It was a two-story stone house on a narrow cobbled street, back some three hundred yards from the river, with a tiny yard in front behind a wooden fence that had never been painted. If I had been Yugoslavia I would have spent a fair fraction of the fifty-eight million from the World Bank on paint. We had covered considerably more than three hundred yards getting there because of a detour to ask about Grudo Balar at the house where he had lived years before in his youth — a detour, Wolfe explained, which we bothered to make only because he had mentioned Balar to Gospo Stritar. The man who answered the door to Wolfe’s knock said he had lived there only three years and had never heard of anyone named Balar, so we crossed him off.
When the door was opened to us at the two-story house on the narrow cobbled street I stared in surprise. It was the daughter of the owner of the haystack who had changed her clothes in our honor. Then a double take showed me that this one was several years older and a little plumper, but otherwise she could have been a duplicate. Wolfe said something, and she replied and turned her head to call within, and in a moment a man appeared, replaced her on the threshold, and spoke in Serbo-Croat.
“I’m Danilo Vukcic. Who are you?”
I won’t say I would have spotted him in a crowd, for he didn’t resemble his Uncle Marko much superficially, but he was the same family all right. He was a little taller than Marko had been, and not so burly, and his eyes were set deeper, but his head sat exactly the same and he had the same wide mouth with full lips — though it wasn’t Marko’s mouth, because Marko had spent a lot of time laughing, and this nephew didn’t look as if he had laughed much.
“If you would step outside?” Wolfe suggested.
“What for? What do you want?”
“I want to say something not for other ears.”
“There are no ears in my house that I don’t trust.”
“I congratulate you. But I haven’t tested them as you have, so if you’ll oblige me?”
“Who are you?”
“One who gets messages by telephone. Eight days ago I received one saying, ‘The man you seek is within sight of the mountain.’ Four days ago I received another saying that a person I knew had died a violent death within sight of the mountain. For speedy communication at a distance the telephone is supreme.”
Danilo was staring at him, frowning, not believing. “It’s impossible.” Then he shifted the stare and frown to me. “Who is this?”
“My associate who came with me.”
“Come in.” He sidestepped to make room. “Come in quickly.” We passed through, and he shut the door. “No one is here but my family. This way.” He took us through an arch into an inner room, raising his voice to call as he went, “All right, Meta! Go ahead and feed them!” He stopped and faced Wolfe. “We have two small children.”
“I know. Marko was concerned about them. He thought you and your wife were competent to calculate your risks, but they were not. He wanted you to send them to him in New York. Ivan is five years old and Zosha three. It is not a question of trusting ears; they are old enough to babble, as you should know.”
“Of course.” Danilo went and shut a door and returned. “They can’t hear us. Who are you?”
“Nero Wolfe. This is Archie Goodwin. Marko may have spoken of him.”
“Yes. But I can’t believe it.”
Wolfe nodded. “That comes first, naturally, for you to believe. It shouldn’t be too difficult.” He looked around. “If we could sit?”
None of the chairs in sight met his specifications, but there were several that would serve his main purpose, to get his weight off his feet. I wouldn’t have known that the big tiled object in the corner was a stove if I hadn’t had the habit of spending an hour or so each month looking at the pictures in the National Geographic, and I had also seen most of the other articles of furniture, with the exception of the rug. It was a beaut, with red and yellow roses as big as my head on a blue background. Only a vulgar barbarian would have dragged a chair across it, so I lifted one to place it so as to be in the group after Wolfe had lowered himself onto the widest one available.
“It should help,” Wolfe began, “to tell you how we got here.” He proceeded to do so, in full, going back to the day, nearly a month earlier, when the news had come that Marko had been killed. From first to last Danilo kept a steady gaze at him, ignoring me completely, making no interruptions. He was a good listener. When Wolfe got to the end and stopped, Danilo gave me a long hard look and then went back to Wolfe.
“It is true,” he said, “that through my uncle Marko I have heard of Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin. But why should you go to such trouble and expense to get here, and why do you come to me?”
Wolfe grunted. “So you’re not satisfied. I understand the necessity for prudence, but surely this is excessive. If I am an imposter I already know enough to destroy you — Marko’s associates in New York, the messages to me through Paolo Telesio, the house in Bari where you have met Marko, a dozen other details which I included. Either I am already equipped as the agent of your doom, or I am Nero Wolfe. I don’t understand your incredulity. Why the devil did you send those messages if you didn’t expect me to act?”
“I sent only one. The first one, that Carla was here, was only from Telesio. The second, that the man you sought was here, was sent because Carla said to. The last, that she had been killed, I sent because she would have wanted you to know. From what Marko had told me of you, I had no idea that you would come. When he was alive you had refused to give any support to the Spirit of the Black Mountain, so why should we have expected help from you when he was dead? Am I supposed to believe you have come to help?”
Wolfe shook his head. “No,” he said bluntly. “To help your movement on its merits, no. No blow for freedom should be discouraged or scorned, but in this remote mountain corner the best you can do is tickle the tyrant’s toes and die for your pains. If by any chance you should succeed in destroying Tito, the Russians would swarm in from all sides and finish you. I came to get a murderer. For years I have made a living catching wrongdoers, murderers in particular, and I don’t intend to let the one who killed Marko escape. I expect you to help me.”
“The one who killed Marko is only a tool. We have larger plans.”
“No doubt. So have I, but this is personal, and at least it rides in your direction. It may be useful to make it clear that your friends in distant places cannot be slaughtered with impunity. I offer no bribe, but when I get back to America I shall probably feel, as the executor of Marko’s estate, that his associates in a project dear to him deserve sympathetic consideration.”
“I don’t believe you’ll ever get back. This isn’t America, and you don’t know how to operate here. Already you have made five bad mistakes. For one thing, you have exposed yourselves to that baby rat, Jubé Bilic, and let him follow you here.”
“But,” Wolfe objected, “I was told by Telesio that it would place you in no danger if we were seen coming here. He said you are being paid by both Belgrade and the Russians, and you are trusted by neither, and neither is ready to remove you.”
“Nobody trusts anyone,” Danilo said harshly. He left his chair. “But this Jubé Bilic, for a Montenegrin, has at his age a fatal disease of the bones. Even Montenegrins like Gospo Stritar, who work for Tito and have his picture on their walls if not in their hearts, have only contempt for such as Jubé Bilic, who spies on his own father. Contempt is all right, that’s healthy enough, but sometimes it turns into fear, and that’s too much. Do I understand that Jubé followed you to this house?”
Wolfe turned to me. “He wants to know if Jubé followed us here.”
“He did,” I declared, “unless he stumbled and fell in the last two hundred yards. I saw him turn the corner into this street.”
Wolfe relayed it. “In that case,” Danilo said, “you must excuse me while I arrange something.” He left the room through the door toward the back of the house, closing it behind him.
“What’s up?” I asked Wolfe. “Has he gone to phone Room Nineteen?”
“Possibly.” He was peevish. “Ostensibly he intends to do something about Jubé.”
“Where are we?”
He told me. It didn’t take long, since most of the long conversation had been Wolfe’s explanation of our presence. I asked him what the odds were that Danilo was double-crossing the Spirit and actually earning his pay from either Belgrade or the Russians, and he said he didn’t know but that Marko had trusted his nephew without reservation. I said that was jolly, since if Danilo was a louse it would be interesting to see which side he sold us to, and I could hardly wait to find out. Wolfe only growled, whether in Serbo-Croat or English I couldn’t tell.
It was quite a wait. I got up and inspected various articles in the room, asking Wolfe some questions about them, and concluded that if I lived to marry and settle down, which at the moment looked like a bad bet, our apartment would be furnished with domestic products, with possibly a few imports to give it tone, like for instance the tasseled blue scarf that covered a table. I was looking at pictures on the wall when the door opened behind me, and I admit that as I about-faced my hand went automatically to my hip, where I still had the Colt.38. It was only Meta Vukcic. She came in a couple of steps and said something, and Wolfe replied, and after a brief exchange she went out. He reported, without being asked, that she had said that the lamb stew would be ready in about an hour, and meanwhile did we want some goat milk, or vodka with or without water, and he had said no. I protested that I was thirsty, and he said all right, then call her, though he knew damn well I didn’t know how to say “Mrs.”
I asked him. “How do you say ‘Mrs. Vukcic’?” He made a two-syllabled noise without any vowels. I said, “To hell with it,” went to the door at the rear, pulled it open, passed through, saw our hostess arranging things on a table, caught her eye, curved my fingers as if holding a glass, raised the glass to my mouth, and drank. She said something that ended with a question mark, and I nodded. While she got a pitcher from a shelf and poured white liquid from it into a glass, I glanced around, saw a stove with a covered pot on it, a bank of cupboards with flowers painted on the doors, a table set for four, a line of shiny pots and pans hanging, and other items. When she gave me the glass I asked myself if it would be appropriate to kiss her hand, which was well shaped but a little red and rough, decided against it, and returned to the other room.
“I had a little chat with Mrs. Vukcic,” I told Wolfe. “The stew smells good, and the table is set for four, but there are no place cards, so keep your fingers crossed.”
Lily Rowan had once paid a Park Avenue medicine man fifty bucks to tell her that goat milk would be good for her nerves, and while she was giving it a whirl I had sampled it a few times, so the liquid Meta Vukcic had served me was no great shock. By the time I had finished it the room was dark, and I went and turned the switch on a lamp that stood on the tasseled blue table cover, and it worked.
The door opened, and Danilo was back with us, alone. He crossed to the chair facing Wolfe and sat.
“You must excuse me,” he said, “for being away so long, but there was a little difficulty. Now. You said you expect me to help you. What kind of help?”
“That depends,” Wolfe told him, “on the situation. If you can tell me the name of the man who killed Marko, and where he is, that may be all I’ll need from you. Can you?”
“No.”
“Don’t you know?”
“No.”
Wolfe’s tone sharpened. “I must remind you that last Friday, four days ago, Josip Pasic took Telesio a message from you to the effect that he was to telephone me that the man I sought was within sight of the mountain. You sent that message?”
“Yes, but, as I told you, I sent it because Carla said to.”
“She told you to send that message without telling you who the man was, and you didn’t ask her? Pfui.”
“I had no chance to ask her. You don’t know the circumstances.”
“I have come four thousand miles to learn them. I confidently expected you to name the man.”
“I can’t.” Danilo was resentful. “I am accustomed to being regarded with suspicion by nearly everyone here, I invite it and I welcome it, but from you, my uncle’s oldest and closest friend, who denied us your help, I would not expect it. Carla came eleven days ago — no, twelve, a week ago Friday. She did not come here to Titograd — like you, she had no papers, and, unlike you, she took precautions. She went to a place she knew of near the Albanian border, in the mountains, and sent me word, and I went to her. I had certain urgent affairs here and could stay there only one day. Her purpose was to arrange matters that Marko, being dead, could no longer attend to, but she shouldn’t have crossed the sea. She should have sent for me from Bari. That place in the mountains is at the center of danger. I tried to persuade her to return to Bari, but she wouldn’t. You knew her.”
“Yes, I knew her.”
“She was too headstrong. I had to leave her there. Two days later, on Sunday, word came from her that I was to send you that message, and I sent—”
“Who brought it?”
“Josip Pasic. At the moment there was no one else to send across to Telesio in Bari, and I sent him. Affairs still kept me here, and I couldn’t get away until Tuesday — that was a week ago today. I went to the mountains that night — it is always best to go at night — and Carla was not there. We found her body the next morning at the foot of a cliff. She had been stabbed in several places, but on account of the bruises from the fall down the cliff it was impossible to tell to what extent she had been mistreated. Anyway, she was dead. Because she had had no papers, and for other reasons, it would have been difficult to arrange Christian burial for her, but the body was decently disposed of. It would be a pleasure to tell you that we tracked those who had killed her and dealt with them, but it is not that simple in the mountains, and besides, there was another urgent concern — to take precautions regarding materials that must be guarded. It was possible that before killing her they had forced her to reveal the cache. We attended to that Wednesday night; and Thursday, Josip Pasic and I came back to Titograd; and that night he went to the coast and crossed to Bari, to send word to New York about Carla. I thought it proper also to tell Telesio to get word to you, since she was your daughter.”
Danilo made a gesture. “So there it is. I hade no chance to ask her who killed Marko.”
Wolfe regarded him glumly. “You had a chance to ask Josip Pasic.”
“He doesn’t know.”
“He was in the mountains with her.”
“Not precisely with her. She was trying to do something alone, against all reason.”
“I want to see him. Where is he?”
“In the mountains. He returned there Saturday night.”
“You can send for him.”
“I can, of course, but I’m not going to.” Danilo was emphatic. “The situation there is difficult, and he must stay. Besides, I won’t expose Josip to the hazard of a meeting with you in Titograd, not after the way you have performed and made yourself conspicuous. Marching into the headquarters of the secret police! Walking the streets, anywhere you please, in daylight! It is true that Titograd is no metropolis, it is only a poor little town in this little valley surrounded by mountains, but there are a few people here who have been over the mountains and across the seas, and what if one of them saw you? Do you think I am such a fool as to believe you are Nero Wolfe just because you come to my house and say so? I would have been dead long ago. Once — last winter, it was — my uncle showed me a picture of you that had been printed in an American newspaper, and I recognized you as soon as I saw you at my door. There are others in Titograd who might also recognize you, but you march right in and tell Gospo Stritar you are Toné Stara of Galichnik!”
“I apologize,” Wolfe said stiffly, “if I have imperiled you.”
Danilo waved it away. “That’s not it. The Russians know I take money from Belgrade, and Belgrade knows I take money from the Russians, and they both know I am involved with the Spirit of the Black Mountain, so no one can imperil me. I slip through everybody’s fingers like quicksilver — or like mud, as they think. But not Josip Pasic. If I had him meet you in Titograd, and by some mischance— No. Anyway, he can’t leave. Also, what can he tell you? If he knew— Yes, Meta?”
The door had opened, and Mrs. Vukcic had appeared. She came in a step and said something. Danilo, replying, arose, and so did Wolfe and I as she came toward us.
“I have told my wife who you are,” Danilo said. “Meta, this is Mr. Wolfe and Mr. Goodwin. There is no reason why you shouldn’t shake hands with them.” She did so, with a firm, friendly clasp. Danilo went on, “I know, gentlemen, that, like my uncle, you are accustomed to the finest dishes and delicacies, but a man can only share what he has, and at least we’ll have bread.”
We certainly had bread. It was a very nice party. At the table in the kitchen an electric lamp with a big pink shade was between Wolfe and me so I couldn’t see him without stretching my neck, but that was no great hardship. Mrs. Vukcic was a wonderful hostess. It never occurred to Wolfe or Danilo to give a damn whether I had any notion of what they were talking about, which I hadn’t, but Meta couldn’t stand a guest at her table feeling out of it, so about once a minute she turned her black eyes to me just to include me in. I was reminded of a dinner party Lily Rowan had once thrown at Rusterman’s where one of the guests was an Eskimo, and I tried to remember whether she had been as gracious to him as Meta Vukcic was being to me, but I couldn’t, probably because I had completely ignored him myself. I resolved that if I ever got back to New York and was invited to a meal where someone like an Eskimo was present, I would smile at him or her at least every fifth bite.
There was nothing wrong with the lamb stew, and the radishes were young and crisp, but the big treat was the bread, baked by Mrs. Vukcic in a loaf about as big around as my arm and fully as long. We finished two of them, and I did my part. There was no butter, but sopping in the gravy was taken for granted, and, when that gave out, the bread was even better with a gob of apple butter on each bite. It was really an advantage not being able to follow the conversation, since it kept me busy catering for myself and at the same time making sure I met Meta’s glances to show proper appreciation; and anyway, when Wolfe reported later, he said the table talk was immaterial.
There was even coffee — at least, when I asked Wolfe about it, he said it was supposed to be. I won’t dwell on it. We were all sipping away at it, out of squatty yellow cups, when suddenly Danilo left his chair, crossed to a door — not the one to the living room — opened it enough to slip through, and did so, closing the door behind him. In view of what followed, there must have been some kind of signal, though I hadn’t heard or seen any. Danilo wasn’t gone more than five minutes. When he re-entered he opened the door wider, and a breath of outdoor air came in, enough to get to us at the table. He came back to his chair, sat, put a wad of crumpled brown paper on the table, picked up his coffee cup, and emptied it. Wolfe asked him something in a polite tone. He put the cup down, picked up the wad of paper, unfolded it, got it straightened out, and placed it on the table between him and Wolfe. I stared at the object he had unwrapped, resting there on the paper. Though my eyes are good, at the first glance I didn’t believe them, but when they checked it I had to. The object was a human finger that had been chopped off at the base, no question about it.
“Not for desert, I hope,” Wolfe said dryly.
“It would be poison,” Danilo declared. “It belonged to that baby rat, Jubé Bilic. Meta dear, could I have some hot coffee?”
She got up and went to the stove for the pot.