“There’s a phone down where you’re going,” Levy told him. “If it’s not out of order. This way, Colonel.”
As the door closed behind them Cramer glared at me as if daring me to say that I was sorry too. Letting my face show how bored I was, I remarked casually, “If I could get in the office I’d show you a swell book on disguises; I forget the name of it. The world record is sixteen years — a guy in Italy fooled a brother and two cousins who had known him well. So maybe you ought to—”
Cramer turned from me rudely and said, “Gather up, Murphy. We’re leaving.” He shoved his chair back, stood up, and shook his ankles to get his pants legs down. Levy came back in, and Cramer addressed him. “We’re leaving. Everybody out. To my office. Tell Stebbins one man out front will be enough — no, I’ll tell him—”
“There’s one more, sir.”
“One more what?”
“In the front room. A man.”
“Who?”
“His name is Nicholson Morley. He’s a psychiatrist.”
“Let him go. This is a goddam joke.”
“Yes, sir.”