“This is getting to be a goddam farce,” Chisholm growled. His tie was crooked, his eyes were bloodshot, and he had a smear of mustard at the side of his mouth.
“No,” Wolfe said — to me, not to Chisholm. “Go ahead. But be brief.”
I obeyed. With the training and experience I have had, I can report a day of dialogue practically verbatim; but he had said to be brief, so I condensed it, but included all the essentials. When I finished he was scowling at me.
“Then you don’t know whether Gale was actually involved or not. When he failed with Mr. and Mrs. Moyse he may have quit trying.”
“I doubt it.”
“You could have resolved the doubt. You were sitting on him. Or you could have brought him here.”
I might have made three or four cutting remarks if an outsider hadn’t been present. I stayed calm. “Maybe I didn’t make it clear,” I conceded generously. “It was ten to one he had phoned for help — the kind of help that would leave no doubts to resolve — and it might come any second. Not that I was scared, I was too busy, but I wanted to see you once more so I could resign. I resign.”
“Bosh.” Wolfe put his hands on the leather seat for leverage and raised himself to his feet. “Very well. I’ll have to try it.” He moved.
Chisholm put in, “Inspector Hennessy said to notify him immediately if Goodwin showed up.”
Wolfe wheeled on him, snarling. “Am I working for you? Yes! By heaven, I am! Notify Mr. Hennessy? Hah!” He turned and strode through the door that led to Art Kinney’s office.