“Yes, sir, I will. But this is a sort of a public room. People come in here all the time. These chairs are no good to sit on, either. I’ll be glad to bring Mr. Prescott wherever you say, but I do honestly think the library would be much better.” I backed toward the doorway. “Come and see for yourself. If you don’t like it you can return here.”
“I’ll like it all right, but he won’t.” He stayed planted. Then abruptly he rumbled, “You don’t need to show me the library, I know where it is,” and moved so fast he nearly toppled me over as he went by.
I was at his heels going up the stairs, and stayed there, thinking to steer him in case he was too optimistic about knowing where the library was, but he went straight to the door and flung it open. I followed him in, closed the door, and announced to Wolfe:
“Mr. Eugene Davis.”
Davis glared around. “Where’s Prescott?” He glared at Wolfe. “Who are you?” He glared at me. “What kind of a run-around is this? You’re not Turner! I sent Turner to get Prescott!”
“That’s all right,” I said soothingly, “we’ll get him. I’m not a butler, I’m a detective. Detectives are better than butlers for getting people. This is Mr. Nero Wolfe.”
“Who the hell—”
He stopped abruptly. You might have thought I had reached inside his skull and flipped a switch. A sort of spasm went over his face, and his shoulders stiffened and then relaxed again, and when he focused his eyes on Wolfe they were no longer merely bleary and foolishly truculent. They were alert and intelligent and on guard.
“Oh,” he said. His tone had changed even more than his eyes. “You’re Nero Wolfe.”
Wolfe nodded. “Yes, sir.”