“Only customers with appointments. You got one?”
“Certainly.” I stuck my head through the doorway and yelled, “Ed! How soon?”
The man leaning on the counter straightened up and turned for a look. At sight of me he grunted. “I’ll be damned. Who whistled for you?”
The presence of my old friend and enemy Sergeant Purley Stebbins of Manhattan Homicide gave the thing an entirely different flavor. Up to then I had just been mildly curious, floating along. Now all my nerves and muscles snapped to attention. Sergeant Stebbins is not interested in petty larceny. I didn’t care for the possibility of having shown a pair of murderers to chairs in our front room.
“Good God,” Purley grumbled, “is this going to turn into one of them Nero Wolfe babies?”
“Not unless you turn it.” I grinned at him. “Whatever it is, I dropped in for a shave, that’s all, and here you boys are, to my surprise.” The flatfoot had given me leeway, and I had crossed the sill. “I’m a regular customer here.” I turned to Fickler, who had trotted over to us. “How long have I been leaving my hair here, Joel?”
None of Fickler’s bones were anywhere near the surface except on his bald head. He was six inches shorter than me, which may have been one reason why I had never got a straight look into his narrow black eyes. He had never liked me much since the day he had forgotten to list an appointment with Ed I had made on the phone, and I, under provocation, had made a few pointed remarks. Now he looked as if he had been annoyed by something much worse than remarks.
“Over six years, Mr. Goodwin,” he said. “This,” he told Purley, “is the famous detective, Mr. Archie Goodwin. Mr. Nero Wolfe comes here too.”
“The hell he does.” Purley, scowling at me, said in a certain tone, “Famous.”
I shrugged. “Just a burden. A damn nuisance.”