The Second Confesion

I wasn't gratified at having impressed him. In fact, I would have preferred to pass the chance up, but I hadn't dared. I remembered too well a voice-a hard, slow, precise voice, cold as last week's corpse-which I had heard only three times altogether, on the telephone. The first time had been in January 1946, and the second and third had been more than two years later, while we were looking for the poisoner of Cyril Orchard. Furthermore, I remembered the tone of Wolfe's voice when he said to me, when we had both hung up after the second phone call, “I should have signalled you off, Archie, as soon as I recognized his voice. I tell you nothing because it is better for you to know nothing. You are to forget that you know his name. If ever, in the course of my business, I find that I am committed against him and must destroy him, I shall leave this house, find a place where I can work-and sleep and eat if there is time for it-and stay there until I have finished.” I have seen Wolfe tangle with some tough bozos in the years I've been with him, but none of them has ever had him talking like that.

Now he was sitting glaring at me as if I had put vinegar on his caviar.

“What do you know about Bischoff's Pet Shop?” he demanded.