Chapin showed no alarm. “Yes, George. And what made me a goddam cripple?”
Pratt didn’t retreat. “I helped to, once. Sure I did. That was an accident, we all have ’em, maybe not as bad as yours. Christ, can’t you ever forget it? Is there no man in you at all? Has your brain got twisted—”
“No. Man? No.” Chapin cut him off, and smiled at him with his mouth. He looked around at the others. “You fellows are all men though. Aren’t you? Every one. God bless you. That’s an idea, depend on God’s blessing. Try it. I tried it once. Now I must ask you to excuse me.” He turned to Wolfe. “Good evening, sir. I’ll go. Thank you for your courtesy. I trust I haven’t put too great a strain on your intelligence.”
He inclined his head to Wolfe and to me, turned and made off. His stick had thumped three times on the rug when he was halted by Wolfe’s voice:
“Mr. Chapin. I almost forgot. May I ask you for a very few minutes more? Just a small—”
Nicholas Cabot’s voice broke in, “For God’s sake, Wolfe, let him go—”
“Please, Mr. Cabot. May I, gentlemen? Just a small favor, Mr. Chapin. Since you are innocent of any ill intent, and as anxious as we are to see your friends’ difficulties removed, I trust you will help me in a little test. I know it will seem nonsensical to you, quite meaningless, but I should like to try it. Would you help me out?”
Chapin had turned. I thought he looked careful. He said, “Perhaps. What is it?”
“Quite simple. You use a typewriter, I suppose?”
“Of course. I type all my manuscripts myself.”