seems to be upset.” “Take a letter to him.” I got my notebook and pen. Wolfe cleared his throat.

“Not dear Mr Anderson, dear sir. Regarding our conversation at my office this morning, I am engaged with others as well as you, and, since my fee is contingent upon a performance, I am obliged to continue until the performance is completed. The cheque you gave me will be held in my safe until that time.” I looked up. “Sincerely?” “I suppose so. There's nothing insincere about it. When you go out to mail it go first to the bank and have the cheque certified.” “That shifts the contingency,” I remarked, opening the drawer where I kept letterheads, “to whether the bank stays solvent or npt.” It was at that moment, the moment when I was putting the paper in the typewriter, that Wolfe really settled down to work on the Orchard case. He leaned back, shut his eyes, and began exercising his lips. He was like that when I left on my errand, and still like that when I got back. At such times I don't have to tiptoe or keep from rustling papers; I can bang the typewriter or make phone calls or use the vacuum cleaner and he doesn't hear it.

All the rest of that day and evening, up till bedtime, except for intermissions for meals and the afternoon conclave in the plant rooms, he kept at it, with no word or sign to give me a hint of what kind of trail he had found, if any. In a way it was perfectly jake with me, for at least it showed he had decided we would do our own cooking, but in another way it wasn't so hot. When it goes on hour after hour, as it did that Friday, the chances are that he's finding himself just about cornered, and there's no telling how desperate he'll be when he picks a hole to bust out through. A couple of years ago, after spending most of a day figuring one out, he ended up with a charade that damn near got nine human beings asphyxiated with ciphogene, including him and me, not to mention Inspector Cramer.

When both the clock and my wrist watch said it was close to midnight, and there he still was, I inquired politely: “Shall we have some coffee to keep awake?” His mutter barely reached me: “Go to bed.” I did so.

CHAPTER Twenty-One

I needn't have worried. He did give birth, but not to one of his fantastic freaks. The next morning, Saturday, when Fritz returned to the kitchen after taking up the breakfast tray he told me I was wanted.

Since Wolfe likes plenty of air at night but a good warm room at breakfast time it had been necessary, long ago, to install a contraption that would automatically close his window at 6 a.m. As a result the eight o'clock temperature permits him to have his tray on a table near the window without bothering to put on a dressing gown. Seated there, his hair not yet combed, his feet bare, and all the yardage of his yellow pyjamas dazzling in the morning sun, he is something to blink at, and it's too bad that Fritz and I are the only ones who ever have the privilege.

I told him it was a nice morning, and he grunted. He will not admit that a morning is bearable, let alone nice, until, having had his second cup of coffee, he has got himself fully dressed.

“Instructions,” he growled.

I sat down, opened my notebook, and uncapped my pen. He instructed: “Get some ordinary plain white paper of a cheap grade; I doubt if any of ours will do. Say five by eight. Type this on it, single-spaced, no date or salutation.” He shut his eyes. “Since you are a friend of Elinor Vance, this is something you should know. During her last year at college the death of a certain person was ascribed to natural causes and was never properly investigated. Another incident that was never investigated was the disappearance of a jar of cyanide from the electroplating shop of Miss Vance's brother. It would be interesting to know if there was any connection between those two incidents. Possibly an inquiry into both of them would suggest such a connection.” “That all?” “Yes. No signature. No envelope. Fold the paper and soil it a little; give it the appearance of having been handled. This is Saturday, but an item in the morning paper tells of the withdrawal of Starlite from sponsorship of Miss Fraser's programme, so I doubt if those people will have gone off for weekends.

You may even find that they are together, conferring; that would suit our purpose best. But either together or singly, see them; show them the anonymous letter; ask if they have ever seen it or one similar to it; be insistent and as pestiferous as possible.” “Including Miss Vance herself?” “Let circumstances decide. If they are together and she is with them, yes.

Presumably she has already been alerted by Mr drainer's men.” “The professor? Savarese?” “No, don't bother with him.” Wolfe drank coffee. “That's all.” I stood up. “I might get more or better results if I knew what we're after. Are we expecting Elinor Vance to break down and confess? Or am I nagging one of them into pulling a gun on me, or what?” I should have known better, with him still in his pyjamas and his hair tousled.

“You're following instructions,” he said peevishly. “If I knew what you're going to get I wouldn't have had to resort to this shabby stratagem.” “Shabby is right,” I agreed, and left him.

I would, of course, obey orders, for the same reason that a good soldier does, namely, he'd better,

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