I expected nothing more from Wolfe that evening, and that was what I got. We went to bed fairly early. Up in my room undressing, I was still trying to map it, having been unable to sketch one I would settle for. The main stratagem was now plain enough, but what was the follow up? Were we going to start sitting and waiting again? In that case, how was William Reynolds going to be given another name, and when and why and by whom? Under the sheet, I chased it out of my mind in order to get some sleep.
The next day, Tuesday, until noon and a little after, it looked like more sitting and waiting. It wasn’t too dull, on account of the phone. The third article was in that morning’s Gazette, and they were wild for more. My instructions were to stall. Lon called twice before ten o’clock, and after that it was practically chain phoning: city editor, managing editor, executive editor, publisher, everybody. They wanted it so bad that I had a notion to write one myself and peddle it for fifteen thousand bucks flat. By noon there would have been nothing to it.
When the phone rang again a little before lunchtime I took it for granted it was one of them, so instead of using my formula I merely said, “Yep?”
“Is this Nero Wolfe’s office?” It was a voice I had never heard, a sort of an artificial squeak.
“Yes. Archie Goodwin speaking.”
“Is Mr. Wolfe there?”
“Yes. He’s engaged. Who is it, please?”
“Just tell him rectangle.”
“Spell it, please?”
“R-e-c-t-a-n-g-l-e, rectangle. Tell him immediately. He’ll want to know.”