Leopold Elkus came up and stood three feet from Bowen and stood staring at him; I had a feeling that he had a notion to cut him open and see what was inside. Mike Ayers appeared with another drink, but this time it wasn’t for Bowen, he held it out to me and I took it and drank it. Andrew Hibbard went to my desk and got the telephone and gave the operator the number of his home. Drummond was squeaking something to George Pratt. Nicholas Cabot passed around Bowen’s chair, went up to Wolfe and said to him in a tone not low enough for me not to hear:
“I’m going, Mr. Wolfe. I have an appointment. I want to say, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t get that twelve hundred dollars from Bowen. It’s a legal obligation. If you’d like me to handle the collection I’d be glad to do it and expect no fee. Let me know.”
That lawyer was tough.
Chapter 22
Three days later, Thursday around noon, we had a caller. I had just got back from taking a vast and voluminous deposit to the bank, and was sitting at my desk bending my thoughts towards a little relaxation in the shape of an afternoon movie. Wolfe was in his chair, leaning back with his eyes shut, still and silent as a mountain, probably considering the adequacy of the plans for lunch.
Fritz came to the door and said: “A man to see you, sir. Mr. Paul Chapin.”
Wolfe opened his eyes to a slit, and nodded. I whirled my chair around, and stood up.
The cripple hobbled in. It was a bright day outside, and the strong light from the windows gave me a better look at him than I had ever had. I saw that his eyes weren’t quite as light-colored as I had thought; they were about the shade of dull aluminum; and his skin wasn’t dead pale, it was more like bleached leather, it looked tough. He gave me only half a glance as he thumped across to Wolfe’s desk. I moved a chair around for him.
“Good morning, Mr. Chapin.” Wolfe nearly opened his eyes. “You won’t be seated? I beg you... thanks. It gives me genuine discomfort to see people stand. Allow me to congratulate you on your appearance. If I had spent three days in the Tombs prison, as you did, I would be nothing but a wraith, a tattered remnant. How were the meals? I presume, unspeakable?”
The cripple lifted his shoulders, and dropped them. He didn’t appear to be settling down for a chat; he had lowered himself onto the edge of the chair I had placed for him, and perched there with his stick upright in front and both his hands resting on the crook. His aluminum eyes had the same amount of expression in them that aluminum usually has. He said: