“Damn it, what’s his name? This bird you recognized.”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“Describe him.”
She thought it over a little, gazing at me, and then shook her head. “I don’t think—” she said doubtfully. She shook her head again, more positive. “Not now. I want to see what Nero Wolfe says first.” She must have seen something in my eyes, or thought she did, for suddenly she came up out of her chair and moved to me and put a hand on my arm. “That’s all I mean,” she said earnestly. “It’s not you — I know you’re all right.” Her fingers tightened on my forearm. “I might as well tell you — you’d never want any part of me anyhow — this is the first time in years, I don’t know how long, that I’ve talked to a man just straight — you know, just human? You know, not figuring on something one way or another. I—” She stopped for a word, and a little color showed in her cheeks. She found the word. “I’ve enjoyed it very much.”
“Good. Me too. Call me Archie. I’ve got to go, but describe him. Just sketch him.”
But she hadn’t enjoyed it that much. “Not until Nero Wolfe says he’ll do it,” she said firmly.
I had to leave it at that, knowing as I did that in three more minutes Wolfe might have a fit. Out in the hall I had the notion of passing the word to Saul and Fritz to give departing guests a good look, but rejected it because (a) they weren’t there, both of them presumably being busy in the cloakroom, (b) he might have departed already, and (c) I had by no means swallowed a single word of Cynthia’s story, let alone the whole works. So I headed for the stairs and breasted the descending tide of guests leaving.
Up in the plant rooms there were plenty left. When I came into Wolfe’s range he darted me a glance of cold fury, and I turned on the grin. Anyway, it was a quarter to five, and if they took the hint on the invitation it wouldn’t last much longer.