I handed him a card. “Miss Estey, please?”
He admitted me, but he had an expression on his face. He probably thought I was batty, since from the facts as he knew them that was the simplest explanation. Instead of ushering me down the hall, he told me to wait there, and went to the door to the office and disappeared inside. Voices issued, too low for me to catch the words, and then he came out.
“This way, Mr. Goodwin.”
He moved aside as I approached, and I passed through the door. Jean Estey was there at a desk with my card in her hand. Without bothering with any greeting, she asked me abruptly, “Will you please close the door?”
I did so and turned to her. She spoke. “You know what I told you Saturday, Mr. Goodwin.”
The greenish-brown eyes were straight at me. Below them the skin was puffy, either from too little sleep or too much, and while I still would have called her comely, she looked as if the two days since I had seen her had been two years.
I went to a chair near the end of her desk and sat. “You mean about the police asking you to see Nero Wolfe and pass it on?”
“Yes.”
“What about it?”
“Nothing, only — well — if Mr. Wolfe still wants to see me, I think I might go. I’m not sure — but I certainly wouldn’t tell the police what he said. I think they’re simply awful. It’s been more than two days since Mrs. Fromm was killed, fifty-nine hours, and I don’t think they’re getting anywhere at all.”