I wanted information about a man named Rony, Louis Rony, and they've been at it a full month and they haven't got it, and I need it urgently. Yesterday I decided to call them off and try you. I've looked you up, and if you've earned your reputation “I should have come to you first.” He smiled like an angel, surprising me again, and convincing me that he would stand watching. “Apparently you have no equal.” Wolfe grunted, trying not to look pleased. “There was a man in Marseilles-but he's not available and he doesn't speak English, What information do you want about Mr Rony?” “I want proof that he's a Communist. If you get it and get it soon, your bill can be whatever you want to make it.” Wolfe shook his head. “I don't take jobs on those terms. You don't know he's a Communist, or you wouldn't be bidding so high for proof. If he isn't, I can't very well get evidence that he is. As for my bill being whatever I want to make it, my bills always are. But I charge for what I do, and I can do nothing that is excluded by circumstance. What I dig up is of necessity contingent on what has been buried, but the extent of my digging isn't, nor my fee.” “You talk too much,” Sperling said impatiently but not impolitely.

“Do I?” Wolfe cocked an eye at him. “Then you talk,” He nodded sidewise at me.

“Your notebook, Archie.” The miner waited until I had it ready, open at a fresh page, and then spoke crisply, starting with a spelling lesson. “L-o-u-i-s. R-o-n-y. He's in the Manhattan phone book, both his law office and his home, his apartment-and anyway, it's all in that.” He indicated the bulky envelope, which he had tossed on to Wolfe's desk. “I have two daughters. Madeline is twenty-six and Gwenn is twenty-two. Gwenn was smart enough to graduate with honours at Smith a year ago, and I'm almost sure she's sane, but she's too damn curious and she turns her nose up at rules. She hasn't worked her way out of the notion that you can have independence without earning it.