Crampton-Gore case, the phone rang. Wolfe, at his desk in
his oversize chair, happening not to be pouring beer at the
moment, answered at his instrument. After a second he
grunted and muttered:
“She wants Escamillo.”
I lifted my receiver. “Hello, trifle. I’m busy.”
“You’re always busy.” She sounded energetic. “You listen
to me a minute. You probably don’t know or don’t care that
I seldom pay any attention to my mail except to run through it
to see if there’s a letter from you. I’ve just discovered that I
did after all get an invitation to Nancy’s and Jimmy’s wed-
ding, which will be tomorrow. I know you did. You and I
will go together. You can come—”
“Stop! Stop and take a breath. Weddings are out. They’re
barbaric vestiges of … of barbarism. I doubt if I’d go to my
own.”
“You might. You may. For a string of cellophane pearls I’d
marry you myself. But this wedding will be amusing. Old
Pratt and old Osgood will be there and you can see them shake
hands. Then you can have cocktails and dinner with me.”
“My pulse remains steady.”
“Kiss me.”
“Still steady.”
“I’ll buy you some marbles and an airgun and roller
skates …”
“No. Are you going to ring off now?”
“No. I haven’t seen you for a century.”
“Okay. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’m going to the Strand
tomorrow evening at 9 o’clock to watch Greenleaf and Bald-
win play pool. You can come along if you’ll promise to sit
quietly and not chew gum.”
“I wouldn’t know a pool from a pikestaff. But all right.
You can come here for dinner—”
“Nope. I’ll eat at home with my employer. I’ll meet you
in the lobby “of the Churchill at 8:45.”
“My God, these public assignations—”
“I am perfectly willing to be seen with you in public.”
“8:45 tomorrow.”
“Right.”
I replaced the instrument and turned to my typewriter.
Wolfe’s voice came:
“Archie.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get the dictionary and look up the meaning of the word
‘spiritual.'”
I merely ignored it and started on paragraph 16 of the
report.