“Thank you very much. I’ll be around eighty then and I’ll need it.”
“You’re welcome. Now for this afternoon. First, what about the pictures you took up there?”
“Six o’clock. That was the best they could do.”
“And the keys?”
“You said after lunch. They’ll be ready at one-thirty.”
“Good. Saul will be here at two?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have Fred and Orrie here this evening after dinner. I don’t think you’ll need them this afternoon; you and Saul can manage. This is what we want. There must—”
But that was postponed by the arrival of Doc Vollmer. Doc’s home and office were on our street, toward Tenth Avenue, and over the years we had used his services for everything from stitching up Dora Chapin’s head to signing a certificate that Wolfe was batty. When he called he always went to one of the smaller yellow chairs because of his short legs, sat, took off his spectacles and looked at them, put them on again, and asked, “Want some pills?”
Today he added, “I’m afraid I’m in a hurry.”