Free Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 25 by Before Midnight Page B

crossed the sill. The quartet was in a close huddle over by the big walnut rack.
    “Need any help?” I asked brightly.
    “No,” Susan said. “We’re conferring.”
    I re-entered the office, closed the door, and told Wolfe, “They’re in conference. If I go in the front room and put my ear to the keyhole of the door to the hall I can catch it. After all, it’s your house.”
    “Pfui,” he said, and shut his eyes. I treated myself to a good yawn and stretch, and looked at my wrist. Twenty to seven.
    For the second time that day we had a king-size wait. At six-forty-five I turned on the radio to see how the Giants had made out with the Phillies, and got no glow out of that. I would have gone to the kitchen for a glass of milk, since dinner would be late, but the only route was through the rear of the hall,and I didn’t want to disturb the conference. At six-fifty-five I reminded Wolfe that Harold Rollins was due in five minutes, and he only nodded without opening his eyes. At seven-two the doorbell rang, and I went.
    Still in a huddle at the rack, they broke off as I appeared and gave me their faces. Out on the stoop was a lone male. I went on by the huddle, opened the door, and said, “Mr. Rollins? Come in.”
    My own idea would have been to put him in the front room until the conference was over and we had got the score, but if Wolfe had wanted that he would have said so, and I’m perfectly willing to let him have things his way unless his ego is jostling mine. So I took Rollins’ hat and coat and ushered him along to the office. I was inside too and was shutting the door when Susan’s voice came. “Mr. Goodwin!”
    I pulled the door to with me on the hall side. As I approached she asked, “Wasn’t that one of them? The one named Rollins?”
    “Right. Harold Rollins, Burlington, Iowa, professor of history at Bemis College.”
    She looked at her pals. Their heads all moved, an inch to the left and back again. She looked at me. “Mr. Wolfe asked me if I had any comment about what he told me about Miss Frazee. He asked me if I thought it was worth discussing. I have no comment now, but I will have. It’s absolutely outrageous to expect—”
    A quick tug at her sleeve by Knudsen stopped her. She shot him a glance and then pushed her head forward at me. “No comment!” she shrilled, and turned to reach to the rack for her coat. The men simultaneously reached for theirs.
    “If you gentlemen don’t mind,” I said, perfectlyfriendly, “my grandmother out in Ohio used to ask me if the cat had my tongue. I’ve always wondered about it. Was it a cat in your case?”
    No soap. Not a peep. I gave up and opened the door to let them out.

 Chapter 8 
    B ack in the office, I attended to the lights before going to my desk. There are eight different lights—one in the ceiling above a big bowl of banded Oriental alabaster, which is on the wall switch, one on the wall behind Wolfe’s chair, one on his desk, one on my desk, one flooding the big globe, and three for the book shelves. The one on Wolfe’s desk is strictly for business, like crossword puzzles. The one on the wall behind him is for reading. He likes all the others turned on, and after making the rounds I sat, picked up my notebook, and gave Harold Rollins a look.
    “They have gone?” Wolfe asked.
    “Yes, sir. No comment.”
    Rollins was comfortable in the red leather chair, right at home, though one about half the size would have been better for him. He hadn’t shrunk from underfeeding like Carol Wheelock; he looked healthy enough, what there was of him. Nor was there much to his face except a wide flexible mouth and glasses in thick black frames. You didn’t see his nose and chin at all unless you concentrated.
    It’s hard to tell with glasses like those, but apparentlyhe was returning my regard. “Your name’s Goodwin, isn’t it?” he asked.
    I admitted it.
    “Then it was you who sicked that man Younger on me. You don’t expect me to be