I nodded west. “Up Lexington four blocks and around the corner. We can get a taxi—”
“No. We’ll walk.” He was off.
I went along, more and more impressed. The death of his oldest and closest friend had certainly hit him hard. He would have to cross five street intersections, with wheeled monsters waiting for him at every corner, ready to spring, but he strode on regardless, as if it were a perfectly natural and normal procedure.
II
Things were not natural and normal at Rusterman’s. The six-foot, square-jawed doorman opened for us and let us pass through, and then blurted to Wolfe’s broad back, “Is it true, Mr. Wolfe?” Wolfe ignored it and went on, but I turned and gave him a nod. Wolfe marched on past the cloakroom, so I did likewise. In the big front room, which you crossed on your way to the dining room, and which Marko had called the lounge but which I called the bar because it had one at its far side, there were only a few customers scattered around at the tables, since it was nearly nine-thirty and by that hour the clientele were inside, busy with perdrix en casserole or tournedos Beauharnais. The tone of the place, subdued but not stiff, had of course been set by Marko, with the able assistance of Felix, Leo, and Joe, and I had never seen one of them break training by so much as a flicker of an eyelash until that evening. As we entered, Leo, standing at the entrance to the dining room, caught sight of us and started toward us, then wheeled and went back and shouted into the dining room, “Joe!”
There were murmurs from the few scattered customers in the bar. Leo wheeled again, clapped his hand to his mouth, crossed to us, and stood staring at Wolfe. I saw sweat on his brow, another misdemeanor. In restaurants that sell squabs for five bucks or more apiece, captains and headwaiters are not allowed to sweat.
“It’s true,” Leo hissed, his hand still covering his mouth. He seemed to be shrinking in front of our eyes, and he was none too big anyway — not a shorty, but quite narrow up to his shoulders, where he spread out some. He let the hand fall, but kept his voice down. “Good God, Mr. Wolfe, is it true? It must—”
A hand gripped his shoulder from behind. Joe was there, and Joe was built for gripping. His years with Marko had polished him so that he no longer looked like a professional wrestler, but he had the size and lines.
“Get hold of yourself, damn it,” he muttered at Leo. “Did you want a table, Mr. Wolfe? Marko’s not here.”
“I know he’s not. He’s dead. I don’t—”