Mike Ayers demanded my attention by waving his glass at me and calling, “Hey! A eunuch and a camel!”
Wolfe raised his head a little and said in one of his best tones, “Are you suggesting those additions to Mr. Chapin’s catalogue of his internal menagerie?”
“Huh? Oh. I’m suggesting—”
George Pratt said, “Shut up, Mike,” and Farrell the architect grabbed him and pulled him into a chair.
I had handed Wolfe a list showing those who were present, and he had glanced over it. He looked up and spoke. “I am glad to see that Mr. Cabot and Mr. Adler are here. Both, I believe, attorneys. Their knowledge and their trained minds will restrain us from vulgar errors. I note also the presence of Mr. Michael Ayers, a journalist. He is one of your number, so I merely remark that the risk of publicity, should you wish to avoid it—”
Mike Ayers growled, “I’m not a journalist, I’m a newshound. I interviewed Einstein—”
“How drunk are you?”
“Hell, how do I know?”
Wolfe’s brow lifted. “Gentlemen?”
Farrell said, “Mike’s all right. Forget him. He’s all right.”