“I came here to look at this,” Wolfe told him.
“I know. You and ten thousand more. Cross over.”
“I am a friend of the man who was killed. My name is Nero Wolfe.”
“Yeah, and mine’s General MacArthur. Keep moving.”
It might have developed into an interesting conversation if I hadn’t caught sight, in one of the spotlights, of a familiar face and figure. I sang out, “Rowcliff!”
He turned and peered, stepped out of the glare and peered some more, and then approached. “Well?” he demanded.
Among all the array of Homicide personnel that Wolfe and I have had dealings with, high and low, Lieutenant Rowcliff is the only one of whom I am dead sure that our feelings are absolutely reciprocal. He would like to see me exactly where I would like to see him. So, having summoned him, I left it to Wolfe, who spoke.
“Good evening, Mr. Rowcliff. Is Mr. Cramer here?”
“No.”
“Mr. Stebbins?”