“It won’t be a page. Put a sheet of paper in it.”
I did so, got the paper squared, lifted the machine, and put it in front of him. He sat and frowned at it for a long minute and then started pecking. I turned my back on him to make it easier to withhold remarks about his two-finger technique, and passed the time by trying to figure his rate. That was hopeless, because at one moment he would be going at about twelve words a minute and then would come a sudden burst of speed, stepping it up to twenty or more. All at once there was the sound of the ratchet turning as he pulled the paper out, and I supposed he had ruined it and was going to start over, but when I turned to look his hand was extended to me with the sheet in it.
“I think that will do,” he said.
I took it and read what he had typed:
She told me enough this afternoon so that I know who to send this to, and more. I have kept it to myself because I haven’t decided what is the right thing to do. I would like to have a talk with you first, and if you will phone me tomorrow, Tuesday, between nine o’clock and noon, we can make an appointment; please don’t put it off or I will have to decide myself.
I read it over three times. I looked at Wolfe. He had put an envelope in the typewriter and was consulting the phone book.
“It’s all right,” I said, “except that I don’t care for the semicolon after ‘appointment.’ I would have put a period and started a new sentence.”
He began pecking, addressing the envelope. I waited until he had finished and rolled the envelope out.
“Just like this?” I asked. “No name or initials signed?”
“No.”