“So you’re Nero Wolfe,” she said.
That called for no comment and got none.
“I’m scared to death,” she said.
“You don’t look it,” Wolfe growled.
“I hope I don’t; I’m trying not to.” She started to put her bag on the little table at her elbow, changed her mind, and kept it in her lap. She took off a glove. “I was sent here by Mr. Koven.”
No comment. We were looking at her. She looked at me, then back at Wolfe, and protested, “My God, don’t you ever say anything?”
“Only on occasion.” Wolfe leaned back. “Give me one. You say something.”
She compressed her lips. She was sitting forward and erect in the big roomy chair, with no contact with the upholstered back. “Mr. Koven sent me,” she said, clipping it, “about the ridiculous suit for damages you have brought. He intends to enter a counterclaim for damage to his reputation through actions of your acknowledged agent, Archie Goodwin. Of course he denies that there is any basis for your suit.”
She stopped. Wolfe met her gaze and kept his trap shut.
“That’s the situation,” she said belligerently.