and began to tremble, and stood there with his arms at his sides and his fists doubled up.
I said, “They're no good hanging there at your knees. Put 'em up and I'll slap you again.”
He was too mad to pronounce properly. He sputtered, “You'll re-regret this.
You'll-”
I said, “Shut up and get out of here before you make me mad. You talk of revoking licenses! I know what's eating you, you've got delusions of grandeur, and you've been trying to hog a grandstand play ever since they gave you a desk and a chair down there. I know all about you. I know why Skinner sent you, he wanted to give you a chance to make a monkey of yourself, and you didn't even have gump enough to know it. The next time you shoot off your mouth about Nero
Wolfe being crooked and underhanded I won't slap you in private, I'll do it with an audience. Git!”
In a way I suppose it was all right, and of course it was the only thing to do under the circumstances, but there was no deep satisfaction in it. He turned and walked out, and after I had heard the front door close behind him I went and sat down at my desk and yawned and scratched my head and kicked over the wastebasket. It had been a fleeting pleasure to smack him and read him out, but now that it was over there was an inclination inside of me to feel righteous, and that made me glum and in a worse temper than before. I hate to feel righteous, because it makes me uncomfortable and I want to kick something.
I picked up the wastebasket and returned the litter to it piece by piece. I took out the plant records and opened them and put them back again, went to the front room and looked out of the window onto 35th Street and came back, answered a phone call from Ferguson's Market which I relayed to Fritz, and finally got myself propped on my coccyx again with the book on toxicology. I was still fighting with that when Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at eleven o'clock.
He progressed to his desk and sat down, and went through his usual motions with the pen, the mail, the vase of orchids, the button to subpoena beer. Fritz came with the tray, and Wolfe opened and poured and drank and wiped his lips. Then he leaned back and sighed. He was relaxing after his strenuous activities among the flower pots.
I said, “Frisbie got obnoxious and I touched him on the cheek with my hand. He is going to revoke your license and serve you with different kinds of papers and maybe throw you into a vat of lye.”
“Indeed.” Wolfe opened his eyes at me. “Was he going to revoke the license before you hit him or afterward?”
“Before. Afterward he didn't talk much.”
Wolfe shuddered. “I trust your discretion, Archie, but sometimes I feel that I am trusting the discretion of an avalanche. Was there no recourse but to batter him?”
“I didn't batter him. I didn't even tap him. It was just a gesture of annoyance.
I'm in an ugly mood.”
“I know you are. I don't blame you. This case has been tedious and disagreeable from the beginning. Something seems to have happened to Saul. We have a job ahead of us. It will end, I think, as disagreeably as it began, but we shall do it in style if we can, and with finality-ah! There, I hope, is Saul now.”
The doorbell had rung. But again, as on the evening before, it wasn't Saul. This time it was Inspector Cramer.
Fritz ushered him in and he lumbered across. He looked as if he was about due for dry dock, with puffs under his eyes, his greying hair straggly, and his shoulders not as erect and military as an inspector's ought to be. Wolfe greeted him:
“Good morning, sir. Sit down. Will you have some beer?”
He took the dunce's chair, indulged in a deep breath, took a cigar from his pocket, scowled at it and put it back again. He took another breath and told both of us:
“When I get into such shape that I don't want a cigar I'm in a hell of a fix.”
He looked at me. “What did you do to Frisbie, anyway?”
“Not a thing. Nothing that I remember.”
“Well, he does. I think you're done for. I think he's going to plaster a charge of treason on you.”
I grinned. “That hadn't occurred to me. I guess that's what it was, treason.
What do they do, hang me?”
Cramer shrugged. “I don't know and I don't care. What happens to you is the least of my worries. God, I wish I felt like lighting a cigar.” He took one from his pocket again, looked it over, and this time kept it in his hand. He passed me up. “Excuse me, Wolfe, I guess I didn't mention I don't want any beer. I suppose you think I came here to start a fracas.”
Wolfe murmured, “Well, didn't you?”
“I did not. I came to have a reasonable talk. Can I ask you a couple of straight questions and get a couple of straight replies?”
“You can try. Give me a sample.”
“Okay. If we searched this place would we find McNair's red box?”
“No.”
“Have you ever seen it or do you know where it is?*
“No. To both.”
