Fred, intent on his errand, disregarded me. “March, you big ape,” he commanded, prodding with the gun, and Davis marched. I shut the door and followed them into the office. Fred kept him going right up to Wolfe’s desk, and then dropped the gun in his pocket and faced his captive.
“Take a run,” he said grimly. “Or make a pass at me or something. All I ask—”
“That will do, Fred,” said Wolfe curtly. “Where did you find him?”
“At Wellman’s. A joint on 8th Street. The place where—”
“Very well. Satisfactory. Is he armed?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Sit down, Mr. Davis. It looks as if—”
The door opened and Doc Vollmer entered. He saw the tableau, halted, and then approached. “Excuse me, but I have to run. Patients waiting. That man upstairs will be all right. He’s got some bruises, but that’s all except that his nerves are in extremely bad condition. I advise a sedative.”
“Thank you, doctor. We’ll attend to the sedative. Run along.” Wolfe looked at Davis. “It’s Mr. Prescott. We brought him here. It’s amazing that you didn’t kill him, really amazing.” He looked at the inspector. “I believe we can go ahead now, Mr. Cramer, only it would be best to have Mr. Dunn here. All of them, I suppose. If you will please phone his hotel?”