. “Right off,” he said, in a voice that could have used more vinegar and less oil, “I want to put myself in your hands. I’m not in your class, Mr. Wolfe, and I won’t pretend I am. I’ll just tell you how it stands, and whatever you say goes.”
It was a bad start if he expected any favors. Wolfe compressed his lips. “Go ahead.”
“Thank you.” He was sitting forward in the big chair. “I appreciate your seeing me, but I am not surprised, because I know of your great services in the cause of justice, and that’s what I want, justice for a client. His name is Eric Hagh. I was asked to represent him by an attorney in Venezuela, in Caracas, with whom I had previously had dealings — his name is Juan Blanco. That was—”
“Spell it, please?” I requested, notebook in hand.