I don’t know what Lon Cohen is on the Gazette and I doubt if he does. City or wire, daily or Sunday, foreign or national or local, he seems to know his way in and around without ever having to work at it. His is the only desk in a room about nine by twelve, and that’s just as well because otherwise there would be no place for his feet, which are also about nine by twelve. From the ankles up he is fairly regular.
There were two colleagues in with him when I entered, but they soon finished and went. As we shook he said, “Stay on your feet. You can have two minutes.”
“Nuts. An hour may do it.”
“Not today. We’re spinning on the Fromm murder. The only reason you got in at all, I want your release on the item that Nero Wolfe was making inquiries yesterday about Mrs. Fromm.”
“I don’t think—” I let it hang while I moved a chair and sat. “No, better not. But okay on an item that he is working on the murder.”
“He is?”
“Yep.”
“Who hired him?”
I shook my head. “It came by carrier pigeon, and he won’t tell me.”
“Take off your shoes and socks while I light a cigarette. A few applications to your tender flesh should do it. I want the name of the client.”