Checking on him, as I do when it’s feasible on everyone who makes an appointment to see Nero Wolfe, I had learned, in addition to that important item, that he listed himself in Who’s Who as “capitalist,” which seemed a little vague; that he maintained no office outside of his home, on Fifth Avenue in the Seventies; that he was fifty-three years old; that (this through a phone call to Lon Cohen of the Gazette) he had a reputation as a tough operator who could smell a chance for a squeeze play in his sleep; and that he had never been in jail.

He didn’t look tough, he looked flabby, but of course that’s no sign. The toughest guy I ever ran into had cheeks that needed a brassiere. Jarrell’s weren’t that bad, but they were starting to sag. And although the tailor who had been paid three hundred bucks, or maybe four hundred, for making his brown shadow-striped suit had done his best, the pants had a problem with a ridge of surplus flesh when he sat.

But that wasn’t the problem that had brought the capitalist to Nero Wolfe. With his sharp brown eyes leveled at Wolfe’s big face, he said, “I want to hire you on a confidential matter. Absolutely confidential. I know your reputation or I wouldn’t be here, and your man’s, Goodwin’s, too. Before I tell you what it is I want your word that you’ll take it on and keep it to yourselves, both of you.”

“My dear sir.” Wolfe, still needing to show me that he was perfectly willing to have sociable intercourse with one who deserved it, was indulgent. “You can’t expect me to commit myself to a job without knowing what it is. You say you know my reputation; then you are satisfied of my discretion or you wouldn’t have come. Short of complicity in a felony, I can keep a secret even if I’m not working on it. So can Mr. Goodwin.”

Jarrell’s eyes moved, darted, and met mine. I looked discreet.