“Okay.”
I switched off and settled to wait for McNair’s call, reflecting on the relative pulling power of beauty in distress and two million iron men and how it probably depended on whether you were the romantic type or not.
Chapter 8
Two hours later, at six o’clock, I sat at my desk pounding the typewriter with emphasis and a burst of speed, copying off the opening pages of one of Hoehn’s catalogues. The radio was turned on, loud, for the band of the Hotel Portland Surf Room. Together the radio and I made quite a din. Boyden McNair, with his right elbow on his knee and his bent head resting on the hand which covered his eyes, sat near Wolfe’s desk in the dunce’s chair, yclept that by me on the day that District Attorney Anderson of Westchester sat in it while Wolfe made a dunce of him.
McNair had been there nearly an hour. He had done a lot of sputtering on the phone and had refused to wait until six o’clock, and had finally appeared a little after five, done some sputtering, and then settled down because there wasn’t anything else to do. He had his bottle of aspirin along in his pocket and had already washed a couple of them down, me furnishing the water and also offering phenacetin tablets as an improvement, without any sale. He wouldn’t take a drink, though he certainly looked as if he needed one.
The six o’clock radio and typewriter din was for the purpose of covering any sound of voices that might come from the hall as Nero Wolfe escorted his guest, Miss Frost, from the elevator to the front door and let her out to the taxi which Fritz had ordered from the kitchen phone. Of course I couldn’t hear anything either, so I kept glancing at the office door without letting my fingers stop, and at length it opened and Wolfe entered. Observing the mise en scène, he winked at me with his right eye and steered for his desk. He got across and deposited in his chair before the visitor knew he was there. I arose and turned off the radio and quiet descended on us. McNair’s head jerked up. He saw Wolfe, blinked, stood up and looked around.
“Where’s Miss Frost?” he demanded.
Wolfe said, “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. McNair. Miss Frost has gone home.”
“What?” McNair gaped at him. “Gone home? I don’t believe it. Who took her? Gebert and Lew Frost were here...”
“They were indeed.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “I entreat you, sir. This room has been filled with idiots this afternoon, and I would enjoy some sanity for a change. I am not a liar. I put Miss Frost into a cab not ten minutes ago, and she was going straight home.”