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. Wolfsheim's gone to Chicago."
The first part of this was obviously untrue, for some one 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 Wolfsheim'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 Wolfsheim stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar.
"My memory goes back to when first I met him," he said. "A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn't buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he come into Winebrenner's poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn't eat anything for a couple of days. 'Come on have some lunch with me, I sid. He ate more than four dollars' worth of food in half an hour."
