Death Of A Dude by Rex Stout Page B

uncomfortable to know that the pasts of two of her guests were being investigated by the other two, and if Saul drew a blank she needn’t ever know. I was a little uncomfortable myself, sitting there passing Diana the salt or asking Wade how the outline was going, and probably Wolfe was too. That made no sense, since they knew darned well they would have been Grade A suspects if they had had any motive, but there was one chance in ten million that Saul would not draw a blank, and in that case there would be a behavior problem not covered by Amy Vanderbilt. Meanwhile, as we dealt with the leg of lamb, green lima beans (from the freezer), Mrs Barnes’s bread, sliced tomatoes, and huckleberry pie with coffee ice cream, I enjoyed watching Diana trying to decide if she should change her technique with us, and if so how. Evidently Wade had decided. For him we were still just fellow guests to discuss things with, like baseball (me) or structural linguistics (Wolfe).
    The blaze in the fireplace in the big room had attractions on an evening like that, and the others went there with coffee, but Wolfe and I went to his room, I supposed to consider the better things to do tomorrow. But inside, instead of going to his chair by the window, he stood and asked, “Does Mr Farnham have a telephone?”
    I said yes.
    “Will he have seen that newspaper?”
    I said probably.
    “Call him. Tell him we wish to come and discuss matters with him and anyone else available.”
    “In the morning?”
    “Now.”
    I nearly said something silly. My lips parted to say, “It’s raining,” but I closed them before it got out. People get in ruts, including me. Many a time I had known him to postpone sending me on an errand if the weather was bad, and it took something very special, like a chance to get a specimen of a new orchid, to get him out of the house in rain or snow. But evidently this was extra special-getting back home as soon as possible-and, saying nothing, I went down the hall to the big room and across to the table where the phone was, and dialed a number, and after four rings a voice said hello.
    “Bill'Archie Goodwin.”
    “Oh, hello again. I see you’ve got a badge.”
    “Not a badge, just a piece of paper. Apparently you’ve seen the Register.”
    “I sure have. You and Nero Wolfe. Now the fur will start to fly, huh?”
    “Maybe. We hope so. Mr Wolfe and I would like to drop in for a little talk with you and yours-everybody that’s around-if it’s convenient. Especially Sam Peacock. A good way to pass a rainy evening.”
    “Why especially Sam?”
    “The man who found the body is always special. But the others too-naturally Mr Wolfe wants to meet the people who saw the most of Brodell. Okay?”
    “Sure, why not'Mr DuBois was just saying he would like to meet him. Come ahead.”
    He hung up. Lily, with Diana and Wade, was over by the fireplace with her back to it, watching television, and when I asked if we could take the car to run up to Farnham’s she said of course with no question or comment, and I went to my room for ponchos.
    I had never seen Wolfe in a hooded poncho of any colour, and the ones Lily stocked were bright red. They were all the same size, barely big enough to take his dimensions, but even so he looked very gay-leaving out his face, which was pretty grim. It was still grim when, leaving the car under the firs at Farnham’s, we splashed around to the front, with a flashlight to spot puddles, and I opened the screen door and knocked on the solid one, which was closed. It was opened by William T. Farnham.
    And, after shaking hands with Farnham and getting his help with the poncho, Wolfe put on an act. He always welcomed a chance to show off, but there it served two other purposes: impressing the audience and avoiding shaking so many hands. Besides Farnham there were six people in the room: three men and a woman around a card table over near the fireplace, and two men standing, kibitzing. Wolfe walked over,