In size he had been shortchanged, the top of his head being about level with the tip of my nose. With his thin brown mustache trimmed so it wasn’t quite parallel with the thick lips of his wide mouth, I wouldn’t have called him well designed to make the sort of impression desirable for a handler of public relations, but I admit I’m prejudiced about a mustache trying to pass as a plucked eyebrow.
He smiled at me to show that he liked me, that he approved of everything I had ever said or done, and that he understood all my problems perfectly. “I’m sorry,” he said, “that I have to break in like this and take Miss Estey away, but there are some urgent matters. Come upstairs, Miss Estey?”
It was a fine job. Instead of that he could have said, “Get out of this house and give me a chance to ask Miss Estey what the hell you’re trying to put over,” which was what he meant. But no, sir, he liked me too much to say anything that could possibly hurt my feelings.
When Miss Estey had got up and crossed to the door and passed through, and he had followed her to the sill, he turned to tell me, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Goodwin. I’ve heard a great deal about you, and Mr. Wolfe, of course. Sorry our meeting had to be at so difficult a moment.” He stepped out of sight, but his voice carried in to me. “Oh, Peckham! Mr. Goodwin’s going. See if he wants you to stop a cab for him.”
A nice clean fast job. Apparently with that mustache he was in disguise too.
Chapter 7
I got back to the house in time to hear the briefing. Saul and Orrie were already there, sitting waiting, but Fred hadn’t arrived. After greeting them, I reported to Wolfe, who was at his desk.
“I saw her and had a chat with her, but.”
“Why the deuce are you arrayed like that?”
“I’m a mortician.”