'Actually,' Wolfe said, 'it isn't very special. Certainly not fantastic. First a question: Do you know of any connection, however remote, between Mrs Lloyd Bruner and the Federal Bureau of Investigation?'
'Sure I do. Who doesn't? She sent a million people copies of Fred Cook's book, including our publisher and editor. It's the latest status symbol, and damn it, I didn't get one. Did you?'
'No. I bought mine. Do you know of any action the Bureau has taken in reprisal? This is a private and confidential conversation.'
Lon smiled. 'Any action they might take would also be private and confidential. You'll have to ask J. Edgar Hoover-unless you already know. Do you?'
'Yes.'
Lon's chin jerked up. 'The hell you do. Then the people who pay his salary should know.'
Wolfe nodded. 'That would be your view, naturally. You seek information in order to publish it; I seek it for my private interest. At the moment I seek it only to decide where my interest lies. I have no client and no commitment, and I should make it clear that even if I commit myself and go to work I shall probably never be able to give you any publishable information, no matter what the outcome is. If I can, I will, but I doubt it. Are we in your debt?'
'No. On balance, I'm in yours.
'Good. Then I'll draw on it. Why did Mrs Bruner send those books?'
'I don't know.' He sipped brandy and moved his lips and cheeks to spread it around before swallowing. 'Presumably as a public service. I bought five copies myself and sent them to people who should read them but probably won't. A man I know gave thirty copies as Christmas presents.'
'Do you know if she had any private reason for animus against the FBI?
'No.'
'Have you heard any suggestion of such an animus? Any surmise?'
'No. But evidently you have. Look, Mr Wolfe. Strictly off the record, who wants to hire you? If I knew that, I might be able to furnish a fact or two.'
Wolfe refilled his cup and put the pot down. 'I may not be hired,' he said. 'If I am, it's quite possible that you will never know who hired me. As for facts, I know what I need. I need a list of all the cases on which FBI agents have recently worked, and are now working, in and around New York. Can you supply that?'
'Hell no.' Lon smiled. 'I'll be damned. I was thinking-it was incredible, but I was thinking, or rather I was asking if it was possible that Hoover wanted you to work on Mrs Bruner. That would be an item. But if you- I'll be damned.'
His eyes narrowed. 'Are you going to perform a public service?'
'No. Nor, it may be, a private one. I'm considering it. Do you know how I can get such a list?'
'You can't. Of course some of their jobs are public knowledge, like the jewel snatch at the Natural History Museum and the bank truck at that church in Jersey-half a million in small bills. But some of them are far from public. You read that book. Of course there's talk, there's always talk, not for print. Would that help?'
'It might, especially if it was of something questionable, possibly extralegal. Is it?'
'Certainly. It's no fun talking about something that isn't questionable.' He glanced at his watch. 'I have twenty minutes. If I may have another small ration of brandy, and if it is understood that this is private, and if you're headed where you seem to be, I'll be glad to chip in.' He looked at me. 'You'll need your notebook, Archie.'
Twenty minutes later his brandy glass was empty again, I had filled five pages of my notebook, and he was gone. I won't report on the contents of the five pages because very little of it was ever used, and also because some of the people named wouldn't appreciate it. At the time, as I returned to the office after seeing Lon out, my mind was on Wolfe, not the notebook. Was he actually considering it? No. Impossible. He had merely been passing the time, and of course trying to get a rise out of me. The question was how to handle it. He would be expecting me to blow my top. So I walked in and to my desk, grinned at him, said, 'That was fun,' yanked the five pages from the notebook, tore them in half, and was going to tear again but he bellowed, 'Stop that!'
I raised one eyebrow, something he can't do. 'Sorry,' I said, perfectly friendly. 'A souvenir?'
'No. Please sit down.'
I sat. 'Have I missed something?'
'I doubt it. You seldom do. A hypothetical question: If I told you that I have decided to keep that hundred thousand dollars, what would you say?'
'What you said. Preposterous.'
'That's understood. But go on.'
'In full?'
'Yes.'
'I would say that you should sell the house and contents and go live in a nursing home, since you're obviously cracked. Unless you intend to gyp her, just sit on it.'
'No.'
