A Right to Die

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He had no appointment and, looking at him across the doorsill, it didn’t seem likely that he would be bringing the first big fee of 1964. But when he said his name was Whipple and he wanted to consult Mr. Wolfe I let him in and took him to the office, because after a long dull day I would welcome Wolfe’s glare at me for breaking a rule, and also because he was a Negro. So far as I knew, in their hot campaign for civil rights the Negroes hadn’t mentioned the right to consult a private detective, but why not? So I didn’t even ask him what the trouble was. In the office, when I put him in the red leather chair near the end of Wolfe’s desk, he looked around and then leaned back and closed his eyes. I had told him that Wolfe would be down in ten minutes, at six o’clock, and he had nodded and said, “I know. Orchids.”

Sitting at my desk, I swiveled when the sound of the elevator came and was facing the door when Wolfe entered. When he was in far enough to see the man in the chair he stopped and turned to me, and the glare was one of his best. I met it square.

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