Might as Well Be Dead

“Dead sure. My eyes were glued to him, and they’re good eyes. Not a chance.”

“Confound it,” he muttered.

“My God,” I complained, “you’re hard to satisfy. Three hundred and twenty-seven thou-”

“But only that. It’s suggestive, of course, but that’s all. When a man is involved in a circumstance pressing enough to cause his murder he must leave a relic of it somewhere, and I had hoped it was in that box. Very well. I want to sit down.”

He marched to the office, and I followed.

Parker had let Degan have the red leather chair, and Degan had lit a cigar, so Wolfe’s nose twitched as he got his bulk adjusted in his chair.

“You gentlemen doubtless have your engagements,” he said, “so I apologize for keeping you so long, but I never discuss business at the table. Mr. Goodwin has told me what you found in that box. A substantial nest egg. You have a question for me, Mr. Degan?”

“A couple,” Degan said, “but first I must thank you for the lunch. The best omelet I ever ate!”

“I’ll tell Mr. Brenner. It will please him. And the question?”

“Well.” He blew smoke, straight at his host. “Partly it’s just plain curiosity. Were you expecting to find a large sum of money in the box?”

“No. I had no specific expectation. I was hoping to find something that would forward the job I’m on, as I told you yesterday, but I had no idea what it might be.”

“Okay.” Degan gestured with the cigar. “I’m not a suspicious man, Mr. Wolfe, anyone who knows me will tell you that, but now I’ve got this responsibility. The thought would have occurred to anybody, finding that fortune in that box, what if you knew it was there or thought it was? And now that it’s been found, what if you are figuring that a sizable share of it will be used to pay you for this job you’re doing?”

Wolfe grunted. “Surely that’s a question for me to ask, not answer. What if I am?”

“Then you are.”

“I haven’t said so. But what if I am?”