If Death Ever Slept

I had been wondering if he had forgotten about that. I was also wondering if he figured that later, remembering that he had told me Thursday night to get next to Jim Eber, I would regard that as evidence that he hadn’t been aware that Eber was no longer approachable.

I reminded him that it takes two to make a deal and that I hadn’t accepted his offer, but he waved that away as not worth discussing. His suggestion that I cultivate Eber made it relevant for me to ask questions about him, and I did so, but while some of the answers I got might have been helpful for getting to know him better, none of them shed any light on the most important fact about him, that he was dead. He had been with Jarrell five years, was unmarried, was a Presbyterian but didn’t work at it, played golf on Sunday, was fair to good at bridge, and so on. I also collected some data on Corey Brigham.

When Jarrell finished with me and I went, leaving him at his desk, I stood outside for a moment, on the rug that walked like a man, or a woman, debating whether to go and join the pinochle players, to observe them from the new angle I now had on the whole bunch, or to go for a walk and call Wolfe to tell him what Jarrell’s instructions had been. It was a draw, so I decided to do neither and went upstairs to bed.