“No.”
“Then what you’re offering is information, something Mrs. Fromm told Wolfe, that need not be disclosed as related to her death. Isn’t that correct?”
“No comment.”
He shook his head. “That won’t do. Unless you tell me that, I couldn’t possibly deal with you. I don’t say I will deal if you do tell me, but without that I can’t decide.”
He about-faced and was looking out the window, if his eyes were open. All I had was his broad back. He stayed that way long enough to take his temperature, and then some. Finally he turned.
“I don’t see that it would help any, Goodwin, for me to characterize your conduct as it deserves. Good God, what a way to make a living! Here I am, giving all my time and talent and energy in an effort to improve the tone of human conduct — and there you are. But that doesn’t interest you — all you care about is money. Good God! Money! I’ll think it over. I may phone you and I may not. You’re in the book?”
I told him yes, Nero Wolfe’s number, and, not caring to hear any more ugly facts about myself as compared to him, I slunk out. My cheerful little friend at the switchboard might have been willing to buck me up some, but I felt it would be bad for her to have any contact with my kind of character and went right on by.
Down the street I found a phone booth, dialed the number I knew best, and had Wolfe’s voice in my ear.
“Ready with Number Four,” I told him. “Lipscomb. Are you comfortable?”
“Go ahead. No questions.”