Wolfe, immovable, with his eyes nearly shut, appeared to be more than half asleep, which may or may not have deceived Bronson but didn’t deceive me. I yawned. With the angle of the light striking Bronson as it did, his nose looked blunter than it had on the veranda, as if it had at some time been permanently pushed, and his clever gray eyes looked smaller. Finally he said in a cultivated tone, “I understood you wanted to ask me something.” Wolfe nodded. “Yes, sir. Were you able to overhear much of my conversation with Miss Osgood this afternoon?” “Not a great deal. In fact, very little.” Bronson smiled. “What was that for, to see if I would make an effort at indignation? Let me suggest … we won’t really need finesse. I know a little something about you, I’m aware of your resources, but I have a few myself. Why don’t we just agree that you’re not a fool and neither am I?” “Indeed.” Wolfe’s lids had lifted so that his eyes were more than slits. “Are you really a coolheaded man?
What do You think about Some Buried Caesar (1953)?
