Rex Stout_Nero Wolfe 07 by Over My Dead Body Page A

you’d soon get sick of the job. Forget it. Beyond that? …”
    “I came to satisfy myself as to your position and intentions regarding Miss Neya Tormic.”
    “Well.” Wolfe was keeping his voice oiled—controlling himself. “What is it in you that requires satisfaction? Your curiosity?”
    “No. I am interested. I might be prepared, under certain conditions, to explain my interest, and you might find it profitable to help me advance it. I know your reputation of course—and your methods. You’re expensive. What you want is money.”
    “I like money, and I use a lot of it. Would it be your money, Mr. Faber?”
    “It would be yours after it was paid to you.”
    “Quite right. What would I have to do to earn it?”
    “I don’t know. It is an affair of urgency and it demands great discretion. That inspector of police who was here—can you satify me that you are not a secret agent of the police?”
    “I couldn’t say. I don’t know how hard you are to satisfy. I can give you my word, but I know what it’s worth and you don’t. Before I went to a lot of trouble to establish my good faith, I would need satisfaction on a few points myself. Your own position and intentions, for instance. Is your interest a personal one in Miss Tormic, or is it—somewhat broader? And does it coincide with hers? It is at least, I suppose, not hostile to her, or you wouldn’t have established that alibi forher when she was threatened with a charge of murder. But exactly what is it?”
    Rudolph Faber looked at me, with his thin lips thinner, and then said to Wolfe, “Send him out of the room.”
    I started to deride him with a grin, knowing the reception that kind of suggestion always got, no matter who made it; but the grin froze on my face with amazement when I heard Wolfe saying calmly, “Certainly, sir. Archie, leave us, please.”
    I was so damn flabbergasted and boiling I got up to go without a word. I guess I staggered. But when I was nearly to the door Wolfe’s voice from behind stopped me:
    “By the way, we promised to phone Mr. Green. You might do so from Mr. Brenner’s room.”
    So that was it. I might have known it. I said, “Yes, sir,” and went on out, closing the door behind me, and proceeded three paces towards the kitchen. Where I stopped there was hanging on the left wall, the one that separated the hall from the office, an old brown wood carving, a panel in three sections. The two side sections were hinged to the middle one. I swung the right section around, stooped a little—for it had been constructed at the level of Wolfe’s eyes—and looked through the peephole, camouflaged on the other side by a painting with the two little apertures backed by gauze, into the office. I could see them both, Faber’s profile and Wolfe’s full, and I mean full, face. Also I could hear their words, by straining a little, but it was obvious that they were both going on with the sparring with no prospect of getting anywhere, so I went to the kitchen. Fritz was there in his sock feet reading a newspaper, with his slippers beside him on another chair in case of a summons. He looked up and nodded.
    “Milk, Archie?”
    “No. Keep it low. The hole’s uncovered. Tricks.”
    “Ah!” His eyes gleamed. He loved conspiracies and sinister things. “Good case?”
    “Case hell. The second World War. It started this afternoon up on 48th Street. We’d better not talk.”
    I sat on the edge of the table for two minutes by my watch and then went to the house phone on the wall and buzzed the office. Wolfe answered.
    “Well?”
    “Mr. Goodwin speaking. Green says he has got to talk with you.”
    “I’m busy.”
    “I told him that. He said what the hell.”
    “You can give him the program as well as I can, and the reports we got yesterday—”
    “I told him that too. He says he wants to hear it from you. I’ll switch him onto your line.”
    “No, no, don’t do that. Confound him anyway. You know I’m not alone—and