I grunted. “What the hell. You told me to be here at noon and called the conference for twelve-thirty.”
“I know I did. I do things like that.” He chewed the lip some more. “And I’ve got to dress.” Suddenly his voice went high in protest. “Don’t try to rush me, understand?”
I was fed up, but had already invested a lot of time and a dollar for a taxi on the case, so kept calm. “I know,” I told him, “artists are temperamental. But I’ll explain how Mr. Wolfe charges. He sets a fee, depending on the job, and if it takes more of my time than he thinks reasonable he adds an extra hundred dollars an hour. Keeping me here until late afternoon would be expensive. I could go and come back.”
He didn’t like that and said so, explaining why, the idea being that with me there in the house it would be easier for him to get his nerve up and it might only take an hour or so. He got up and walked to the door and opened it, then turned and demanded, “Do you know how much I make an hour? The time I spend on my work? Over a thousand dollars. More than a thousand an hour! I’ll go get some clothes on.”
He went, shutting the door.
My wristwatch said 1:17. My stomach agreed. I sat maybe ten minutes, then went to the phone on the desk, dialed, got Wolfe, and told him how it was. He told me to go out and get some lunch, naturally, and I said I would, but after hanging up I went back to my chair. If I went out, sure as hell Koven would get his nerve up in my absence, and by the time I got back he would have lost it again and have to start over. I explained the situation to my stomach, and it made a polite sound of protest, but I was the boss. I was glancing at my watch again and seeing 1:42 when the door opened and Mrs. Koven was with me.
When I stood, her serious gray eyes beneath the wide smooth brow were level with the knot in my four-in-hand, She said her husband had told her that I was staying for a conference at a later hour. I confirmed it. She said I ought to have something to eat. I agreed that it was not a bad notion.
“Won’t you,” she invited, “come down and have a sandwich with us? We don’t do any cooking, we even have our breakfast sent in, but there are some sandwiches.”
“I don’t want to be rude,” I told her, “but are they in the room with the monkey?”
“Oh, no.” She stayed serious. “Wouldn’t that be awful? Downstairs in the workroom.” She touched my arm. “Come on, do.”