“Come on in, Orrie. What’s the loot?” I turned to Wolfe and smoothed my voice out and opened up the respect: “He phoned a while ago and said he had got hold of something he wanted to show us. I told you, but you were engrossed in your book.”
Orrie Cather had a bundle about the size of a small suitcase, wrapped in brown paper and tied with heavy string.
I said, “I hope it’s books.”
He shook his head. “It’s not heavy enough for books.” He set it down on the desk and looked around, and I shoved up a chair for him.
“What is it?”
“Search me. I brought it here to open it. It may be just a lot of nothing at all, but I had a hunch.”
I got out my pocketknife, but Wolfe shook his head. He said to Orrie, “Go on.”
Orrie grinned. “Well, as I say, it may be a lot of nothing at all, but I’d got so fed up after a day and a half finding out nothing whatever about that cripple except where he buys his groceries and how often he gets his shoes shined, that when something came along that looked like it might be a little break I guess I got excited. I’ve just been following your instructions—”
“Yes. Let us arrive at the package.”
“Right. This morning I dropped in at the Greenwich Bookshop. I got talking with the guy, and I said I supposed he had Paul Chapin’s books in his circulating library, and he said sure, and I said I might like to get one, and he handed me one and I looked it over—”