“Sure it is. How about libel?”
“There is none. There will be none. No names or addresses are used.”
“Yeah, I know, but an action might be brought anyhow. Your source would have to be available for testimony.”
“No, sir.” Wolfe was emphatic. “My source is covered and will stay covered. You may have my warranty, and a bond for libel damages if you want it, but that’s all.”
“Well—” Lon drank. “I love it. But I’ve got bosses, and on a thing like this they would have to decide. Tomorrow is Friday, and they — good God, what’s this? Don’t tell me — Archie, come and look!”
I had to go anyway, to remove the papers so Fritz could put the tray on the table. It was really a handsome platter. The steak was thick and brown with charcoal braid, the grilled slices of sweet potato and sautéed mushrooms were just right, the watercress was high at one end out of danger, and the overall smell made me wish I had asked Fritz to make a carbon.
“Now I know,” Lon said, “it’s all a dream. Archie, I would have sworn you phoned me to come down here. Okay, I’ll dream on.” He sliced through the steak, letting the juice come, cut off a bite, and opened wide for it. Next came a bite of sweet potato, followed by a mushroom. I watched him the way I have seen dogs watch when they’re allowed near the table. It was too much. I went to the kitchen, came back with two slices of bread on a plate, and thrust it at him.
“Come on, brother, divvy. You can’t eat three pounds of steak.”
“It’s under two pounds.”
“Like hell it is. Fix me up.”