But without waiting for what he wanted, he wheeled and strode off. I told the one at the desk, “Kindly note that I delivered that envelope to that baboon at one-six Daylight Saving,” and departed.
Back at the house, Wolfe had just started lunch, and I joined him in the operation on an anchovy omelet. He permits no talk of business at meals, and interruptions are out of the question, so it was further evidence of his state of mind when, as he was working on a fig and cherry tart, the phone ringing took me to the office, and I returned and told him, “A man named Dennis Horan on the line. You may remem—”
“Yes. What does he want?”
“You.”
“We’ll call him back in ten minutes.”
“He’s going places and won’t be available.”
He didn’t even confound it. He didn’t hustle any, but he went. I did too, and was at the phone at my desk before he reached his. He sat and got it to his ear.
“Nero Wolfe speaking.”
“I’m Dennis Horan, Mr. Wolfe, counselor-at-law. There has been a terrible tragedy. Mrs. Damon Fromm is dead. Run over by a car.”
“Indeed. When?”