He hadn’t better, since he had been mellowed by four ample helpings of our best bourbon, and he didn’t. “Not at all,” he said cooperatively. “I made calls on five patients, two on upper Fifth Avenue, one in the East Sixties, and two at the hospital. I got home a little after six and had just finished dressing after taking a bath when Fred Weppler phoned me about Mion. Of course I went at once.”
“You hadn’t seen Mion or phoned him?”
“Not since I left after the conference. Perhaps I should have, but I had no idea — I’m not a psychiatrist, but I was his doctor.”
“He was mercurial, was he?”
“Yes, he was.” Lloyd pursed his lips. “Of course, that’s not a medical term.”
“Far from it,” Wolfe agreed. He shifted his gaze. “Mr. Grove, I don’t have to ask you if you phoned Mion, since it is on record that you did. Around five o’clock?”
Rupert the Fat had his head tilted again. Apparently that was his favorite pose for conversing. He corrected Wolfe. “It was after five. More like a quarter past.”
“Where did you phone from?”
“The Harvard Club.”
I thought, I’ll be damned, it takes all kinds to make a Harvard Club.