For the third time I went over the final additions and subtractions on the first page of Form 1040, to make good and sure. Then I swivelled my chair to face Nero Wolfe, who was seated behind his desk to the right of mine reading a book of poems by a guy named Van Doren, Mark Van Doren. So I thought I might as well use a poetry word.

“It's bleak,” I said.

There was no sign that he heard.

“Bleak,” I repeated. “If it means what I think it does. Bleak!”

His eyes didn't lift from the page, but he murmured, “What's bleak?”

“Figures.” I leaned to slide the Form 1040 across the waxed grain of his desk.

“This is March thirteenth. Four thousand three hundred and twelve dollars and sixty-eight cents, in addition to the four quarterly instalments already paid.

Then we have to send in 1040-ES for 1948, and a cheque for ten thousand bucks goes with it.” I clasped my fingers at the back of my head and asked grimly, “Bleak or not?”

He asked what the bank balance was and I told him. “Of course,” I conceded, “that will take care of the two wallops from our rich uncle just mentioned, also a loaf of bread and a sliver of shad roe, but weeks pass and bills arrive, not to be so crude as to speak of paying Fritz and Theodore and me.”

Wolfe had put down the poetry and was scowling at the Form 1040, pretending he could add. I raised my voice: “But you own this house and furniture, except the chair and other items in my room which I bought myself, and you're the boss and you know best. Sure. That electric company bird would have been good for at least a grand over and above expenses on his forgery problem, but you wouldn't be bothered. Mrs What's-her-name would have paid twice that, plenty, for the lowdown on that so-called musician, but you were too busy reading. That lawyer by the name of Clifford was in a bad hole and had to buy help, but he had dandruff. That actress and her gentleman protector-” “Archie, shut up.”