“Who are you?” she demanded.
“My name’s Archie Goodwin. I’ll show credentials if you are Mrs. William Moyse.”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing if you’re not Mrs. Moyse.”
“What if I am?”
She was rapidly erasing the pleasant memory I had of her. Not that she had turned homely in a few hours, but her expression was not only unfriendly but sour, and her voice was not agreeable. I got out my wallet and extracted my license card. “If you are,” I said, “this will identify me,” and proffered it.
“Okay, your name’s Goodman.” She ignored the card. “So what?”
“Not Goodman.” I pronounced it again. “Archie Goodwin. I work for Nero Wolfe, who is up in the clubhouse. I just came from there. Why not turn off the radio?”
“I’d rather turn you off,” she said bitterly.
Her companion, the redhead who had been with her in the box, reached for the knob, and the radio died. “Look, Lila,” she said earnestly, “you’re acting like a sap. Invite him in. He may be human. Maybe Bill sent him.”