him.
Ten
I T WAS JUST AFTER TWO when I got back to the brownstone, which meant Wolfe was still in the dining room attacking his lunch. I went straight to the kitchen, where Fritz warmed the plate of sweetbreads he had set aside for me. I knew he was dying to ask how my mission went, but he didn’t, and I wasn’t about to volunteer anything. I needed some quiet time to chew on the events of the last few hours before I got debriefed by Wolfe.
I polished off the sweetbreads and chased them with a generous wedge of peach pie and a glass of milk. When I finished, Fritz handed me a stack of phone messages. One was from yet another would-be purchaser of the Gazette; the other four were reporters, all of whom probably wanted Wolfe’s comments on Harriet Haverhill’s death and whether it was somehow connected with his letter in the Times.
I took the messages and a cup of coffee to the office, where Wolfe was already planted in his favorite chair with a fresh book, Joseph Conrad, a Chronicle, by Zdzislaw Najder, and two fresh bottles of beer. At my desk, I drank coffee and contemplated the mirror on the wall. After several minutes, Wolfe set his book down and broke the silence. “Well?” he demanded sourly.
“I didn’t want to disturb you,” I said innocently. “I never know when you’re in the middle of a particularly riveting passage, and I realize how irritating it can be when someone starts talking just at the time—”
“Stop blathering! Report.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, turning toward him. First came a thorough description of the death scene, and I didn’t leave anything out. He leaned back with his eyes closed, and if he was listening as carefully as I thought, he got a complete picture of the big office, from the color and thickness of the carpet to the size of the desk and the way Harriet Haverhill—according to Lon—was slumped over the desk when they found her. It took me about fifteen minutes, and after I finished, he remained motionless, his eyes still closed.
“I also saw Bishop, if you’re interested,” I said. He opened his eyes to slits and nodded.
“First off, you should know that they’ll all be trooping over to see you—Bishop and the three heirs. I haven’t worked out specific times yet, but I was able to do it without resorting to that silly suggestion of yours about another ad in the Times. ” That didn’t get a rise, so I went ahead with a verbatim report on the short conversation with Bishop, which was easy. After I finished, he heaved himself upright and tried to pour beer from an empty bottle.
“Bah. You say you got these people to come here. All you really got was Mr. Bishop. You’re relying on him to pull in the others—there’s no guarantee he can do that. And to get him, you traded on the goodwill we’ve built up with the newspaper.”
“I’d like to win my sawbuck back,” I told him. “I’ve got ten that says they’ll all be here before the weekend’s over. And as for goodwill—hell, you’re still so far ahead of the Gazette on points, regardless of what you tell Lon when he comes for dinner, that they could do you favors for decades without balancing the books.”
Wolfe sniffed. “No bet,” he said.
I grinned. “Okay, let’s assume they’ll all be here by tomorrow. Maybe one of them will turn out to be a client—as in money. We’ll need a slug of it just to break even on this project.”
“I’m not interested in securing a client,” Wolfe said stiffly. “Get Inspector Cramer.”
That one threw me, but who am I to argue with genius? I dialed the Homicide number, which I knew from memory, while Wolfe picked up his receiver. After going through an underling, I heard the familiar gruff voice; I stayed on the line.
“Cramer here.”
“Good afternoon, Inspector, this is Nero Wolfe. If your schedule allows, I’d like to discuss the murder of Harriet Haverhill with you at my office.”
A silence of maybe five seconds followed, although it
Ten
I T WAS JUST AFTER TWO when I got back to the brownstone, which meant Wolfe was still in the dining room attacking his lunch. I went straight to the kitchen, where Fritz warmed the plate of sweetbreads he had set aside for me. I knew he was dying to ask how my mission went, but he didn’t, and I wasn’t about to volunteer anything. I needed some quiet time to chew on the events of the last few hours before I got debriefed by Wolfe.
I polished off the sweetbreads and chased them with a generous wedge of peach pie and a glass of milk. When I finished, Fritz handed me a stack of phone messages. One was from yet another would-be purchaser of the Gazette; the other four were reporters, all of whom probably wanted Wolfe’s comments on Harriet Haverhill’s death and whether it was somehow connected with his letter in the Times.
I took the messages and a cup of coffee to the office, where Wolfe was already planted in his favorite chair with a fresh book, Joseph Conrad, a Chronicle, by Zdzislaw Najder, and two fresh bottles of beer. At my desk, I drank coffee and contemplated the mirror on the wall. After several minutes, Wolfe set his book down and broke the silence. “Well?” he demanded sourly.
“I didn’t want to disturb you,” I said innocently. “I never know when you’re in the middle of a particularly riveting passage, and I realize how irritating it can be when someone starts talking just at the time—”
“Stop blathering! Report.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, turning toward him. First came a thorough description of the death scene, and I didn’t leave anything out. He leaned back with his eyes closed, and if he was listening as carefully as I thought, he got a complete picture of the big office, from the color and thickness of the carpet to the size of the desk and the way Harriet Haverhill—according to Lon—was slumped over the desk when they found her. It took me about fifteen minutes, and after I finished, he remained motionless, his eyes still closed.
“I also saw Bishop, if you’re interested,” I said. He opened his eyes to slits and nodded.
“First off, you should know that they’ll all be trooping over to see you—Bishop and the three heirs. I haven’t worked out specific times yet, but I was able to do it without resorting to that silly suggestion of yours about another ad in the Times. ” That didn’t get a rise, so I went ahead with a verbatim report on the short conversation with Bishop, which was easy. After I finished, he heaved himself upright and tried to pour beer from an empty bottle.
“Bah. You say you got these people to come here. All you really got was Mr. Bishop. You’re relying on him to pull in the others—there’s no guarantee he can do that. And to get him, you traded on the goodwill we’ve built up with the newspaper.”
“I’d like to win my sawbuck back,” I told him. “I’ve got ten that says they’ll all be here before the weekend’s over. And as for goodwill—hell, you’re still so far ahead of the Gazette on points, regardless of what you tell Lon when he comes for dinner, that they could do you favors for decades without balancing the books.”
Wolfe sniffed. “No bet,” he said.
I grinned. “Okay, let’s assume they’ll all be here by tomorrow. Maybe one of them will turn out to be a client—as in money. We’ll need a slug of it just to break even on this project.”
“I’m not interested in securing a client,” Wolfe said stiffly. “Get Inspector Cramer.”
That one threw me, but who am I to argue with genius? I dialed the Homicide number, which I knew from memory, while Wolfe picked up his receiver. After going through an underling, I heard the familiar gruff voice; I stayed on the line.
“Cramer here.”
“Good afternoon, Inspector, this is Nero Wolfe. If your schedule allows, I’d like to discuss the murder of Harriet Haverhill with you at my office.”
A silence of maybe five seconds followed, although it
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