And Be a Villain

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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?”

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