“No. I shouldn’t have said ‘precisely.’ The name will have to wait. But the rest of it, yes.”
“Damn it, it’s midnight! You can’t expect—”
“Not tonight. Nor tomorrow. But if and when I have it, you’ll get it first.”
Lon looked at him. He had entered the room loose and carefree and thirsty, but now he was back at work again. An exclusive on the murder of Louis Rony was nothing to relax about.
“For that,” he said, “you’d want more than three letterheads, even with envelopes. What if I throw in postage stamps?”
Wolfe nodded. “That would be generous. But I have something else to offer. How would you like to have, for your paper only, a series of articles, authenticated for you, describing secret meetings of the group that controls the American Communist party, giving the details of discussions and decisions?”
Lon cocked his head to one side. “All you need,” he declared, “is long white whiskers and a red suit.”
“No, I’m too fat. Would that interest you?”
“It ought to. Who would do the authenticating?”
“I would.”