Nero Wolfe 16 - Even in the Best Families by Rex Stout Page B

mate.
    We had our hands and faces washed, and he had his teeth brushed, when the breakfast came on a big clean aluminum tray. The eats were barely usable if you took Fritz’s productions as a standard, but compared with the community meal which I had seenand smelled they were a handsome feast. My mate having ordered two of everything, there were two morning
Gazettes
, and before he even touched his orange juice he took his paper and, with no glance at the front page, turned to sports. Finishing his survey of the day’s prospects, he drank some orange juice and inquired, “Are you interested in the rapidity of horses?”
    “In a way.” I added earnestly, “I like the way you talk. I enjoy being with cultured people.”
    He gave me a suspicious look, saw my honest candid countenance, and relaxed. “That’s natural. Look at your clothes.”
    We were on the chairs, with the little wooden table between us. It was comfortable enough except that there was no room to prop up our morning papers. He flattened his out, still open at sports, on the end of the cot, and turned to it while disposing of a bite of food. I arranged mine, front page, on my knee. In the picture of Mrs. Rackham the poor woman looked homelier than she had actually been, which was a darned shame even though she wasn’t alive to see it. Wolfe’s name and mine both appeared in the subheads under the three-column spread about the murder. I glanced at the bottom, followed the instruction to turn to page four, and there saw more pictures. The one of Wolfe was only fair, making him look almost bloated, but the one of me was excellent. There was one of a Doberman pinscher standing at attention. It was captioned Hebe, which I doubted. The play in the text on Wolfe and me was on his sudden retirement from business and absence from the city, and on my presence at the scene of the murder and arrest as a material witness. There was also a report of an interview with Marko Vukcic, a
Gazette
exclusive, with Lon Cohen’s by-line. I would have given at least ten to one that Lon had used my name in getting to Marko.
    With the breakfast all down, including the coffee, which was pretty good, I was so interested in my reading that I didn’t notice that my mate had finished with sports and proceeded to other current events. What got my attention was the feeling that I was being scrutinized, and sure enough I was. He was looking at me, and then at his page four, and back at me again.
    I grinned at him. “Pretty good likeness, huh? But I don’t think that’s the right dog. I’m no expert, but Hebe isn’t quite as slim as that.”
    He was regarding me with a new expression, not particularly matey. “So you’re Nero Wolfe’s little Archie.”
    “I was.” I gestured. “Read the paper. Apparently I am now my own little Archie.”
    “So I bought a meal for a shamus.”
    “Not at all. Didn’t I say it was on me when I get my wallet back?”
    He shook his head. “I wouldn’t have believed it. With them clothes? I supposed you had got snagged in the raid on the Covered Porch. It gets worse all the time, the dicks. Look at this, even here in the can I meet a guy with a suit of clothes like that, and he’s a dick!”
    “I am not a dick, strictly speaking.” I was hurt. “I am a private eye. I said I liked the way you talk, but you’re getting careless. I also noticed you were cultured, and that should have put me on my guard. Cultured people are not often found in the coop. But nowadays dicks are frequently cultured. They tossed me in here because they think I’m holding out on amurder, which I’m not, and the fact that it has been tried before doesn’t mean they wouldn’t try it again. Putting you in here with me wasn’t so dumb, but you overplayed it, buying me a breakfast first pop. That started me wondering.”
    He was on his feet, glaring down at me. “Watch it, loose-lip. I’m going to clip you.”
    “What for?”
    “You need a lesson. I’m a plant,