'No, Mr. Muir.' Wolfe's hand was up again. 'Please. I put the question wrong, I shouldn't have asked why. I want to know, are you determined to prosecute?'
Muir clamped his lips. He opened them, and clamped them again. At last he spoke, 'We were. I was.'
'Was? Are you still?'
No reply. 'Are you still, Mr. Muir?'
'I… no.'
'Indeed.' Wolfe's eyes narrowed. 'You are prepared to withdraw the charge?'
'Yes… under certain circumstances.'
'What circumstances?'
'I want to see her.' Muir stopped because his voice was trembling again. 'I have promised Perry that I will withdraw the charge provided I can see her, alone, and tell her myself.' He sat up and his jaw tightened. 'That… those are the circumstances.'
Wolfe looked at him a moment and then leaned back. He sighed. 'I think possibly that can be arranged. But you must first sign a statement exonerating her.'
'Before I see her?'
'Yes.'
'No. I see her first.' Muir's lips worked. 'I must see her and tell her myself. If I had already signed a statement, she wouldn't… no. I won't do that.'
'But you can't see her first.' Wolfe sounded patient. 'There is a warrant in force against her, sworn to by you. I do not suspect you of treachery, I merely protect my client. You say that you have promised Mr. Perry that you will withdraw the charge. Do so. Mr. Goodwin will type the statement, you will sign it, and I will arrange a meeting with Miss Fox later in the day.'
Muir was shaking his head. He muttered, 'No. No… I won't.' All at once he broke loose worse than he had in Perry's office the day before. He jumped up and banged his hand on the desk and leaned over at Wolfe. 'I tell you I must see her! You damn blackguard, you've got her here! What for? What do you get out of it? What do you and Perry…'
I had a good notion to slap him one, but of course he was too old and too little. Wolfe, leaning back, opened his eyes to look at him and then closed them. Muir went on raving. I got out of my chair and told him to sit down, and he began yelling at me, something about how I had looked at her in Perry's office yesterday. That sounded as if he might really be going to have a fit, so I took a step and got hold of his shoulders with a fairly good grip and persuaded him into his chair, and he shut up as suddenly as he had started and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began wiping his face with his hand trembling.
As he did that and I stepped back, the doorbell rang. I wasn't sure about leaving Wolfe there alone with a maniac, but when I didn't move he lifted his brows at me, so I went to see who the customer was.
I looked through the panel. It was a rugged-looking guy well past middle age in a loose-hanging tweed suit, with a red face, straight eyebrows over tired gray eyes, and no lobe on his right ear. Even without the ear I would have recognized him from the Times picture. I opened the door and asked him, what he wanted and he said in a wounded tone, 'I'd like to see Mr. Nero Wolfe. Lord Clivers.'
XII
I NODDED. 'Right. Hop the sill.'
I proceeded to tax the brain. Before I go on to describe that, I'll make a confession. I had not till that moment seriously entertained the idea that the Marquis of Clivers had killed Harlan Scovil. And why not? Because like most other people, and maybe especially Americans, there was a sneaky feeling in me that men with noble titles didn't do things like that. Besides, this bird had just been to Washington and had lunch at the White House, which cinched it that he wasn't a murderer. As a matter of fact, I suspect that noblemen and people who eat lunch at the White House commit more than their share of murders compared to their numerical strength in the total population. Anyhow, looking at this one in the Sesh, and reflecting that he carried a pistol and knew how to use one, and considering how well he was fixed in the way of motive, and realizing that since Harlan Scovil had been suspicious enough to make an advance call on Nero Wolfe he might easily have done the same on the Marquis of Clivers, I revised some of the opinions I had been forming. It looked wide open to me.
That flashed through my mind. Also, as I disposed of his hat and stick and gloves for him, I wondered if it might be well to arrange a little confrontation between Muir and the marquis, but I didn't like to decide that myself. So I escorted him to a seat in the front room, telling him Wolfe was engaged, and then returned to the hall and wrote on a piece of paper, 'Old man Clivers,' and went to the office and handed the paper to Wolfe.
Wolfe glanced at it, looked at me, and winked his right eye. I sat down. Muir was talking, much calmer but just as stubborn. They passed it back and forth for a couple of minutes without getting anywhere, until Wolfe said, 'Futile, Mr. Muir. I won't do it. Tell Mr. Perry that I shall proceed with the program I announced to him this morning. That's final. I'll accept nothing less than complete and unconditional exoneration of my client. Good day, sir. I have a caller waiting.'
Muir stood up. He wasn't trembling, and his jaw seemed to be back in place, but he looked about as friendly as Mussolini talking to the world. He didn't say anything. He shot me a mean glance and looked at Wolfe for half a minute without blinking, and then stooped to pick up his hat and straightened up and steered for the door. I followed and let him out, and stood on the stoop a second watching him start off down the sidewalk as if he had half a jag on. He was like the mule in the story that kept running into trees; he wasn't blind, he was just so mad he didn't give a damn.
