Death of a Doxy (Crime Line)

"Yes. He said to tell you that he wants you to decide how to handle it."

"That's just dandy. To be trusted like that, I do appreciate it. Excuse me while I rub my nose." I rubbed it with a fingertip, my eyes focused on the big globe over by the bookshelves but not seeing it. It didn't take long because it was really quite simple; it was all or nothing, and it didn't matter if Parker got it now or tomorrow.

I stood up. "I thought you played bridge on winter Sundays."

"I do. The call from Cather intruded."

"Then I suggest that you go back and resume. I have decided how to handle it. I'm going to report to Mr. Wolfe. I'd rather have him glare at me while I'm telling him than while I'm telling you. I'll tell you later, or he will, say tomorrow morning. If you prefer, you can wait in the front room, but it will take a while."

Wolfe, his lips pressed so tight he didn't have any mouth, reached for a bottle and poured beer. Parker looked at him, picked up his glass and emptied it, put the glass down, rose, looked at me, and said, "You might tell me one thing, to be regarded as a privileged communication, did he kill her?"

"Even granting that I know," I said, "it wouldn't be privileged. I'm not your client."

I headed for the hall, but out by the rack I stood and held his coat for a couple of minutes while he exchanged words with Wolfe. Finally he came, took his time getting his scarf adjusted, his overcoat buttoned, and his gloves on, and pulled his shoulders in as a gust hit him when he crossed the sill. When I re-entered the office Wolfe had opened his current book, Invitation to an Inquest, by Walter and Miriam Schneir. That was childish. He was rubbing it in that his Sunday-afternoon reading had been ruined, first by Orrie and now by me. I said as I sat, "If you're in the middle of a chapter there's no rush."

He made a noise, put the book down, and glared.

"Friday afternoon," I said, "day before yesterday, Orrie phoned and asked me to meet him that evening. You may remember that I wasn't here to help with the capon Souvaroff, which I regretted. I met Orrie at seven o'clock at Giordano's, a restaurant on West Thirty-ninth Street. I now -"

"Don't cram it," he snapped.