I had opened a drawer of my desk and taken out a loose-leaf binder, and I flipped through the sheets in it to the page I wanted. “Yes, sir. I’ve got it. I’ve read it twice. It’s a bit spotty, the stenographer from Miller’s wasn’t so hot. He couldn’t spell—”
“The name was Hibbard.”
I nodded, glancing over the typewritten pages. “Andrew Hibbard. Instructor in psychology at Columbia. It was on October twentieth, a Saturday, that’s two weeks ago today.”
“Suppose you read it.”
“Viva voce?”
“Archie.” Wolfe looked at me. “Where did you pick that up, where did you learn to pronounce it, and what do you think it means?”
“Do you want me to read this stuff out loud, sir?”
“It doesn’t mean out loud. Confound you.” Wolfe emptied his glass, leaned back in his chair, got his fingers to meet in front of his belly and laced them. “Proceed.”
“Okay. First there’s a description of Mr. Hibbard. Small gentleman, around fifty, pointed nose, dark eyes —”
“Enough. For that I can plunder my memory.”