In some tribes cross-cousins may marry, but not ortho-cousins. Obviously
Mr. Frost has investigated the question thoroughly… Certainly it is possible that none of these oddities has any relation to the death of Molly Lauck, but they are to be noted, along with many others. I hope I am not boring you,
Archie. As you are aware, this is the routine of my genius, though I do not ordinarily vocalize it. I sat in this chair one evening for five hours, thus considering the phenomena of Paul Chapin, his wife, and the members of that incredible League of Atonement. I talk chiefly because if I do not you will begin to rustle papers to annoy me, and I do not feel like being irritated. That sausage-but there's the bell. Our client. Ha! Still our client, though he may not think so.”
Footsteps sounded from the hall, and soon again, returning. The office door opened and Fritz appeared. He announced Mr. Frost, and Wolfe nodded and requested beer. Fritz went.
Llewellyn came bouncing in. He came bouncing, but you could tell by his eyes it was a case of dual personality. Back behind his eyes he was scared stiff. He bounced up to Wolfe's desk and began talking like a man who was already late for nine appointments.
“I could have told you on the phone, Mr. Wolfe, but I like to do business face to face. I like to see a man and let him see me. Especially for a thing like this. I owe you an apology. I flew off the handle and made a damn fool of myself. I want to apologize.” He put out a hand. Wolfe looked at it, and then up at his face. He took his hand back, flushed, and went on, “You shouldn't be sore at me, I just flew off the handle. And anyway, you must understand this, I've got to insist on this, that that was nothing up there. Helen-my cousin was just flustered. I've had a talk with her. That didn't mean a thing. But naturally she's all cut up-she already was, anyhow-and we've talked it over, and I agree with her that I've got no right to be butting in up there. Maybe I shouldn't have butted in at all, but I thought-well-it doesn't matter what I thought. So I appreciate what you've done, and it was swell of you to go up there when it was against your rule…so we'll just call it a flop and if you'll just tell me how much I owe you…”
He stopped, smiling from Wolfe to me and back again like a haberdasher's clerk trying to sell an old number with a big spiff on it.
Wolfe surveyed him. “Sit down, Mr. Frost.”
“Well…just to write a check…” He backed into a chair and got onto his sitter, pulling a check folder from one pocket and a fountain pen from another.
“How much?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
He gasped and looked up. “What!”
Wolfe nodded. “Ten thousand. That would be about right for completing your commission; half for solving the murder of Molly Lauck and half for getting your cousin away from that hell-hole.”
“But, my dear man, you did neither. You're loony.” His eyes narrowed. “Don't think you're going to hold me up. Don't think-”
Wolfe snapped, “Ten thousand dollars. And you will wait here while the check is being certified.”
“You're crazy.” Frost was sputtering again. “I haven't got ten thousand dollars.
My show's going big, but I had a lot of debts and still have. And even if I had it-what's the idea? Blackmail? If you're that kind151”
“Please, Mr. Frost. I beg you. May I speak?”
Llewellyn glared at him.
Wolfe settled back in his chair. “There are three things I like about you, sir, but you have several bad habits. One is your assumption that words are brickbats to be hurled at people in an effort to stun them. You must learn to stop that.
Another is your childish readiness to rush into action without stopping to consider the consequences. Before you definitely hired me to undertake an investigation you should have scrutinized the possibilities. But the point is that you hired me; and let me tell you, you burned all bridges when you goaded me into that mad sortie to Fifty-second Street. That will have to be paid for.
You and I are bound by contract; I am bound to pursue a certain inquiry, and you are bound to pay my reasonable and commensurate charge. And when, for personal and peculiar reasons, you grow to dislike the contract, what do you do? You come to my office and try to knock me out of my chair by propelling words like
‘blackmail’ at me! Pfui! The insolence of a spoiled child!”
He poured beer, and drank. Llewellyn Frost watched him. I, after getting it into my notebook, nodded my head at him in encouraging approval of one of his better efforts.
The client finally spoke. “But look here, Mr. Wolfe. I didn't agree to let you go up there and… that is…I didn't have any idea you were going…” He stopped on that, and gave it up. “I'm not denying the contract. I didn't come here and start throwing brickbats. I just asked, if we call it off now, how much do I owe you?”
“And I told you.”
“But I haven't got ten thousand dollars, not this minute. I think I could have it in a week. But even if I did, my God, just for a couple of hours' work-”
“It is not the work.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “It is simply that I will not permit my self-conceit to be bruised by the sort of handling you are trying to give it. It is true that I hire out my abilities for money, but I assure you that I am not to be regarded as a mere peddler of gewgaws or tricks. I am an artist or nothing. Would you commission Matisse to do a painting, and, when he had scribbled his first rough sketch, snatch it from him and crumple it up and tell him, That's enough, how much do I owe you?' No, you wouldn't do that. You think the comparison is fanciful? I don't. Every artist has his own conceit. I have mine. I know you are young, and your training has left vacant lots in your brain; you don't realize how offensively you have acted.”
