Wolfe’s voice came. “Yes? Whom do you want?”
I’ve told him a hundred times that’s a hell of a way to answer the phone, but he’s too damn pigheaded.
I spoke. “I want you. I’ve seen the picture, and I wouldn’t have thought that stallion had it in him. It glows with color and life, and the blood seems to pulsate under the warm skin. The shadows are transparent, with a harmonious blending—”
“Shut up! Yes or no?”
“Yes. You have met Mrs. Meegan. Would you like to meet her again?”
“I would. Get her.”
I didn’t have to look in the phone book for her address, having already done so. I left the drugstore and flagged a taxi.
There was no doorman problem at the number on East Forty-ninth Street. It was an old brick house that had been painted a bright yellow and modernized, notably with a self-service elevator, though I didn’t know that until I got in. Getting in was a little complicated. Pressing the button marked “Jewel Jones” in the vestibule was easy enough, and also unhooking the receiver and putting it to my ear, and placing my mouth close to the grille, but then it got more difficult.
A voice crackled. “Yes?”
“Miss Jones?”