stairs as we went in. I think I damaged his ego. “Was that necessary?” MacLaren demanded as I closed the front door behind us.
“I don’t like anyone thinking I’m a pushover just because I happen to be six inches shorter than they are,” I shot back. “Tell George he needs to work on blocking lefts.”
We stopped in the doorway to the office. I performed the social niceties. “Ian MacLaren, this is Nero Wolfe.” Wolfe looked up, but at me, not our visitor.
“What happened to you?” he snapped.
I realized then that George’s punch had scored some points. My hand went to my left cheek and I winced from the tenderness, coming away with blood on my fingers. “Mr. MacLaren’s . . . uh . . . driver and I had a debate on the stoop as to who would be sitting in on this conversation. I outtalked him.”
Wolfe snorted as MacLaren eased into the red leather chair. “I assume Mr. MacLaren’s driver remained outside.”
“In the car,” I said, dabbing my cheek with a handkerchief.
Wolfe turned his attention to our visitor while I settled in at my desk. The press baron, whom I had in left profile, seemed to be all angles—long straight nose, pointed chin, deeply lined cheeks, a flat head covered with well-groomed dark hair flecked with white. Somehow the pieces fit together pretty well, though; I was forced to admit he wasn’t at all bad-looking, hardly an ogre. And his gray suit, while maybe not as expensive as Dean’s, was a nice fit. He studied Wolfe with a democratic smile as he crossed his legs.
“Is he going to stay?” he asked, motioning to me.
“Mr. Goodwin is always present at discussions in this room,” Wolfe said. “Anything you have to say to me you can say to him. If you have something too confidential for his ears, I cannot be bothered with it.”
MacLaren’s dark eyes swept the room. “Is it bugged?” he asked quietly.
“No, sir,” Wolfe replied. “You have my word of honor on that. We do not have tape recorders in this house, although Mr. Goodwin takes notes in shorthand. And if you were to insist that he not do so, it wouldn’t matter; he can reconstruct verbatim conversations several hours in length.” MacLaren shot a piercing glance at me and then concentrated on Wolfe.
“All right,” he said. “That ad you bought in today’s Times—I could sue you.”
“That would be futile. There’s not an actionable word in the text, and you know it.”
“I’m not so sure.” MacLaren’s smile was disarming. “Anyway, that’s not why I’ve come. I demand to know what you’re up to.”
“I should be asking that question,” Wolfe purred.
“I think it’s pretty obvious. You read the papers and watch TV. And you talked about it in your ad. I want the New York Gazette. No secret there.”
“How close are you to getting it?”
“I’m not prepared to discuss that right now.” MacLaren grinned coolly at Wolfe. “The record shows that I usually get what I want, though. Don’t bet against me.”
“Indeed I won’t,” Wolfe said. “Assuming your success—which I’m not yet prepared to do—how do you plan to change the paper?”
“I don’t have to answer that, but I will; the Gazette will remain the same as it is now.”
“Flummery!” Wolfe spat.
I expected a violent reaction from MacLaren, but got another smile instead. “Actually, I can see one change,” he said, massaging his chin. “It just occurred to me. How would you like to be a Gazette columnist—three times a week?”
“More flummery,” Wolfe grunted.
“Not at all,” MacLaren said. “You could write on anything you felt like. You’d be syndicated nationally, of course. And here in New York, we’d promote you likecrazy,” he went on, sweeping his arm in an arc. “TV commercials, radio spots, billboards saying ‘Nero Wolfe—only in the Gazette!’ Millions would read you daily. And—”
“Enough!” Wolfe showed him a palm. “You wouldn’t want me on your payroll for long, sir. My first column would be devoted to castigating you and the caliber of your newspapers.”
“So much the better!” MacLaren countered heartily. This was beginning to get interesting. “Great publicity for me. For you. For the Gazette. Name your salary.”
Wolfe sat rigid in his chair. “Sir, enough of this bavardage. We’re wasting each other’s time.”
“Why don’t you like my papers?” MacLaren demanded, leaning forward in the chair with his hands on the arms.
“Come now, sir. You know the answer. They’re execrable examples of journalism.”
“Readers in eight countries don’t agree,” MacLaren said, still smiling but sticking out his long