Benjamin Rackell with the least possible movement of her thin tight lips. He thought being a Communist was romantic. Nero Wolfe, behind his desk in his outsized chair that thought nothing of his seventh of a ton, scowled at her. I, at my own desk with a notebook and pen, permitted myself a private grin, not unsympathetic. Wolfe was controlling himself under severe provocation. The appointment for Mr. Rackell to call at Wolfes office on the ground floor of his old brownstone house on West Thirty-fifth Street, at six p.m., had been made by phone by a secretary in the office of the Rackell Importing Company, and nothing had been said about a wife coming along. And the wife, no treat as a spectacle to begin with, was an interrupter and a cliche tosser, enough to make Wolfe scowl at any man, let alone a woman. But, he objected, not too caustic, you say that he was not a Communist, that, on the contrary, he was acting for the FBI when he joined the Communist party.
