That was how it happened that at ten o’clock that Friday morning I sat in the smoking-room of the Harvard Club with Albert Wright, a vice-president of Eastern Electric, drinking vermouth, with a typewriter under a shiny rubberized cover on the floor at my feet. Wright had been very nice, as he should have been, since about all he owed to Wolfe was his wife and family. That was one of the neatest blackmailing cases... but let it rest. It was true that he had paid Wolfe’s bill, which hadn’t been modest, but what I’ve seen of wives and families has convinced me that they can’t be paid for in cash; either they’re way above any money price that could be imagined or they’re clear out of sight in the other direction. Anyway, Wright had been nice about it. I was saying:
“This is it. It’s that typewriter in there that I showed you the number of and had you put a scratch under it. Mr. Wolfe wants it.”
Wright raised his brows. I went on:
“Of course you don’t care why, but if you do maybe he’ll tell you some day. The real reason is that he’s fond of culture and he don’t like to see the members of a swell organization like the Harvard Club using a piece of junk like that in there. I’ve got a brand new Underwood.” I touched it with my toe. “I just bought it, it’s a new standard machine. I take it in there and leave it, and bring away the junk, that’s all. If anyone sees me I am unconcerned. It’s just a playful lark; the club gets what it needs and Mr. Wolfe gets what he wants.”
Wright, smiling, sipped his vermouth. “I hesitate chiefly because you had me mark the junk for identification. I would do about anything for Nero Wolfe, but I would dislike getting in a mess and having the club dragged in too, perhaps. I suppose you couldn’t offer any guarantees on that score?”
I shook my head. “No guarantees, but knowing how Mr. Wolfe is arranging this charade I’d take you on a thousand to one.”
Wright sat a minute and looked at me, and then smiled again. “Well, I have to get back to the office. Go on with your lark. I’ll wait here.”
There was nothing to it. I picked up the Underwood and walked into the alcove with it and set it down on the desk. The public stenographer was there only ten feet away, brushing up his machine, but I merely got too nonchalant even to glance at him. I pulled the junk aside and transferred the shiny cover to it, put the new one in its place, and picked up the junk and walked out. Wright got up from his chair and walked beside me to the elevator.
On the sidewalk, at the street entrance, Wright shook hands with me. He wasn’t smiling; I guessed from the look on his face that his mind had gone back four years to another time we shook hands. He said, “Give Nero Wolfe my warmest regards, and tell him they will still be warm even if I get kicked out of the Harvard Club for helping to steal a typewriter.”
I grinned. “Steal my eye, it nearly broke my heart to leave that new Underwood there.”