In the Best Families (Crime Line)
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Aging millionairess Mrs. Rackham asks Nero Wolfe to find out where her penniless husband has suddenly been obtaining mysteriously large sums of money, a request that leads to murder and to threats against the master detective himself.
very sensitive about it, I'm neurotic about it, and I would know it the first second he felt that way. Of course he knows what I look like, he knows how ugly I am, he can't help that, but it doesn't annoy him a particle, not even- She stopped and was blushing. Calvin Leeds coughed and shifted in his chair. Wolfe closed his eyes and after a moment opened them again. I didn't look away from her because when she blushed I began to feel a little uncomfortable myself, and I wanted to see if I could
haven't the thinnest idea where he is or what he's doing. He shrugged. “I'm not complaining. I only hope he hasn't tumbled in where it's too deep this time-and you too. “Go to hell, I advised him, and marched off. I couldn't really blame the Westchester bunch, but Parker should have known me well enough to tell which side of my mouth I was talking out of. It's damn' discouraging, when you do tell the truth, not to have it recognised. Also discouraging was the welcome I got on entering Wolfe's
my sympathy up to a point, but what stuck out was her basic assumption that rich people can always get anything they want just by putting up the dough. That's enough to give an honest working man, like a private detective for instance, a pain in three places. The assumption is of course sound in some cases, but what rich people are apt not to understand is that there are important exceptions. This, however, was not one of them, and I hoped Wolfe would see that it wasn't. He did. He didn't want
sentinels, and had shot Zeck, and Schwartz and Harry had rushed in and drilled Rackham. It was surprising and gratifying to note how much of it was strictly true. So by Friday afternoon we were cleaned up with Westchester, as I thought, and therefore it was a minor shock when Wolfe said, “No, confound it, I still have to earn that fee. I was opening my mouth to ask him how come, when the phone rang. I got it. It was Annabel Frey. She wanted to speak to Wolfe. I told him so. He frowned and
statesman Pierce broke us up then, as we entered the living-room, and I didn't fight for her. We collected in the neighbourhood of the fireplace for coffee, and there was a good deal of talk about nothing, and after a while somebody suggested television, and Barry Rackham went and turned it on. He and Annabel turned out lights. As the rest of us got settled in favourably placed seats, Mrs Rackham left us. A little later, as I sat in the semi-darkness scowling at a cosmetic commercial, some