at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor and I should have known better than to call him.
The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem ; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open on the advice of an elevator boy was marked "The Swastika Holding Company" and at first there didn’t seem to be any one inside. But when I’d shouted “Hello” several times in vain an argument broke out behind a partition and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes.
“Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.”
The first part of this was obviously untrue for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside.
“Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.”
“I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I ?”
At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s called “Stella !” from the other side of the door.
“Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. "I’ll give it to him when he gets back."
“But I know he’s there.”
She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips.
“You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. "We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in ChiCAgo."
I mentioned Gatsby.
“Oh—h !” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—what was your name ?”
She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood