Too Many Clients Read Free Page B

I’ll put you on my Christmas card fist. This year it will be an abstract painting in twenty colors and the message will be ‘We want to share with you this picture of us bathing the dog, greetings of the season from Archie and Mehitabel and the children.’”
    “You haven’t got a Mehitabel or any children.”
    “Sure, that’s why it will be abstract.”
    He eyed me. “You could give me something not for quotation. Or something to hold until you’re ready to let go.”
    “No. Not now. If and when, I know your number.”
    “As usual.” He raised his hands, palms up. “I have things to do. Drop in some day.” His phone rang, and he turned to it, and I went.
    On my way to the elevator and going down, I looked it over. I had told Wolfe I would be back before bedtime, but it was only nine o’clock. I was hungry. I could go to a soda counter for a bite and decide how to proceed while I bit, but the trouble was that I knew darned well what I wanted to do, and it might take all night. Besides, although it was understood that when I was out on an errand I would be guided by intelligence and experience, as Wolfe had put it, it was also understood that if things got complicated I would phone. And the phone was no good for this, not only because he hated talking on the phone about anything whatever, but also because it had to be handled just right or he would refuse to play. So I flagged a taxi and gave the driver the address of the old brownstone on West 35th Street.
    Arriving, I mounted the seven steps to the stoop and pushed the bell button. My key isn’t enough when the chain bolt is on, as it usually is when I’m out. When Fritz opened the door and I entered, he tried not to look a question at me but couldn’t keep it out of his eyes-the same question he hadn’t asked that afternoon: Did we have a client'I told him it was still possible, and I was empty, and could he spare a hunk of bread and a glass of milk'He said but of course, he would bring it, and I went to the office.
    Wolfe was at his desk with a book, leaning back in the only chair in the world that he can sit down in without making a face, made to order by his design and under his supervision. The reading light in the wall above and behind his left shoulder was the only one on in the room, and like that, with the light at that angle, he looks even bigger than he is. Like a mountain with the sun rising behind it. As I entered and flipped the wall switch to cut him down to size, he spoke. He said, “Umph.” As I crossed to my desk he asked, “Have you eaten?”
    “No.” I sat. “Fritz is bringing something.”
    “Bringing?”
    Surprise with a touch of annoyance. Ordinarily, when an errand has made me miss a meal and I come home hungry, I go to the kitchen to eat. The exceptions are when I have something to report that shouldn’t wait, and when he is settled down for the evening with a book he is in no mood to listen to a report, no matter what.
    I nodded. “I have something on my chest.”
    His lips tightened. The book, a big thick one, was spread open, held with both hands. He closed it on a finger to keep his place, heaved a sigh, and demanded, “What?”
    I decided it was useless to try circling around. With him you have to fit the tactics to the atmosphere. “That slip I put on your desk,” I said. “The bank balance after drawing those checks. The June tax payment will be due in thirty-seven days. Of course we could file an amended declaration if someone doesn’t turn up with a major problem and a retainer to match.”
    He was scowling at me. “Must you harp on the obvious?”
    “I’m not harping. I haven’t mentioned it for three days. I refer to it now because I would like to have permission to take a stab at digging up a client instead of sitting here on my fanny waiting for one to turn up. I’m getting calluses on my rump.”
    “And your modus'A sandwich board?”
    “No, sir. I have a possible target, just barely possible.