“We’re overstocked on photographs,” I remarked. “So that’s why Mr. Jones didn’t need to load up. He knew him and one look was all he needed. Huh?”
“Dinner’s waiting.”
“Yes, sir. It would be a funny coincidence if Harvey or Stevens happened to be Mr. Jones. Wouldn’t it?”
“No. You can find coincidence in the dictionary. Get Mr. Archer on the phone.”
“Now? Dinner’s waiting.”
“Get him.”
That wasn’t so simple. At my first try, the District Attorney’s office in White Plains, someone answered but couldn’t help me any. I then got Archer’s home and was told that he was out for the evening, but I wasn’t to know where, and I had to press even to sell the idea that he should be informed immediately that Nero Wolfe wanted him to call. I hung up and settled back to wait for anything from five minutes to an hour. Wolfe was sitting up straight, frowning, with his lips tight; a meal was spoiling. After a while the sight of him was getting on my nerves, and I was about to suggest that we move to the dining room and start, when the phone rang. It was Archer.
“What is it?” He was crisp and indignant.
Wolfe said he needed his advice.
“What about? I’m dining with friends. Can’t it wait until morning?”