The Second Confesion

“It will do,” Wolfe murmured in a gratified tone. He was behind his desk, leaning back in his custom-made chair, which was warranted safe for a quarter of a ton and which might some day really be put to the test if its owner didn't level off. He added, “If you'll tell me what your problem is perhaps I can make your trip a good investment.” Seated at my own desk, at a right angle to Wolfe's and not far away, I allowed myself a mild private grin. Since the condition of his bank balance did not require the use of sales pressure to snare a client, I knew why he was spreading the sugar. He was merely being sociable because Sperling had said he liked the office. Wolfe didn't like the office, which was on the first floor of the old brownstone house he owned. He didn't like it, he loved it, and it was a good thing he did, since he was spending his life in it-except when he was in the kitchen with Fritz, or in the diningroom across the hall at mealtime, or upstairs asleep, or in the plant rooms up on the roof, enjoying the orchids and pretending he was helping Theodore with the work.

My private grin was interrupted by Sperling firing a question at me: “Your name's Goodwin, isn't it? Archie Goodwin?” I admitted it. He went to Wolfe.

“It's a confidential matter.” Wolfe nodded. “Most matters discussed in this office are. That's commonplace in the detective business. Mr Goodwin and I are used to it.” “It's a family matter.” Wolfe frowned, and I joined him. With that opening it was a good twenty-to-one shot that we were going to be asked to tail a wife, and that was out of bounds for us. But James U. Sperling went on.