He went. I must say for him that once he had accepted a situation he didn’t waste any time bellyaching. As soon as the door had closed behind him I went at Wolfe.
“Now what? Has he gone for another finger?”
He said something to Meta, and she replied, and he pushed back his chair and stood up, flinching only a little. “We’ll go in the other room,” he told me, and moved, and I followed, leaving the door open, not to be rude to our hostess. He lowered himself onto his former chair, put his palms on his knees, and sighed as far down as it would go. “We’re in for another night of it,” he said glumly, and proceeded to report. First he sketched it, and then, when I insisted, filled it in. He was in no humor to oblige me or anyone else, but I was in no humor to settle for a skeleton.
When he had finished I sat a minute and turned it over. I had certainly seen sweeter prospects. “Is there such a thing,” I asked, “as a metal dinar any more? A coin?”
“I doubt it. Why?”
“I’d like to have one to toss, to decide which side Danilo is really on. I admit his wife thinks she knows, but does she? As it stands now, I could name at least fourteen people I would rather have take me for a ride than Marko’s nephew.”
“I am committed,” he said grumpily. “You are not.”
“Phooey. I want to see your birthplace and put a plaque on it.”
No comment. He sighed again, arose from his chair, crossed to a sofa with a high back that was against the far wall, placed a cushion to suit him, and stretched out. He tried it first on his back, but protruded over the edge, and turned on his side. It was a pathetic sight, and to take my mind off it I went to another wall and looked at pictures some more.
I think he got a nap in. Some time later, when Danilo returned, I had to go to the sofa and touch Wolfe’s arm before he would open his eyes. He gave me a dirty look, and one just as dirty to Danilo, swung his legs around, sat, and ran his fingers through his hair.