“Well, sir?”

The bones of Muir’s face seemed to show, and his ears seemed to point forward, more than they had the day before. He kept his lips pressed together and his jaw was working from side to side as if all this emotion in his old age was nearly too much for him. I remembered how he had looked at Clara Fox the day before and thought it was remarkable that he could keep his digestion going with all the stew there must have been inside of him.

He said, “I have come here at the insistence of Mr. Perry.” His voice trembled a little, and when he stopped his jaw slid around. “I want you to understand that I know she took that money. She is the only one who could have taken it. It was found in her car.” He stopped a little to control his jaw. “Mr. Perry told me of your threat to sue for damages. The insinuation in it is contemptible. What kind of a blackguard are you, to protect a thief by hinting calumnies against men who … men above suspicion?”

He paused and compressed his lips. Wolfe murmured, “Well, go on. I don’t answer questions containing two or more unsupported assumptions.”

I don’t think Muir heard him; he was only hearing himself and trying not to blow up. He said, “I’m here only for one reason, for the sake of the Seaboard Products Corporation. And not on account of your dirty threat either.

That’s not where the dirt is in the Seaboard Products Corporation that has got to be concealed.” His voice trembled again– “It’s the fact that the president of the corporation has to satisfy his personal sensual appetite by saving a common thief from what she deserves! That’s why she can laugh at me! That’s why she can stand behind your dirty threats! Because she knows what Perry wants, and she knows how—”

“Mr. Muir!” Wolfe snapped at him. “I wouldn’t talk like that if I were you. It’s so futile. Surely you didn’t come here to persuade me that Mr. Perry has a sensual appetite.”

Muir made a movement and his hat rolled from his knees to the floor, but he paid no attention to it. His movement was for the purpose of getting his hand into his inside breast pocket, from which he withdrew a square manila envelope. He looked in it and fingered around and took out a small photograph, glanced at it, and handed it to Wolfe. “There,” he said, “look at that.”

Wolfe did so, and passed it to me. It was a snapshot of Clara Fox and Anthony D. Perry seated in a convertible coupe with the top down.

I laid it on the edge of the desk and Muir picked it up and returned it to the envelope. His jaw was moving.

He said, “I have more than thirty of them. A detective took them for me. Perry doesn’t know I have them. I want to make it clear to you that she deserves —.. that she has a hold on him …” Wolfe put up a hand. “I’m afraid I must interrupt you again, Mr. Muir. I don’t like photographs of automobiles. You say that Mr. Perry insisted on your coming here. I’ll have to insist on your telling me what for.”

“But you understand—”

“No. I won’t listen. I understand enough. Perhaps I had better put a question or two. Is it true that you have recovered all of the missing money?”

Muir glared at him. “You know we have. It was found under the back seat of her car.”

“But if that was her car in the photograph, it has no back seat.”

“She bought a new one in August. The photograph was taken in July. I suppose Perry bought it. Her salary is higher than any other woman in our organization.”

“Splendid. But about the money. If you have it back, why are you determined to prosecute?”

“Why shouldn’t we prosecute? Because she’s guilty! She took it from my desk, knowing that Perry would protect her! With her body, with her Qesh, with her surrender—”

“No, Mr. Muir.” Wolfe’s hand was up again. “Please. I put the question wrong, I shouldn’t have asked why. I want to know, are you determined to prosecute?”

Muir clamped his lips. He opened them, and clamped them again. At last he spoke, “We were. I was.”

“Was? Are you still?”

No reply. “Are you still, Mr. Muir?”

“I … no.”

“Indeed.” Wolfe’s eyes narrowed. “You are prepared to withdraw the charge?”

“Yes … under certain circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

“I want to see her.” Muir stopped because his voice was trembling again.

“I have promised Perry that I will withdraw the charge provided I can see her, alone, and tell her myself.” He sat up and his jaw tightened. “That…those are the circumstances.”

Wolfe looked at him a moment and then leaned back. He sighed. “I think possibly that can be arranged. But you must first sign a statement exonerating her.”

“Before I see her?”

“Yes.”

“No. I see her first.” Muir’s lips worked. “I must see her and tell her myself. If I had already signed a statement, she wouldn’t … no. I won’t do that.”

“But you can’t see her first.” Wolfe sounded patient. “There is a warrant in force against her, sworn to by you. I do not suspect you of treachery, I merely protect my client. You say that you have promised Mr. Perry that you will withdraw the charge. Do so. Mr. Goodwin will type the statement, you will sign it, and I will arrange a meeting with Miss Fox later in the day.”

Muir was shaking his head. He muttered, “No. No … I won’t.” All at once he broke loose worse than he had in Perry’s office the day before. He jumped up and banged his hand on the desk and leaned over at Wolfe. “I tell you I must see her! You damn blackguard, you’ve got her here! What for? What do you get out of it? What do you and Perry …”

I had a good notion to slap him one, but of course he was too old and too little. Wolfe, leaning back, opened his eyes to look at him and then closed them. Muir went on raving. I got out of my chair and told him to sit down, and he began yelling at me, something about how I had looked at her in Perry’s office yesterday. That sounded as if he might really be going to have a fit, so I took a step and got hold of his shoulders with a fairly good grip and persuaded him into his chair, and he shut up as suddenly as he had started and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began wiping his face with his hand trembling.

As he did that and I stepped back, the doorbell rang. I wasn’t sure about leaving Wolfe there alone with a maniac, but when I didn’t move he lifted his brows at me, so I went to see who the customer was.

I looked through the panel. It was a rugged-looking guy well past middle age in a loose-hanging tweed suit, with a red face, straight eyebrows over tired gray eyes, and no lobe on his right ear. Even without the ear I would have recognized him from the Times picture. I opened the door and asked him, what he wanted and he said in a wounded tone, “I’d like to see Mr. Nero Wolfe. Lord Clivers.”

Chapter 13

I nodded. “Right. Hop the sill.”

I proceeded to tax the brain. Before I go on to describe that, I’ll make a confession. I had not till that moment seriously entertained the idea that the Marquis of Clivers had killed Harlan Scovil. And why not? Because like most other people, and maybe especially Americans, there was a sneaky feeling in me that men with noble titles didn’t do things like that. Besides, this bird had just been to Washington and had lunch at the White House, which cinched it that he wasn’t a murderer.

As a matter of fact, I suspect that noblemen and people who eat lunch at the White House commit more than their share of murders compared to their numerical strength in the total population. Anyhow, looking at this one in the Sesh, and reflecting that he carried a pistol and knew how to use one, and considering how well he was fixed in the way of motive, and realizing that since Harlan Scoyil had been suspicious enough to make an advance call on Nero Wolfe he might easily have done the same on the Marquis of Clivers, I revised some of the opinions I had been forming. It looked wide open to me.