Warning

In a way this is a phony. A lot of the talk I report was in languages I am not on speaking terms with, so even with the training I’ve had there is no use pretending that here it is, word for word. But this is what happened, and since I had to know what was going on to earn my keep, Nero Wolfe put it in English for me every chance he got. For the times when it had to be on the fly, and pretty sketchy, I have filled it in as well as I could. Maybe I shouldn’t have tried to tell it at all, but I hated to skip it. ARCHIE GOODWIN

I

That was the one and only time Nero Wolfe had ever seen the inside of the morgue.

That Thursday evening in March I barely caught the phone call. With a ticket for a basketball game at the Garden in my pocket, I had dined in the kitchen, because I would have to leave the house at ten to eight, and Wolfe refuses to sit at table with one who has to pack it in and run. And that time I couldn’t eat early because Fritz was braising a wild turkey and had to convey it to the dining room on a platter for Wolfe to see whole before wielding the knife. Sometimes when I have a date for a game or a show I get things from the refrigerator around six-thirty and take my time, but I wanted some of that hot turkey, not to mention Fritz’s celery sauce and corn fritters.

I was six minutes behind schedule when, as I pushed my chair back and got erect, the phone rang. After asking Fritz to get it on the kitchen extension and proceeding to the hall, I had got my topcoat from the rack and was putting it on when Fritz called to me, “Archie! Sergeant Stebbins wants you!”

I muttered something appropriate for muttering but not for printing, made it to the office and across to my desk, lifted the receiver, and told it, “Shoot. You may have eight seconds.”

It took more like eight times eighty, not because Purley Stebbins insisted on it, but I did after he had given me the main fact. When I had hung up I stood a while, frowning at Wolfe’s desk. Many times through the years I have had the job of reporting something to Wolfe that I knew he wouldn’t enjoy hearing, but this was different. This was tough. I even found myself wishing I had got away two minutes sooner, and then, realizing that that would have been tougher — for him, at least — I went to the hall, crossed it to the dining room, entered and spoke.

“That was Purley Stebbins. Half an hour ago a man came out of a house on East Fifty-fourth Street and was shot and killed by a man waiting there in a parked car. Papers found—”

Wolfe cut me off. “Must I remind you that business shall not intrude on meals?”

“You don’t need to. This isn’t business. Papers found on the body indicate that it was Marko Vukcic. Purley says there’s no doubt about it, two of the dicks knew him by sight, but he wants me to come down and give positive identification. If you have no objection I’m going. It won’t be as pleasant a way to spend an evening as going to a ball game, but I’m sure he would have done as much...”

I would have preferred to go on talking, but had to stop to clear my throat. Wolfe had put down his knife and fork, quietly and properly, on his plate. His eyes were leveled at me, but he wasn’t scowling. A corner of his mouth twitched, and after a moment twitched again. To stop it he compressed his lips.

He nodded at me. “Go. Phone.”

“Have you any—”

“No. Phone.”

I whirled and went.

After going a block south on Tenth Avenue and flagging a taxi on Thirty-fourth Street, it didn’t take long to roll cross-town to the city mortuary on East Twenty-ninth; and, since I was not a stranger there and was expected, I was passed through the railing and on in with no questions asked. I have never cared for the smell of that place. An assistant medical examiner named Faber tried once to sell me the idea that it smells just like a hospital, but I have a good nose and I didn’t buy. He claimed that there are rarely more than one or two cadavers on the premises not in the coolers, and I said in that case someone must spray the joint with something to make it smell like a morgue.

The Homicide dick who escorted me down the corridor was one I knew only well enough to nod to, and the assistant ME in the room we entered was one I hadn’t run across before. He was working on an object that was stretched out on a long table under a strong light, with a helper standing by. The dick and I stood and watched a minute. A detailed description of the performance would help only if you expect to be faced with the job of probing a corpse for a bullet that entered at an angle between the fifth and sixth ribs, so I won’t go into it.

“Well?” the dick demanded.

“Yes,” I told him. “I identify it as the body of Marko Vukcic, owner of Rusterman’s Restaurant. If you want that signed, get it ready while I go use the phone.”

I went out and down the corridor to the phone booth and dialed a number. Ordinarily when I am out of the house and phone in Fritz will answer after two or three signals or Wolfe will answer after five or six, but that time Wolfe’s voice came before the first whirr was done.

“Yes?”

“Archie. It’s Marko. Shot twice in the chest and once in the belly. I suppose Stebbins is up at Fifty-fourth Street, at the scene, and maybe Cramer too. Shall I go up there?”

“No. Stay where you are. I’m coming to look at him. Where is it?”

He had been making a living as a private detective in Manhattan for more than twenty years, and majoring in murder, and he didn’t know where the morgue was. I told him; and, thinking that a little esprit de corps wouldn’t be out of place in the circumstances, and knowing how he hated moving vehicles, I was going to suggest that I go get the sedan from the garage and drive him myself, but he hung up. I went out front to the sergeant at the desk, whose name was Donovan, and told him I had identified the body but Mr. Wolfe was coming to take a look and I would stick around.

Donovan shook his head. “I only got orders about you.”

“Nuts. You don’t need orders. Any citizen and taxpayer can enter here to look for the remains of a relative or friend or enemy. Mr. Wolfe is a citizen and taxpayer. I make out his tax returns.”

“I thought you was a private eye.”

“I don’t like the way you say it, but I am. Also I am an accountant, an amanuensis, and a cocklebur. Eight to five you never heard the word amanuensis and you never saw a cocklebur.”

He didn’t rile. “Yeah, I know, you’re an educated wit. For Nero Wolfe I need orders. I know too much about him. Maybe he can get away with his tricks with Homicide and the DA, but not with me or none of my guests.”

I didn’t feel like arguing. Besides, I knew Donovan had a lot to put up with. When the door opened to admit a customer it might be anything from a pair of hoodlums wanting to collect data for a fake identification, to a hysterical female wanting to find out if she was a widow. That must have got on his nerves. So I merely explained it to him. I told him a few things about Marko Vukcic. That he was one of the only ten men I knew of that Nero Wolfe called by their first names. That for years he had dined once a month at Wolfe’s table, and Wolfe and I had dined once a month at his restaurant. That he and Wolfe had been boys together in Montenegro, which was now a part of Yugoslavia. Donovan seemed to be listening, but he wasn’t impressed. When I thought I had made the situation perfectly plain and stopped for breath, he turned to his phone, called Homicide, told them Wolfe was coming, and asked for instructions.

He hung up. “They’ll call back,” he informed me.

No bones got broken. His instructions came a minute before the door opened to admit Wolfe. I went and opened the gate in the railing, and Wolfe stepped through. “This way,” I said and steered him to the corridor and along to the room.

The doctor had got the slug that had entered between the fifth and sixth ribs, and was going for the one lower down. I saw that from three paces off, where I stopped. Wolfe went on until the part of him that is farthest front, his middle, was touching the edge of the table. The doctor recognized him and spoke.

“I understand he was a friend of yours, Mr. Wolfe.”

“He was,” Wolfe said a little louder than necessary. He moved sidewise, reached a hand, put fingertips under Marko’s chin, and pushed the jaw up so that the mouth closed; but when he took his hand away the lips parted again. He turned his head to frown at the doctor.

“That’ll be arranged,” the doctor assured him.

Wolfe nodded. He put fingers and a thumb into his vest pocket, withdrew them, and showed the doctor two small coins. “These are old dinars. I would like to fulfill a pledge made many years ago.” The scientist said sure, go ahead, and Wolfe reached to Marko’s face again, this time to place the coins on the eyes. The head was twisted a little, and he had to level it so the coins would stay put.

He turned away. “That’s all. I have no further commitment to the clay. Come, Archie.”

I followed him out and along the corridor to the front. The dick who had been my escort, there chinning with the sergeant, told me I didn’t need to sign a statement and asked Wolfe if he verified the identification. Wolfe said he did and added, “Where’s Mr. Cramer?”

“Sony, I couldn’t tell you.”

Wolfe turned to me. “I told the driver to wait. You said East Fifty-fourth Street. Marko’s address?”

“Right.”

“We’ll go there.” He went, and I followed.

That taxi ride uptown broke a precedent. Wolfe’s distrust of machinery is such that he is never in a condition to talk when he is being conveyed in something on wheels, even when I am driving, but that time he mastered it. He asked me questions about Marko Vukcic. I reminded him that he had known Marko a lot longer and better than I had, but he said there were some subjects which Marko had never discussed with him but might have with me — for example, his relations with women. I agreed that was logical, but said that as far as I knew Marko hadn’t wasted time discussing his relations with women; he just went ahead and enjoyed them. I gave an instance. When, a couple of years previously, I had taken one named Sue Dondero to Rusterman’s for dinner, Marko had cast an eye on her and contributed a bottle of one of his best clarets, and the next day had phoned to ask if I would care to give him her address and phone number, and I had done so and crossed her off. Wolfe asked why. I said to give her a break. Marko, sole owner of Rusterman’s, was a wealthy man and a widower, and Sue might hook him. But she hadn’t, Wolfe said. No, I agreed, as far as I knew there had been something wrong with the ignition.

“What the hell,” the hackie grumbled, braking.

Having turned off Park Avenue into Fifty-fourth Street, he had made to cross Lexington, and a cop had waved him down. The cab stopped with a jerk that justified Wolfe’s attitude toward machinery, and the hackie stuck his head out and objected.

“My fare’s number is in that block, officer.”

“Can’t help it. Closed. Up or down.”

He yanked the wheel, and we swung to the curb. I paid him, got out, and held the door, and Wolfe emerged. He stood a moment to take a deep breath, and we headed east. Ten paces along there was another cop, and a little farther on still another. Ahead, in the middle of the block, was a convention: police cars, spotlights, men working, and a gathering of citizens on the sidewalk across the street. On our side a stretch of the sidewalk was included in a roped-off area. As we approached it a cop got in the way and commanded, “Cross over and keep moving.”

“I came here to look at this,” Wolfe told him.

“I know. You and ten thousand more. Cross over.”

“I am a friend of the man who was killed. My name is Nero Wolfe.”

“Yeah, and mine’s General MacArthur. Keep moving.”

It might have developed into an interesting conversation if I hadn’t caught sight, in one of the spotlights, of a familiar face and figure. I sang out, “Rowcliff!”

He turned and peered, stepped out of the glare and peered some more, and then approached. “Well?” he demanded.

Among all the array of Homicide personnel that Wolfe and I have had dealings with, high and low, Lieutenant Rowcliff is the only one of whom I am dead sure that our feelings are absolutely reciprocal. He would like to see me exactly where I would like to see him. So, having summoned him, I left it to Wolfe, who spoke.

“Good evening, Mr. Rowcliff. Is Mr. Cramer here?”

“No.”

“Mr. Stebbins?”

“No.”

“I want to see the spot where Mr. Vukcic died.”

“You’ll be in the way. We’re working.”

“So am I.”

Rowcliff considered. He would have loved to order a couple of the help to take us to the river and dump us in, but the timing would have been bad. Since it was unheard of for Wolfe to leave his house to work as a matter of routine, he knew this was something extraordinary, and there was no telling how his superiors might react if he let his personal inclinations take charge. Of course he also knew that Wolfe and Vukcic had been close friends.

He hated to do it, but he said, “Come this way,” and led us along to the front of the house and to the curb. “This is open to correction,” he said, “but we think we’ve got it about right. Vukcic left the building alone. He passed between two parked cars to look west for a taxi. A car that was double-parked about twenty yards to the west — not a hack, a black or dark blue Ford sedan — started and came forward, and when it was about even with him an occupant of the car started shooting. It’s not settled whether it was the driver or someone with him. We haven’t found anyone that got a good look. He fell right there.” Rowcliff pointed. “And stayed there. As you see, we’re still at it here. Nothing from inside so far. Vukcic lived alone on the top floor, and there was no one there with him when he left. Of course he ate at his restaurant. Anything else?”

“No, thank you.”

“Don’t step off the curb. We’re going over the pavement again in daylight.” He left us.

Wolfe stood a moment, looking down at the spot on the pavement where Marko had dropped, then lifted his head to glance around. A moving spotlight hit his face and he blinked. Since that was the first time to my knowledge that he had ever started investigating a murder by a personal visit to the scene of the crime — not counting the occasions when he had been jerked loose by some other impulse, such as saving my life — I was curious to see how he would proceed. It was a chance he had seldom had.

He hopped on it by turning to me and asking, “Which way to the restaurant?”

I nodded west. “Up Lexington four blocks and around the corner. We can get a taxi—”

“No. We’ll walk.” He was off.

I went along, more and more impressed. The death of his oldest and closest friend had certainly hit him hard. He would have to cross five street intersections, with wheeled monsters waiting for him at every corner, ready to spring, but he strode on regardless, as if it were a perfectly natural and normal procedure.

II

Things were not natural and normal at Rusterman’s. The six-foot, square-jawed doorman opened for us and let us pass through, and then blurted to Wolfe’s broad back, “Is it true, Mr. Wolfe?” Wolfe ignored it and went on, but I turned and gave him a nod. Wolfe marched on past the cloakroom, so I did likewise. In the big front room, which you crossed on your way to the dining room, and which Marko had called the lounge but which I called the bar because it had one at its far side, there were only a few customers scattered around at the tables, since it was nearly nine-thirty and by that hour the clientele were inside, busy with perdrix en casserole or tournedos Beauharnais. The tone of the place, subdued but not stiff, had of course been set by Marko, with the able assistance of Felix, Leo, and Joe, and I had never seen one of them break training by so much as a flicker of an eyelash until that evening. As we entered, Leo, standing at the entrance to the dining room, caught sight of us and started toward us, then wheeled and went back and shouted into the dining room, “Joe!”

There were murmurs from the few scattered customers in the bar. Leo wheeled again, clapped his hand to his mouth, crossed to us, and stood staring at Wolfe. I saw sweat on his brow, another misdemeanor. In restaurants that sell squabs for five bucks or more apiece, captains and headwaiters are not allowed to sweat.

“It’s true,” Leo hissed, his hand still covering his mouth. He seemed to be shrinking in front of our eyes, and he was none too big anyway — not a shorty, but quite narrow up to his shoulders, where he spread out some. He let the hand fall, but kept his voice down. “Good God, Mr. Wolfe, is it true? It must—”

A hand gripped his shoulder from behind. Joe was there, and Joe was built for gripping. His years with Marko had polished him so that he no longer looked like a professional wrestler, but he had the size and lines.

“Get hold of yourself, damn it,” he muttered at Leo. “Did you want a table, Mr. Wolfe? Marko’s not here.”

“I know he’s not. He’s dead. I don’t—”

“Please not so loud. Please. Then you know he’s dead?”

“Yes. I saw him. I don’t want a table. Where’s Felix?”

“Felix is up in the office with two men. They came and said Marko had been shot and killed. He left the dinner to Leo and me and took them upstairs. No one has been told except Vincent at the door because Felix said Marko would not want the dinner to be spoiled. It makes me want to vomit to see them eating and drinking and laughing, but it may be that Felix is right — and the face he had, it was no time to argue. Do you think he is right? I would myself want to put everybody out and lock the door.”

Wolfe shook his head. “No. Felix is right. Let them eat. I’m going upstairs. Archie?” He headed for the elevator.

The third floor of the building had been remodeled a year or so previously to provide an office in front and three private dining rooms to the rear. Wolfe opened the door to the office, without knocking, and entered, and I followed. The three men in chairs over by a table turned to us. Felix Martin, a wiry, compact little guy with quick black eyes and gray hair — in his uniform, of course — got up and started toward us. The other two stayed put. They rated uniforms too, one an inspector’s and the other a sergeant’s, but didn’t wear them to work.

“Mr. Wolfe,” Felix said. You didn’t expect a voice so deep from one that size, even after you were acquainted with it. “The worst thing on earth! The worst thing! Everything was going so fine!”

Wolf gave him a nod and went on by to Inspector Cramer. “What have you got?” he demanded.

Cramer controlled himself. His big round face was always a little redder, and his cold gray eyes a little colder, when he was exercising restraint. “I know,” he conceded, “that you’re interested in this one personally. Sergeant Stebbins was saying to me that we would have to make allowances, and I agreed. Also this is one time when I’ll gladly take all the help you’ll give, so let’s all take it easy. Bring chairs, Goodwin.”

For Wolfe I went and got the one at Marko’s desk because it was nearer the size desired than any of the others. For myself I wasn’t so particular. As I was joining the party Wolfe was demanding, not taking it easy at all, “Have you got anything?”

Cramer tolerated it. “Anything hot, no. The murder was committed just two hours ago.”

“I know.” Wolfe tried to shift to a more acceptable position in the chair. “Of course you have asked Felix if he can name the murderer.” His eyes moved. “Can you, Felix?”

“No, sir. I can’t believe it.”

“You have no suggestions?”

“No, sir.”

“Where have you been since seven o’clock?”

“Me?” The black eyes were steady at Wolfe. “I’ve been right here.”

“All the time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where has Joe been?”

“Right here too.”

“All the time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where has Leo been?”

“Here too, all the time. Where else would we be at dinnertime? And when Marko didn’t come—”

“If you don’t mind,” Cramer cut in, “I’ve already got this. I don’t need—”

“I do,” Wolfe told him. “I have a double responsibility, Mr. Cramer. If you assume that I intend to see that the murderer of my friend is caught and brought to account with the least possible delay, you are correct. But another onus is on me. Under my friend’s will, as you will soon learn officially, I am executor of his estate and trustee ad interim. I am not a legatee. This restaurant is the only substantial asset, and it was left to six of the men who work here, with the biggest shares going to the three men I have just inquired about. They were told of the terms of the will when it was altered a year ago. Mr. Vukcic had no close relatives, and none at all in this country.”

Cramer was eying Felix. “What’s this place worth?”

Felix shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Did you know that if Vukcic died you would be part owner of it?”

“Certainly. You heard what Mr. Wolfe said.”

“You hadn’t mentioned it.”

“Good God!” Felix was out of his chair, on his feet, quivering. He stood a moment, got the quivering stopped, sat down again, and leaned forward at Cramer. “It takes time to mention things, officer. There is nothing about Marko and me, about him and us here, that I will not be glad to mention. He was hard about the work, hard and sometimes rough, and he could roar, but he was a great man. Listen, and I’ll tell you how I feel about him. Here I am. Here at my side is Marko.” Felix tapped his elbow with a finger. “A man appears and points a gun at him and is going to shoot. I jump to put myself in front of Marko. Because I am a big hero? No. I am no hero at all. Only because that’s how I feel about Marko. Ask Mr. Wolfe.”

Cramer grunted. “He was just asking you where you’ve been since seven o’clock. What about Leo and Joe? How do they feel about Marko?”

Felix straightened up. “They will tell you.”

“How do you think they feel?”

“Not like me because they are not of my temperament. But to suppose it possible they would try to hurt him — never. Joe would not jump in front of Marko to stop the bullet. He would jump for the man with the gun. Leo — I don’t know, but it is my opinion he would yell for help, for the police. I don’t sneer at that; it would take more than a coward to yell for help.”

“It’s too bad one of you wasn’t there when it happened,” Cramer observed. It seemed to me uncalled-for. Obviously he didn’t like Felix. “And you say you have no knowledge whatever of anyone who might have wanted Vukcic dead?”

“No, sir, I haven’t.” Felix hesitated. “Of course there is one thing — or I should say, more than one. There is women. Marko was a gallant man. Only one thing could ever take him away from his work here: a woman. I will not say that to him a woman was more important than a sauce — he could not be accused of ever neglecting a sauce — but he had a warm eye for women. After all, it was not essential for him to be in the kitchen when everything was planned and ready, and Joe and Leo and I are competent for the tables and service, so if Marko chose to enjoy dinner at his own table with a guest there was no feeling about it among us. But it might have caused feeling among others. I have no personal knowledge. Myself, I am married with four children and have no time, but everybody knows that women can arouse strong feelings.”

“So he was a chaser,” Sergeant Stebbins growled.

“Pfui!” Wolfe growled back at him. “Gallantry is not always a lackey for lust.”

Which was a fine sentiment with company present, but the fact remained that Wolfe had himself asked me about Marko’s relations with women. For the next three hours, there in Marko’s office, that subject came close to monopolizing the conversation. Felix was dismissed and told to send Joe up. Other Homicide dicks arrived, and an assistant district attorney, and waiters and cooks were brought up for sessions in the private dining rooms; and with each one, after a few personal questions, the emphasis was on the female guests who had eaten at Marko’s own table in the past year or so. By the time Wolfe was willing to call it a day and got himself erect and stretched, it was well after midnight and a respectable bulk of data had been collected, including the names of seven women, none of them notorious.

Cramer rasped at Wolfe, “You said you intend to see that the murderer is caught and brought to account with the least possible delay. I don’t want to butt in, but I’ll just mention that the Police Department will be glad to help.”

Wolfe ignored the sarcasm, thanked him politely, and headed for the door.

On the way downtown in the cab I remarked that I had been pleased to note that no one had pronounced the name of Sue Dondero. Wolfe, on the edge of the seat, gripping the strap, set to jump for his life, made no reply.

“Though I must say,” I added, “there were enough of them without her. They’re not going to like it much. By noon tomorrow there’ll be thirty-five dicks, five to a candidate, working on that list. I mention it merely for your consideration, in case you are thinking of telling me to have all seven of them in the office at eleven in the morning.”

“Shut up,” he muttered.

Usually I react to that command vocally, but that time I thought it just as well to obey. When we rolled to the curb in front of the old brownstone on West Thirty-fifth Street I paid the driver, got out and held the door for Wolfe, mounted the seven steps to the stoop, and opened the door with my key. After Wolfe had crossed the threshold I closed the door and put the chain bolt on, and when I turned Fritz was there and was telling Wolfe, “There’s a lady to see you, sir.”

It popped into my mind that it would save me a lot of trouble if they were going to drop in without being invited, but Fritz was adding, “It’s your daughter, Mrs. Britton.”

There was a faint suggestion of reproach in Fritz’s tone. For years he had disapproved of Wolfe’s attitude toward his adopted daughter. A dark-haired Balkan girl with an accent, she had appeared out of the blue one day long ago and proceeded to get Wolfe involved in an operation that had been no help to the bank account. When it was all over she had announced that she didn’t intend to return to her native land, but neither did she intend to take any advantage of the fact that she had in her possession a paper, dated in Zagreb years before, establishing her as the adopted daughter of Nero Wolfe. She had made good on both intentions, having got a job with a Fifth Avenue travel agency, and having, within a year, married its owner, one William R. Britton. No friction had developed between Mr. and Mrs. Britton and Mr. Wolfe, because for friction you must have contact, and there had been none. Twice a year, on her birthday and on New Year’s Day, Wolfe sent her a bushel of orchids from his choicest plants, but that was all, except that he had gone to the funeral when Britton died of a heart attack in 1950.

That was what Fritz disapproved of. He thought any man, even Nero Wolfe, should invite his daughter, even an adopted one, to dinner once in a while. When he expressed that opinion to me, as he did occasionally, I told him that he knew damn well that Carla found Wolfe as irritating as he found her, so what was the use?

I followed Wolfe into the office. Carla was in the red leather chair. As we entered she got up to face us and said indignantly, “I’ve been waiting here over two hours!”

Wolfe went and took her hand and bowed over it. “At least you had a comfortable chair,” he said courteously, and went to the one behind his desk, the only one in the world he thoroughly approved of, and sat. Carla offered me a hand with her mind elsewhere, and I took it without bowing.

“Fritz didn’t know where you were,” she told Wolfe.

“No,” he agreed.

“But he said you knew about Marko.”

“Yes.”

“I heard it on the radio. I was going to go to the restaurant to see Leo, then I thought I would go to the police, and then I decided to come here. I suppose you were surprised, but I wasn’t.”

She sounded bitter. She looked bitter too, but I had to admit it didn’t make her any less attractive. With her dark eyes flashing, she might still have been the young Balkan damsel who had bounded in on me years before.

Wolfe’s eyes had narrowed at her. “If you are saying that you came here and waited two hours for me on account of Marko’s death, I must ask why. Were you attached to him?”

“Yes.”

Wolfe shut his eyes.

“If I know,” she said, “what that word means — attached. If you mean attached as a woman to a man, no, of course not. Not like that.”

Wolfe opened his eyes. “Then how?”

“We were attached in our devotion to a great and noble cause! The freedom of our people! And your people! And there you sit making faces! Marko has told me — he has asked you to help us with your brains and your money, and you refused!”

“He didn’t tell me you were in it. He didn’t mention you.”

“I suppose not.” She was scornful. “He knew that would make you sneer even more. Here you are, rich and fat and happy with your fine home and fine food and your glass rooms on the roof with ten thousand orchids for you to smirk at, and with this Archie Goodwin for a slave to do all the work and take all the danger! What do you care if the people of the land you came from are groaning under the heel of the oppressor, with the light of their liberty smothered and the fruits of their labor snatched from them and their children at the point of the sword? Stop making faces! ”

Wolfe leaned back and sighed deeply. “Apparently,” he said dryly, “I must give you a lecture. I grimaced neither at your impudence nor at your sentiment, but at your diction and style. I condemn clichés, especially those that have been corrupted by fascists and communists. Such phrases as ‘great and noble cause’ and ‘fruits of their labor’ have been given an ineradicable stink by Hitler and Stalin and all their vermin brood. Besides, in this century of the overwhelming triumph of science, the appeal of the cause of human freedom is no longer that it is great and noble; it is more or less than that; it is essential. It is no greater or nobler than the cause of edible food or the cause of effective shelter. Man must have freedom or he will cease to exist as man. The despot, whether fascist or communist, is no longer restricted to such puny tools as the heel or the sword or even the machine gun; science has provided weapons that can give him the planet; and only men who are willing to die for freedom have any chance of living for it.”

“Like you?” She was disdainful. “No. Like Marko. He died.”

Wolfe flapped a hand. “I’ll get to Marko. As for me, no one has ordained you as my monitor. I make my contributions to the cause of freedom — they are mostly financial — through those channels and agencies that seem to me most efficient. I shall not submit a list of them for your inspection and judgment. I refused to contribute to Marko’s project because I distrusted it. Marko was himself headstrong, gullible, oversanguine, and naïve. He had—”

“For shame! He’s dead, and you insult—”

“That will do!” he roared. It stopped her. He went down a few decibels. “You share the common fallacy, but I don’t. I do not insult Marko. I pay him the tribute of speaking of him and feeling about him precisely as I did when he lived; the insult would be to smear his corpse with the honey excreted by my fear of death. He had no understanding of the forces he was trying to direct from a great distance, no control of them, and no effective check on their honor or fidelity. For all he knew, some of them may be agents of Tito, or even of Moscow—”

“That isn’t true! He knew all about them — anyway, the leaders. He wasn’t an idiot, and neither am I. We do check on them, all the time, and I — Where are you going?”

Wolfe had shoved his chair back and was on his feet. “You may not be an idiot,” he told her, “but I am. I was letting this become a pointless brawl when I should have known better. I’m hungry. I was in the middle of dinner when the news came of Marko’s death. It took my appetite. I tried to finish anyway, but I couldn’t swallow. With an empty stomach, I’m a dunce, and I’m going to the kitchen and eat something.” He glanced up at the wall clock. “It’s nearly two o’clock. Will you join me?”

She shook her head. “I had dinner. I couldn’t eat.”

“Archie?”

I said I could use a glass of milk and followed him out. In the kitchen Fritz greeted us by putting down his magazine, leaving his chair, telling Wolfe, “Starving the live will not profit the dead,” and going to open the refrigerator door.

“The turkey,” Wolfe said, “and the cheese and pineapple. I’ve never heard that before. Montaigne?”

“No, sir.” Fritz put the turkey on the table, uncovered it, and got the slicer and handed it to Wolfe. “I made it up. I knew you would have to send for me, or come, and I wished to have an appropriate remark ready for you.”

“I congratulate you.” Wolfe was wielding the knife. “To be taken for Montaigne is a peak few men can reach.”

I had only had milk in mind, but Fritz’s personal version of cottage cheese with fresh pineapple soaked in white wine is something that even a Vishinsky wouldn’t veto. Also Wolfe offered me a wing and a drumstick, and it would have been unsociable to refuse. Fritz fixed a tasty tray and took it in to Carla, but when Wolfe and I rejoined her, some twenty minutes later, it was still untouched on the table at her elbow. I admit it could have been that she was too upset to eat, but I suspected her. She knew damn well that it irritated Wolfe to see good food turned down.

Back at his desk, he frowned at her. “Let’s see if we can avoid contention. You said earlier that you supposed I was surprised, but that you weren’t. Surprised at what?”

She was returning the frown. “I don’t — oh, of course. Surprised that Marko was murdered.”

“And you weren’t?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because of what he was doing. Do you know what he was doing?”

“Circumstantially, no. Tell me.”

“Well, in the past three years he has put nearly sixty thousand dollars of his own money into the cause, and he has collected more than half a million. He has gone seven times to Italy to confer with leaders of the movement who crossed the Adriatic to meet him. He has sent twelve men and two women over from this country to help — three Montenegrins, three Slovenians, two Croats, and six Serbs. He has had things printed and arranged for them to get to the peasants. He has sent over many tons of supplies, many different things—”

“Weapons? Guns?”

She gave it a thought. “I don’t know. Of course, that would be against the law — American law. Marko had a high regard for American law.”

Wolfe nodded. “Not unmerited. I didn’t know he was in so deep. So you are assuming that he was murdered because of these activities. That either Belgrade or Moscow regarded him as a menace, or at least an intolerable nuisance, and arranged for his removal. Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“Belgrade or Moscow?”

Carla hesitated. “I don’t know. Of course there are those who secretly work with the Russians all over Yugoslavia, but more in Montenegro than other parts, because it is next to Albania, and Albania is ruled by the puppets of the Russians.”

“So are Hungary and Rumania and Bulgaria.”

“Yes, but you know the border between Montenegro and Albania. You know those mountains.”

“I do indeed. Or I did.” From the look on Wolfe’s face, the emotions aroused by the memory were mixed. “I was nine years old the first time I climbed the Black Mountain.” He shrugged it off. “Whether Belgrade or Moscow, you think they had an agent in New York, or sent one, to deal with Marko. Do you?”

“Of course!”

“Not of course if it is merely a surmise. Can you validate it? Have you any facts?”

“I have the fact that they hated him and he was a danger to them.”

Wolfe shook his head. “Not that kind. Something specific — a name, an act, a thing said.”

“No.”

“Very well. I accept your surmise as worthy of inquiry. How many persons are there in and around New York, other than contributors of money, who have been associated with Marko in this?”

“Why, altogether, about two hundred.”

“I mean closely associated. In his confidence.”

She had to think. “Four or five. Six, counting me.”

“Give me their names and addresses and phone numbers. Archie, take them down.”

I got my notebook and pen and was ready, but nothing came. I looked at her. She was sitting with her dark Montenegrin eyes focused on Wolfe, her chin up and her lips pressed together.

“Well?” he demanded.

“I don’t trust you,” she said.

Naturally he would have liked to tell me to bounce her, and I must say I couldn’t have blamed him, but she wasn’t just a prospective client with a checkbook. She had or might have something he needed for paying a personal debt. So he merely barked at her. “Then why the devil did you come here?”

They glared at each other. It was not a sight to impel me to hurry up and get married and have a daughter, especially not an adopted one.

She broke the tableau. “I came because I had to do something. I knew if I went to the police they would want me to tell everything about us, and I couldn’t do that because some of the things some of us do — well, you asked about sending weapons.” She fluttered a hand. “But Marko was your good friend, and he thought you were his, and you have a famous reputation for catching murderers, and after all I still have that paper that says I am your daughter, so I came without really thinking. Now I don’t know. You refused to give money to the cause. When I speak of freedom and the oppressor you make a face. It is true you have Montenegrin blood, you are of the race that fought back the savage Turks for five hundred years, but so are others, still in those mountains, who are licking the bloody feet of the tyrant. Have I looked into your heart? How do I know who you serve? How do I know if you too get your orders from Belgrade or Moscow?”

“You don’t,” Wolfe said bluntly.

She stared at him.

“You are not a fool,” he assured her. “On the contrary, you would be a fool if you took my probity for granted, as little as you know of me. As far as you know it’s quite possible that I’m a blackguard. But you haven’t thought it through. To test your surmise about the death of Marko I need some facts from you, but what are they? Names and addresses and dates — things that are already known to the enemy. I have no means of convincing you that I am not verminous, so I offer a suggestion. I will ask you questions. You will assume that I am a Communist, owing allegiance either to Belgrade or Moscow, no matter which. You will also assume — my vanity insists on it — that I am not far from the top in the councils of depravity. So. Each question I put, ask yourself if it isn’t extremely likely either that I already know the answer or that it is readily available to me. If yes, tell me. If no, don’t. The way I act on the information will show you whether you should trust me, but that’s unimportant.”

She was concentrating on it. “It’s a trick.”

He nodded. “And rather ingenious. For the record, I say that your misgiving about me is groundless; but assuming that I am of the enemy, I’ll certainly try to pry something out of you that I don’t already have, so you must keep your wit sharp. Shall we start and see how it goes?”

She didn’t like it “You might tell the police. We are not criminals, but we have a right to our secrets, and the police could make it very difficult.”

“Bosh. You can’t have everything. You can’t have me both a Communist agent and a police informer; I’m not a chameleon. You’re making it a travesty, and you might as well go. I’ll manage without you.”

She studied him. “All right. Ask me.”

“Eat something first. That food is still palatable.”

“No, thank you.”

“Beer, then? A glass of wine? Whisky?”

“No, thank you. Nothing.”

“I’m thirsty. Archie? Beer, please. Two bottles.”

I went to the kitchen for it.

III

Three weeks and eight hours later, at eleven in the morning of the second Friday in April, Wolfe descended from the plant rooms in his elevator, entered the office, crossed to the chair at his desk, and sat.

As usual, I had opened the morning mail, gone through it, and put it on his blotter under a paperweight. “That memo on top needs immediate attention,” I told him. “Cartright of Consolidated Products is being gypped again, or thinks he is. Last time he paid our bill for twelve grand without a squeak. You’re to call him.”

He shoved the paperweight off with such enthusiasm that it rolled across the desk and off to the floor. Then he picked up the pile of mail, squeezed it into a ball between his hands, and dropped it into his wastebasket.

Of course it was childish, since he knew darned well I would retrieve it later, but it was a nice gesture, and I fully appreciated it. The humor he was in, it wouldn’t have surprised me any if he had taken the other paperweight, a hunk of carved ebony that had once been used by a man named Mortimer to crack his wife’s skull, and fired it at me. And the humor I was in, I probably wouldn’t have bothered to dodge.

There had been plenty of activity during those 512 hours. Saul Panzer, Fred Durkin, and Orrie Cather had all been summoned the first morning and given errands, and had been paid a total of $3,143.87, including expenses. I had put in a good sixteen hours a day, part in the office and part on the go. Wolfe had worked on thirty-one different people, mostly at his desk, but for five of them who couldn’t be wrangled in he had gone outdoors and traveled, something he had never done for a fee. Among the hours he had spent on the phone had been time for six calls to London, five to Paris, and three to Bari in Italy.

Of course all that had been only a dab compared to the capers of the cops. As the days went by and lead after lead petered out, things would have simmered down if it hadn’t been for the papers. They kept hot on it for two reasons: first, they had a suspicion there were international complications and wanted to smoke them out; and second, they thought it was the joke of the year that Nero Wolfe’s best friend had been croaked, and Wolfe was supposed to be working on it, but apparently no one had even been nominated for a charge, let alone elected. So the papers kept it going, and the law couldn’t relax a little even if it wanted to. Cramer had called on Wolfe five times, and Stebbins more than that, and Wolfe had been downtown twice to conferences at the DA’s office.

We had dined nine times at Rusterman’s, and Wolfe had insisted on paying the check, which probably broke another precedent — for an executor of an estate. Wolfe went early to spend an hour in the kitchen, and twice he raised hell — once about a Mornay sauce and once about a dish which the menu called Suprêmes de Volatile en Papillote. I would have suspected he was merely being peevish if the look on the chefs’ faces hadn’t indicated that he was absolutely right.

Of course Cramer and his army had covered all the routine. The car the shots had been fired from had been hot, stolen an hour earlier from where it had been parked on West Fifty-sixth Street, and abandoned soon after the shooting, on Second Avenue. The scientists, from finger-print-lifters and bullet-gazers on up, had supplied a lot of dope but no answers, and the same goes for the three or four dozen who went after the woman angle, which after a couple of weeks was spread to include several more, going back four years instead of one, in addition to the original seven. One day Cramer told Wolfe he could go over the whole file if he wanted to, some three hundred reports of sessions with eighty-four people, and Wolfe took him up. He spent eleven hours at it, at the DA’s office. The only result was that he made nine suggestions, all of which were followed, and none of which opened a crack.

He left the women and the feelings they had aroused to the cops, and kept Saul and Fred and Orrie, not to mention me, on the international angle. A great deal was accomplished. We learned a lot about the ten organizations listed in the Manhattan phone directory whose names began with “Yugoslav.” Also that Serbs don’t care much for Bosnians, and less for Croats. Also that the overwhelming majority of the Yugoslavs in New York are anti-Tito, and practically all of them are anti-Russian. Also that eight per cent of the doormen on Park Avenue are Yugoslavs. Also that New Yorkers who are, or whose parents were, from Yugoslavia are fairly cagey about opening up to strangers and are inclined to shut the valves tight if they get the notion that you’re being nosy. Also many other things, including a few that seemed to offer a faint hope of starting a trail that could lead to the bird who had put three bullets in Marko Vukcic; but they all blew a fuse.

In the first four days of the three weeks we saw Carla twice more. Saturday noon she came and asked Wolfe if it was true, as announced, that there would be no funeral. He said yes, in accordance with Marko’s wish, in writing, that he be cremated and that there should be no services. She objected that there were hundreds of people who wanted to show their respect and love for him, and Wolfe replied that if a man’s prejudices were to be humored at all after he was no longer around to impose them, surely he should be allowed to dictate the disposal of his own clay. The best she could get was a promise that the ashes would be delivered to her. Then she had asked about progress in the investigation, and he had said he would report when there was anything worth reporting, which hadn’t satisfied her at all.

She came again late Monday afternoon. I had had enough of answering the damn doorbell and left it to Fritz. She came charging in and across to Wolfe’s desk, and blurted at him, “You told the police! They’ve had Leo down there all day, and this afternoon they went to Paul’s place and took him too! I knew I shouldn’t trust you!”

“Please—” Wolfe tried, but she had pulled the cork and it had to come. He leaned back and shut his eyes. She went on ranting until she had to stop for breath. He opened his eyes and inquired, “Are you through?”

“Yes! I’m all through! With you!”

“Then there’s no more to say.” He jerked his head. “There’s the door.”

She went to the red leather chair and sat on the edge. “You said you wouldn’t tell the police about us!”

“I did not.” He was disgusted and tired. “Since you mistrust me you will credit nothing I say, so why should I waste words?”

“I want to hear them!”

“Very well. I have said nothing to the police about you or your associates or your surmise about Marko’s death, but they are not donkeys, and I knew they would get onto it. I’m surprised it took them so long. Have they come to you?”

“No.”

“They will, and it’s just as well. I have only four men, and we are getting nowhere. They have regiments. If you tell them about coming to see me Thursday night they’ll resent my withholding it, but that’s of no consequence. Tell them or not, as you please. As for giving them the information you gave me, do as you please about that too. It might be better to let them dig it up for themselves, since in the process they might uncover something you don’t know about. So much for that. Since you’re here I may as well tell you what progress I have made. None.” He raised his voice. “None!”

“Nothing at all?”

“Nothing.”

“I won’t tell the police what I told you, but that doesn’t matter. If you haven’t, you will.” Suddenly she was on her feet with her arms spread out. “Oh, I need you! I need to ask you — I need to tell you what I must do! But I won’t! I won’t!” She turned and was gone. She moved so fast that when I got to the hall she already had the front door open. By the time I reached it she was out and the door was shut. Through the one-way glass panel I saw her going down the steps, sure and supple, like a fencer or a dancer, which was reasonable, since she had been both.

That was the last we saw of her during the three weeks, but not the last we heard. Word of her came four days later, Friday morning, from an unexpected quarter. Wolfe and I were having a session in the office with Saul and Fred and Orrie, one of a series, trying to think up some more stones to look under, when the doorbell rang and a moment later Fritz entered to announce, “A man to see you, sir. Mr. Stahl of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Wolfe’s brows went up; he glanced at me, I shook my head, and he told Fritz to bring the man in. The hired help, including me, exchanged glances. An FBI man was no rare spectacle for any of us, but Stahl wasn’t just one of the swarm; he had worked up to where he gave more orders than he took, and the word was that by Christmas he would be occupying the big corner room down at 290 Broadway. He didn’t often go out to run errands, so it was quite an event for him to drop in, and we all knew it and appreciated it. When he entered and marched across to Wolfe’s desk and offered a hand, Wolfe even did him the honor of rising to shake, which showed how desperate the situation was.

“It’s been quite a while since I saw you last,” Stahl observed. “Three years?”

Wolfe nodded. “I believe so.” He indicated the red leather chair, which Fred Durkin had vacated. “Be seated.”

“Thank you. May we make this private?”

“If necessary.” Wolfe glanced at the trio, and they got up and filed out and shut the door. Stahl went and sat. Medium-sized and beginning to be a little short on hair, he wasn’t impressive to look at, except his jaw, which came straight down a good two inches and then jutted forward. He was well designed for ramming. He gave me a look, and Wolfe said, “As you know, Mr. Goodwin is privy to all that I hear and see and do.”

Stahl knew no such thing, because it wasn’t true. I’d like to have a nickel — or make it a dime, with the dollar where it is — for every item Wolfe has withheld from me just for the hell of it.

Stahl merely nodded. “In a way,” he said, “you might consider this a personal matter — personal to you. We want to get in touch with your daughter, Mrs. Carla Britton.”

Wolfe’s shoulders went up an eighth of an inch and down again. “Then do so. Her address is nine-eighty-four Park Avenue. Her phone number is Poplar three-three-oh-four-three.”

“I know. She hasn’t been there since Tuesday, three days ago. She left no word with anyone. Nobody knows where she is. Do you?”

“No, sir.”

Stahl passed a fingertip across the prow of his chin. “One thing I like about you, you prefer things put plain and straight. I’ve never seen the room upstairs, right above yours, that you call the South Room, but I’ve heard about it. You’ve been known to use it for guests, clients and otherwise, from time to time. Do you mind if I go up and take a look at it?”

Wolfe shrugged again. “It will be wasted energy, Mr. Stahl.”

“That’s all right, I have some to spare.”

“Then go ahead. Archie?”

“Yes, sir.” I went and opened the door to the hall and, with Stahl at my heels, went to the stairs and mounted the two flights. At the door to the South Room I stepped aside and told him politely, “You go first. She might shoot.” He opened the door and went in, and I crossed the sill. “It’s nice and sunny,” I said, “and the beds are first-rate.” I pointed. “That door’s the bathroom, and that’s a closet. A girl named Priscilla Eads once rented it for fifty bucks a day, but she’s dead. I’m pretty sure Mr. Wolfe would shade that for a prominent public servant like you...”

I saved it because he was moving. He knew he had drawn a blank, but he went and opened the door to the bathroom and looked in, and on his way back detoured to open the door to the closet for a glance. As he retreated to the hall I told his back, “Sorry you don’t like it. Would you care to take a look at my room just down the hall? Or the plant rooms, just one flight up?” I kept trying to sell him on the way downstairs. “You might like Mr. Wolfe’s own room better — the bed has a black silk coverlet. I’ll be glad to show it to you. Or if you want a bargain there’s a couch in the front room.”

He entered the office, returned to his chair, focused on Wolfe, and inquired, “Where is she?”

Wolfe focused back. “I don’t know.”

“When did you see her last?”

Wolfe straightened in his chair. “Aren’t you being crass, sir? If this inquisition isn’t gratuitous, warrant it.”

“I told you she has been away from her home for three days and we can’t find her.”

“That doesn’t justify your tramping in here and branding me a liar.”

“I didn’t.”

“Certainly you did. When I said I didn’t know where she was you proceeded to search my house for her. When you didn’t find her you demanded to know where she is. Pfui.”

Stahl smiled like a diplomat. “Well, Goodwin evened it up by riding me. I guess I’d better start over. You know we are aware of your qualities and abilities. We know you don’t need to have a thing all spelled out for you. I didn’t think I’d have to tell you that my coming here and asking about Mrs. Britton meant that we are interested in some aspects of the investigation into the murder of Marko Vukcic, that we have reason to think he was engaged in activities that are the proper concern of the federal government, that your daughter was associated with him in those activities, and that her disappearance is therefore a matter for inquiry. I might as well add that as yet we have no evidence that you have been connected with those activities in any way, either loyally with Vukcic or subversively.”

Wolfe snorted. “I have not applied for a certificate of virtue.”

“No. You wouldn’t. I might also add that I have discussed this with Inspector Cramer and he knows I’m here. We learned of Mrs. Britton’s involvement only last night. To put it all on the table, her disappearance suggests two possibilities: one, that she has been dealt with as Vukcic was, by the same person or persons; and two, that she was double-crossing Vukcic, working for the Communists, and was in on the plan to kill him and helped with it, and it was getting too hot for her here. Is that enough to warrant the question, when did you see her last?”

“The answer won’t help you much. In this room four days ago, Monday afternoon, about six-thirty. She was here not more than ten minutes. She gave no hint of an intention to disappear or of any reason for such an intention. Of your two possibilities, I advise you to dismiss the second, but that will not necessarily leave only the first; there are others.”

“Why dismiss the second?”

Wolfe cocked his head. “Mr. Stahl. The miasma of distrust that has poisoned the air we breathe is so pervasive that it reduced you to the fatuity of going up to look in my South Room. I would have liked then to tell you to leave, but I couldn’t afford the gesture because I’m up a stump. I’ve been hunting the murderer of Marko Vukcic for eight days now, and am floundering in a bog, and if there is any chance that you can offer a straw I want it. So I’ll tell you all I know about Mrs. Britton’s connection with this affair.”

He did so in full, making no objection to Stahl’s getting out his notebook and taking notes. At the end he observed, “You asked why I advised you to dismiss the second of your two possibilities, and that’s my answer. You will discount it as your caution may dictate. Now I would appreciate a straw. With your prerogatives and resources, you must have one to toss me.”

I had never heard or seen him being abject before, and in spite of the strain he was under I didn’t care for it. Stahl didn’t either. He smiled, and I would have liked to wipe it off with one hand. He glanced at his wristwatch and rose from the chair. He didn’t even bother to say he was late for an appointment. “This is something new,” he stated. “Nero Wolfe asking for a straw. We’ll think it over. If you hear from your daughter, or of her, we’ll appreciate it if you’ll let us know.”

When I returned to the office after letting him out I told Wolfe, “There are times when I wish I hadn’t been taught manners. It would have been a pleasure to kick his ass down the stoop.”

“Get them in here,” he growled. “We must find her.”

But we didn’t. We certainly tried. It is true that Stahl and Cramer had it on us in prerogatives and resources, but Fred Durkin knows how to dig, Orrie Cather is no slouch, Saul Panzer is the best operative north of the equator, and I have a good sense of smell. For the next six days we concentrated on picking up a trace of her, but we might as well have stayed up in my room and played pinochle. Not a glimmer. It was during that period that Wolfe made most of his long-distance calls to London and Paris and Bari. At the time I thought he was just expanding the bog to flounder in, and I still think he was merely making some wild stabs, but I have to admit it was Hitchcock in London and Bodin in Paris who finally put him onto Telesio in Bari; and if he hadn’t found Telesio we might still be looking for Carla and for the murderer of Marko. I also admit that I regard myself as the one for hunches around this joint, and I resent anyone horning in, even Wolfe. His part is supposed to be brainwork. However, what matters is that if he hadn’t got in touch with Telesio and talked with him forty bucks’ worth, in Italian, the Tuesday after Stahl’s visit, he would never have got the calls from Telesio.

There were three of them. The first one came Thursday afternoon while I was out tracking down a lead that Fred thought might get somewhere. When I got back to the office just before dinner Wolfe snapped at me, “Get them here this evening for new instructions.”

“Yes, sir.” I went to my desk, sat, and swiveled to face him. “Any for me?”

“We’ll see.” He was glowering. “I suppose you have to know. I had a call from Bari. It is now past midnight in Italy. Mrs. Britton arrived in Bari at noon and left a few hours later in a small boat to cross the Adriatic.”

I goggled. “How the hell did she get to Italy?”

“I don’t know. My informant may, but he thinks it necessary to use discretion on the phone. I am taking it that she’s there. For the present we shall keep it to ourselves. The new instructions for Saul and Fred and Orrie will be on the ground that it is more urgent to disclose the murderer than to find Mrs. Britton. As for—”

“Saul will smell it. He’ll know.”

“Let him. He won’t know where she is, and even if he did, no matter. Who is more trustworthy, Saul or you?”

“I would say Saul. I have to watch myself pretty close.”

“Yes. As for Mr. Cramer and Mr. Stahl, we owe them nothing. If they’re still looking for her they may find someone else.” He sighed way down, leaned back, and shut his eyes, presumably to try to devise a program for the hired help.

So the first call from Telesio didn’t stop operations, it merely changed the strategy. With the second one it was different. It came four days later, at two-thirty a.m. Monday. Of course it was half-past eight in the morning at Bari, but I was in no shape to manage that calculation as I yanked myself enough awake to realize that I hadn’t dreamed it — the phone was ringing. I rolled over and reached for it. When I heard that it was a call from Bari, Italy, for Mr. Nero Wolfe I told the operator to hold it, turned on the light, went and flipped the switch controlling the gong that splits the air if anyone steps within ten feet of the door of Wolfe’s room at night, and then descended one flight and knocked. His voice came, and I opened the door and entered and pushed the wall switch.

He made a magnificent mound under the electric blanket, lying there blinking at me. “Well?” he demanded.

“Phone call from Italy. Collect.”

He refuses to concede the possibility that he will ever be willing to talk on the phone while in bed, so the only instrument in his room is on a table over by a window. I went and switched it on. He pushed the blanket back, maneuvered his bulk around and up, made it over to the table in his bare feet, and took the phone. Even in those circumstances I was impressed by the expanse of his yellow pajamas.

I stood and listened to a lingo that I didn’t have in stock, but not for long. He didn’t even get his money’s worth, for it had been less than three minutes when he cradled the thing, gave me a dirty look, padded back to the bed, lowered himself onto its edge, and pronounced some word that I wouldn’t know how to spell.

He went on. “That was Signor Telesio. His discretion has been aggravated into obscurity. He said he had news for me, that was clear enough, but he insisted on coding it. His words, translated: ‘The man you seek is within sight of the mountain.’ He would not elucidate, and it would have been imprudent to press him.”

I said, “I’ve never known you to seek a man harder or longer than the guy who killed Marko. Does he know that?”

“Yes.”

“Then the only question is, which mountain?”

“It may safely be presumed that it is Lovchen — the Black Mountain, from which Montenegro got its name.”

“Is this Telesio reliable?”

“Yes.”

“Then there’s no problem. The guy that killed Marko is in Montenegro.”

“Thank you.” He twisted around, got his legs onto the bed and under the blanket, and flattened out, if that term may be used about an object with such a contour. Folding the end of the yellow sheet over the edge of the blanket, he pulled it up to his chin, turned on his side, said, “Put the light out,” and closed his eyes.

He was probably asleep before I got back upstairs.

That leaves four days of the three weeks to account for, and they were by far the worst of the whole stretch. It was nothing new that Wolfe was pigheaded, but that time he left all previous records way behind. He knew damn well the subject had got beyond his reach and he was absolutely licked, and the only intelligent thing to do was to hand it over to Cramer and Stahl, with a fair chance that it would get to the CIA, and, if they happened to have a tourist taking in the scenery in those parts, they might think it worth the trouble to give him an errand. Not only that, there were at least two VIPs in Washington, one of them in the State Department, whose ears were accessible to Wolfe on request.

But no. Not for that mule. When — on Wednesday evening, I think it was — I submitted suggestions as outlined above, he rejected them and gave three reasons. One, Cramer and Stahl would think he had invented it unless he named his informant in Bari, and he couldn’t do that. Two, they would merely nab Mrs. Britton if and when she returned to New York, and charge her with something and make it stick. Three, neither the New York police nor the FBI could reach to Yugoslavia, and the CIA wouldn’t be interested unless it tied in with their own plans and projects, and that was extremely unlikely.

Meanwhile — and this was really pathetic — he kept Saul and Fred and Orrie on the payroll and went through the motions of giving them instructions and reading their reports, and I had to go through with my end of the charade. I don’t think Fred and Orrie suspected they were just stringing beads, but Saul did, and Wolfe knew it. Thursday morning Wolfe told me it wouldn’t be necessary for Saul to report direct to him, that I could take it and relay it.

“No, sir,” I said firmly. “I’ll quit first. I’ll play my own part in the goddam farce if you insist on it, but I’m not going to try to convince Saul Panzer that I’m a halfwit. He knows better.”

I have no idea how long it might have gone on. Sooner or later Wolfe would have had to snap out of it, and I prefer to believe it would have been sooner. There were signs that he was beginning to give under the strain — for instance, the scene in the office the next morning, Friday, which I have described. As for me, I was no longer trying to needle him. I was merely offering him a chance to shake loose when I told him the memo from Cartright of Consolidated Products needed immediate attention and reminded him that Cartright had once paid a bill for twelve grand without a squeak, and it looked hopeful when he shoved the paperweight off the desk and dumped the mail in the wastebasket. I was deciding how to follow through and keep him going when the phone rang, and I would have liked to treat it as Wolfe had treated the mail. I turned and got it. A female voice asked me if I would accept a collect call from Bari, Italy, for Mr. Nero Wolfe, and I said yes and told Wolfe. He lifted his instrument.

It was even briefer than it had been Sunday night. I am not equipped to divide Italian into words, but my guess was that Wolfe didn’t use more than fifty altogether. From his tone I suspected it was some more unwelcome news, and his expression as he hung up verified it. He tightened his lips, glaring at the phone, and then transferred the glare to me.

“She’s dead,” he said glumly.