Fer-de-Lance (Nero Wolfe, #1)

by Rex Stout

The folds of his cheeks pulled away a little from the corners of his mouth; when he did that he thought he was smiling.

“Good. What were you doing, William Riley, while Michael was chasing balls?” “I was chewing gum.” “Exclusively? I mean, was that the utmost of your efforts?”

Wolfe was whistling; that is, his lips were rounded into the proper position and air was going in and out, but there was no sound. I loved seeing him do that; it never happened when anybody was there but me, not even Fritz. He told me once that it meant he was surrendering to his emotions.

I had telephoned the apartment where Maria Maffei worked, and when I got there she was expecting me. I would hardly have known her. In a neat well-cut housekeeper’s dress, black, with a little black thing across the top of her hair, she looked elegant, and her manner was as Park Avenue as the doorman at the Pierre. Well, I thought, they’re all different in the bathtub from what they’re like at Schrafft’s.

Seven years with Nero Wolfe had taught me not to bite my nails waiting for the world to come to an end, but there were times when I was convinced that an eccentric was a man who ought to have his nose pulled.

I said, “Okay. But why all the mystery—” “Comments later, Archie. Save them, please. I am due upstairs in ten minutes and I have yet to enjoy my chocolate.” I said, “I hope you choke on it,” and turned and left him.