“Well... just to write a check...” He backed into a chair and got onto his sitter, pulling a check folder from one pocket and a fountain pen from another. “How much?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
He gasped and looked up. “What!”
Wolfe nodded. “Ten thousand. That would be about right for completing your commission; half for solving the murder of Molly Lauck and half for getting your cousin away from that hell-hole.”
“But, my dear man, you did neither. You’re loony.” His eyes narrowed. “Don’t think you’re going to hold me up. Don’t think—”
Wolfe snapped, “Ten thousand dollars. And you will wait here while the check is being certified.”
“You’re crazy.” Frost was sputtering again. “I haven’t got ten thousand dollars. My show’s going big, but I had a lot of debts and still have. And even if I had it — what’s the idea? Blackmail? If you’re that kind—”
“Please, Mr. Frost. I beg you. May I speak?”
Llewellyn glared at him.
Wolfe settled back in his chair. “There are three things I like about you, sir, but you have several bad habits. One is your assumption that words are brickbats to be hurled at people in an effort to stun them. You must learn to stop that. Another is your childish readiness to rush into action without stopping to consider the consequences. Before you definitely hired me to undertake an investigation you should have scrutinized the possibilities. But the point is that you hired me; and let me tell you, you burned all bridges when you goaded me into that mad sortie to Fifty-second Street. That will have to be paid for. You and I are bound by contract; I am bound to pursue a certain inquiry, and you are bound to pay my reasonable and commensurate charge. And when, for personal and peculiar reasons, you grow to dislike the contract, what do you do? You come to my office and try to knock me out of my chair by propelling words like ‘blackmail’ at me! Pfui! The insolence of a spoiled child!”