Chapter 1

When the doorbell rings while Nero Wolfe and I are at dinner, in the old brownstone house on West Thirty-fifth Street, ordinarily it is left to Fritz to answer it. But that evening I went myself, knowing that Fritz was in no mood to handle a caller, no matter who it was.

Fritz’s mood should be explained. Each year around the middle of May, by arrangement, a farmer who lives up near Brewster shoots eighteen or twenty starlings, puts them in a bag, and gets in his car and drives to New York. It is understood that they are to be delivered to our door within two hours after they were winged. Fritz dresses them and sprinkles them with salt, and, at the proper moment, brushes them with melted butter, wraps them in sage leaves, grills them, and arranges them on a platter of hot polenta, which is thick porridge of fine-ground yellow cornmeal with butter, grated cheese, and salt and pepper.

It is an expensive meal and a happy one, and Wolfe always looks forward to it, but that day he put on an exhibition. When the platter was brought in, steaming, and placed before him, he sniffed, ducked his head and sniffed again, and straightened to look up at Fritz.

“The sage?”

“No, sir.”

“What do you mean, no, sir?”

“I thought you might like it once in a style I have suggested, with saffron and tarragon. Much fresh tarragon, with just a touch of saffron, which is the way—”

“Remove it!”

Fritz went rigid and his lips tightened.

“You did not consult me,” Wolfe said coldly. “To find that without warning one of my favorite dishes has been radically altered is an unpleasant shock. It may possibly be edible, but I am in no humor to risk it. Please dispose of it and bring me four coddled eggs and a piece of toast.”

Fritz, knowing Wolfe as well as I did, aware that this was a stroke of discipline that hurt Wolfe more than it did him and that it would be useless to try to parley, reached for the platter, but I put in, “I’ll take some if you don’t mind. If the smell won’t keep you from enjoying your eggs?”

Wolfe glared at me.

That was how Fritz acquired the mood that made me think it advisable for me to answer the door. When the bell rang Wolfe had finished his eggs and was drinking coffee, really a pitiful sight, and I was toward the end of a second helping of the starlings and polenta, which was certainly edible. Going to the hall and the front, I didn’t bother to snap the light switch because there was still enough twilight for me to see, through the one-way glass panel, that the customer on the stoop was not our ship coming in.

I pulled the door open and told him politely, “Wrong number.”

I was polite by policy, my established policy of promoting the idea of peace on earth with the neighborhood kids. It made life smoother in that street, where there was a fair amount of ball throwing and other activities.

“Guess again,” he told me in a low nervous alto, not too rude. “You’re Archie Goodwin. I’ve gotta see Nero Wolfe.”

“What’s your name?”

“Pete.”

“What’s the rest of it?”

“Drossos. Pete Drossos.”

“What do you want to see Mr. Wolfe about?”

“I gotta case. I’ll tell him.”

He was a wiry little specimen with black hair that needed a trim and sharp black eyes, the top of his head coming about level with the knot of my four-in-hand. I had seen him around the neighborhood but had nothing either for or against him. The thing was to ease him off without starting a feud, and ordinarily I would have gone at it, but after Wolfe’s childish performance with Fritz I thought it would do him good to have another child to play with. Naturally he would snarl and snap, but if Pete got scratched I could salve him afterward. So I invited him in and escorted him to the dining room.

Wolfe was refilling his coffee cup. He shot a glance at Pete, who I admit was not dressed up, put the pot down, looked straight at me, and spoke.

“Archie. I will not have interruptions at meals.”

I nodded sympathetically. “I know, but this wasn’t a meal. Call eggs a meal? This is Mr. Peter Drossos. He wants to consult you about a case. I was going to tell him you’re busy, but I remembered you got sore because Fritz didn’t consult you, and I didn’t want you to get sore at Pete too. He’s a neighbor of ours, and you know, love thy neighbor as thyself.”

Ragging Wolfe is always a gamble. A quick reflex explosion may split the air; but if it doesn’t, if he takes a second for a look at it, you’re apt to find yourself topped. That time he took several seconds, sipping coffee, and then addressed our caller courteously. “Sit down, Mr. Drossos.”

“I’m not mister, I’m Pete.”

“Very well, Pete, sit down. Turn more to face me, please. Thank you. You wish to consult me?”

“Yeah, I gotta case.”

“I always welcome a case, but the timing is a little unfortunate because Mr. Goodwin was going out this evening to see a billiard match, and now of course he will have to stay here to take down all that you say and all that I say. Archie, get your notebook, please?”

As I said, it’s always a gamble. He had his thumb in my eye. I went across the hall to the office for a notebook and pen, and when I returned Fritz was there with coffee for me and cookies and a bottle of Coke for Pete. I said nothing. My pen and notebook would do the recording almost automatically, needing about a fifth of my brain, and I would see the rest of it devising plans for getting from under.

Pete was talking. “I guess it’s okay him taking it down, but I gotta watch my end. This is strictly under the lid.”

“If you mean it’s confidential, certainly.”

“Then I’ll spill it. I know there’s some private eyes you can’t open up to, but you’re different. We know all about you around here. I know how you feel about the lousy cops, just like I do. So I’ll lay it out.”

“Please do.”

“Okay. What time is it?”

I looked at my wrist watch. “Ten to eight.”

“Then it happened an hour ago. I know sometimes everything hangs on the time element, and right after it happened I went and looked at the clock in the drugstore near the corner, and it was a quarter to seven. I was working the wipe racket there at the corner of Thirty-fifth and Ninth, and a Caddy stopped—”

“Please. What’s the wipe racket?”

“Why, you know, a car stops for the light and you hop to it with a rag and start wiping the window, and if it’s a man and he lets you go on to the windshield you’ve got him for at least a dime. If it’s a woman and she lets you go on, maybe you’ve got her and maybe not. That’s a chance you take. Well, this Caddy stopped—”

“What’s a Caddy?”

From the look that appeared in the sharp black eyes, Pete was beginning to suspect that he had picked the wrong private eye. I cut in to show him that anyhow one of us wasn’t a moron, telling Wolfe, “A Cadillac automobile.”

“I see. It stopped?”

“Yeah, for the light. I went for the window by the driver. It was a woman. She turned her face around to me to look straight at me and she said something. I don’t think she made any sound, or anyway if she did I didn’t hear anything through the window because it was up nearly to the top, but she worked her lips with it and I could tell what it was. She said, ‘Help. Get a cop.’ Like this, look.”

He made the words with his lips, overdoing it some, without producing any noise. Wolfe nodded appreciatively. He turned to me. “Archie. Make a sketch of Pete’s mouth doing that pantomime.”

“Later,” I said obligingly. “After you’ve gone to bed.”

“It was plain as it could be,” Pete went on. “‘Help, get a cop.’ It hit me, it sure did. I tried to keep my face deadpan, I knew that was the way to take it, but I guess I didn’t, because the man was looking at me and he—”

“Where was the man?”

“There on the seat with her. There was just them two in the car. I guess he saw by my face something had hit me, because he jabbed the gun against her harder and she jerked her head around—”

“Did you see the gun?”

“No, but I’m not a dope, am I? What else would make her want a cop and then jerk her head like that? What do you think it was, a lead pencil?”

“I prefer the gun. And then?”

“I backed up a little. All I had was a piece of rag, and him with a six gun. Now this next part — don’t get me wrong, I got no use for cops. I feel about cops just like you. But it happened so quick I didn’t realize just what I was doing, and I admit I looked around for a cop. I didn’t see one, so I hopped to the sidewalk to see around the corner, and by the time I looked again the light had changed, and there went the car. I tried to flag another car to trail it, but nobody would stop. I thought I might catch it at Eighth Avenue and ran as fast as I could down Thirty-fifth, but it hit a green light at Eighth and went on through when I was only halfway there. But I got the license number.”

He reached in his pants pocket, pulled out a little scrap of paper, and read from it: “Connecticut, Y,Y, nine, four, three, two.”

“Excellent.” Wolfe returned his empty cup to the saucer. “Have you given that to the police?”

“Me?” Pete was scornful. “The cops? Look, am I screwy? I go to the precinct and tell a flattie, or even say I get to a sarge and tell him, and what? First he don’t believe me and then he chases me and then I’m marked. It don’t hurt you to be marked, because you’re a private eye with a license and you’ve got something on a lot of inspectors.”

“I have? What?”

“Don’t ask me. But everybody knows you’re loaded with dirt on some big boys or you’d have been rubbed out long ago. But a kid like me can’t risk it to be marked even if I’m straight. I hate cops, but you don’t have to be a crook to hate cops. I keep telling my mother I’m straight, and I am straight, but I’m telling you it takes a lot of guts. What do you think of this case I got?”

Wolfe considered. “It seems a little — uh — hazy.”

“Yeah, that’s why I came to you. I went to a place I go to when I want to think, and I went all over it. I saw it was a swell case if I handled it right. The car was a Caddy, a dark gray fifty-two Caddy. The man looked mean, but he looked like dough, he looked like he might have two or three more Caddies. The woman did too. She wasn’t as old as my mother, but I guess I can’t go by that because my mother has done a lot of hard work, and I bet she never did work. She had a scratch on her face, on her left cheek, and her face was all twisted saying that to me, ‘Help, get a cop’; but, thinking it over, I decided she was a good-looker. She had big gold spiders for earrings, spiders with their legs stretched out. Pure gold.”

Wolfe grunted.

“Okay,” Pete conceded, “they looked like gold. They wasn’t brass. Anyhow, the whole layout said dough, and what I was thinking went like this: I got a case with people with dough, and how do I handle it so I’ll get some? There might be up to fifty dollars in it if I handle it right. If he kills her I can identify him and get the reward. I can tell what she said to me and how he jabbed the gun in her—”

“You didn’t see a gun.”

“That’s a detail. If he didn’t kill her, if he just made her do something or tell him something or give him something, I can go and put it up to him, either he comes across with fifty bucks, or maybe a hundred, or I hang it on him.”

“That would be blackmail.”

“Okay.” Pete brushed cookie crumbs from his fingers onto the tray. “That’s why I decided I had to see you after I thought it over. I saw I couldn’t handle it alone and I’d have to cut you in, but you understand it’s my case. Maybe you think I was a sap to tell you that license number before we made a deal, but I don’t. If you get onto him and corner him and try to cross me and hog it, I’ll still have to identify him, so it will be up to me. If blackmail’s out, you can figure it so it’s not blackmail. What do you say we split fifty-fifty?”

“I’ll tell you, Pete.” Wolfe pushed his chair back and got his bulk comfortably settled in a new position. “If we are to join hands on your case I think I should tell you a few things about the science and art of detection. Mr. Goodwin will of course take it down, and when he types it he will make a copy for you. But first he’ll make a phone call. Archie, you have that license number. Call Mr. Cramer’s office and give them that number. Say that you have information that that car, or its owner or operator, may have been involved in a violation of a law in this city in the past two hours, and suggest a routine check. Do not be more definite. Say that our information is unverified and inquiry should be discreet.”

“Hey,” Pete demanded, “who’s Mr. Cramer? A cop?”

“A police inspector,” Wolfe told him. “You yourself suggested the possibility of murder. If there was a murder there is a corpse. If there is a corpse it should be found. Unless and until it is found, where’s your case? We have no idea where to look for it, so we’ll trick the police into finding it for us. I often make use of them that way. Archie. Of course you will not mention Pete’s name, since he doesn’t want to be marked.”

As I went across to the office, to my desk, and dialed the number of Manhattan Homicide West, I was reflecting that of all Wolfe’s thousand techniques for making himself obnoxious the worst was when he thought he was being funny. When I finished talking to Sergeant Purley Stebbins and hung up, I was tempted to just walk out and go up to watch Mosconi and Watrous handle their cues, but of course that wouldn’t do because it would have been admitting he had called me good, and he would merely have shooed Pete out and settled down with a book and a satisfied smirk.

So I marched back to the dining room, sat down and took up my pen, and said brightly, “All right, they’re alerted. Shoot the lecture on detection, and don’t leave anything out.”

Wolfe leaned back, put his elbows on the chair arms, and matched his fingertips. “You understand, Pete, that I shall confine myself to the problems and methods of the private detective who works at his profession for a living.”

“Yeah.” Pete had a fresh bottle of Coke. “That’s what I want, how to rake in the dough.”

“I had remarked that tendency in you. But you must not permit it to smother other considerations. It is desirable that you should earn your fees, but it is essential that you feel you have earned them, and that depends partly on your ego. If your ego is healthy and hardy, as mine is, you will seldom have difficulty—”

“What’s my ego?”

“There are various definitions, philosophical, metaphysical, psychological, and now psychoanalytical, but as I am using the term it means the ability to play up everything that raises your opinion of yourself and play down everything that lowers it. Is that clear?”

“I guess so.” Pete was frowning in concentration. “You mean, do you like yourself or don’t you.”

“Not precisely, but that’s close enough. With a robust ego, your feeling—”

“What’s robust?”

Wolfe made a face. “I’ll try to use words you have met before, but when I don’t, when one of them is a stranger to you, kindly do not interrupt. If you are smart enough to be a good detective, you are smart enough to guess accurately the meaning of a new word by the context — which means the other words I use with it. Also there is usually a clue. A moment ago I spoke of a healthy and hardy ego, and then, after your interruption, I spoke of a robust ego in the same connection. So obviously ‘robust’ means ‘healthy and hardy,’ and if you have the stuff of a good detective in you, you should have spotted it. How old are you?”

“Twelve.”

“Then I should make allowances, and do. To continue: with a robust ego, your feeling about earning your fees can safely be left to your intelligence and common sense. Never collect or accept a fee that you feel you haven’t earned; if you do, your integrity crumbles and your ego will have worms. With that one reservation, get all you can. As you must not take what you feel you haven’t earned, so must you get what you feel you have earned. Don’t even discuss a case with a prospective client until you know about his ability to pay. So much—”

“Then why—” Pete blurted, and stopped.

“Why what?”

“Nothing. Only you’re discussing with me, just a kid.”

“This is a special case. Mr. Goodwin brought you in to me, and he is my trusted and highly valuable assistant, and he would be disappointed if I didn’t explore your affair thoroughly and let him take it down and type it.” Wolfe favored me with a hypocritical glance and returned to Pete. “So much for your ego and your fees. As for your methods, they must of course be suited to your field. I pass over such fields as industrial espionage and divorce evidence and similar repugnant snooperies, since the ego of any man who engages in them is already infested with worms, and so you are not concerned. But take robbery. Say, for instance, a woman’s jewel box has been looted, and she doesn’t want to go to the police because she suspects—”

“Let’s take murder. I’d rather start with murder.”

“As you will.” Wolfe was gracious. “You’re getting this, are you, Archie?”

“You bet. With my tongue out.”

“Good. But robbery or murder, no matter what, speaking generally, you must thoroughly understand that primarily you are practicing an art, not a science. The role of science in crime detection is worthy, honorable, and effective, but it has little part in the activities of a private detective who aspires to eminence. Anyone of moderate capacity can become adept with a vernier caliper, a camera, a microscope, a spectrograph, or a centrifuge, but they are merely the servants of detection. Science in detection can be distinguished, even brilliant, but it can never replace either the inexorable march of a fine intellect through a jungle of lies and fears to the clearing of truth, or the flash of perception along a sensitive nerve touched off by a tone of a voice or a flicker of an eye.”

“Excuse me,” I interposed. “Was that ‘a tone of voice’ or ‘a tone of a voice’?”

“Neither,” Wolfe lied. “It was ‘a tone of some voice.’” He resumed to Pete, “The art of detection has many levels and many faces. Take one. Shadowing a man around New York without losing him is an extremely difficult task. When the police undertake it seriously they use three men, and even so they are often hoodwinked. There is a man who often works for me, Saul Panzer, who is a genius at it, working alone. I have discussed it with him and have concluded that he himself does not know the secret of his superlative knack. It is not a conscious and controlled operation of his brain, though he has a good one; it is something hidden somewhere in his nervous system — possibly, of course, in his skull. He says that he seems somehow to know, barely in the nick of time, what the man he is following is about to do — not what he has done or is doing, but what he intends. That’s why Mr. Panzer might teach you everything he knows, and still you would never be his equal. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t learn all you can. Learning will never hurt you. Only the man who knows too little knows too much. It is only when you undertake to use what you have learned that you discover whether you can transform knowledge into performance.”

Wolfe aimed a thumb at me. “Take Mr. Goodwin. It would be difficult for me to function effectively without him. He is irreplaceable. Yet his actions are largely governed by impulse and caprice, and that would of course incapacitate him for any important task if it were not that he has somewhere concealed in him — possibly in his brain, though I doubt it — a powerful and subtle governor. For instance, the sight of a pretty girl provokes in him an overwhelming reaction of appreciation and approval, and correlatively his acquisitive instinct, but he has never married. Why not? Because he knows that if he had a wife his reaction to pretty girls, now pure and frank and free, would not only be intolerably adulterated but would also be under surveillance and subject to restriction by authority. So the governor always stops him short of disaster, doubtless occasionally on the very brink. It works similarly with the majority of his impulses and whims, but now and then it fails to intervene in time, and he suffers mishap, as this evening when he was impelled to badger me when a certain opportunity offered. It has already cost him — what time is it, Archie?”

I looked. “Eighteen minutes to nine.”

“Hey!” Pete leaped from his chair. “I gotta run! My mother — I gotta be home by a quarter to! See you tomorrow!”

He was on his way. By the time I was up and in the hall he had reached the front door and pulled it open, and was gone. I stepped to the threshold of the dining room and told Wolfe, “Damn it, I was hoping he would stay till midnight so you could finish. After that a billiard match will be pretty dull, but I might as well go.”

I went.

Chapter 2

Next day, Wednesday, I was fairly busy. A hardware manufacturer from Youngstown, Ohio, had come to New York to try to locate a son who had cut his lines of communication, and had wired Wolfe to help, and we had Saul Panzer, Fred Durkin, and Orrie Cather out scouting around. That kept me close to my desk and the phone, getting reports and relaying instructions.

A little after four in the afternoon Pete Drossos showed up and wanted to see Wolfe. His attitude indicated that while he was aware that I too had a license as a private detective and he had nothing serious against me, he preferred to deal with the boss. I explained that Nero Wolfe spent four hours every day — from nine to eleven in the morning and from four to six in the afternoon — up in the plant rooms on the roof, with his ten thousand orchids, bossing Theodore Horstmann instead of me, and that during those hours he was unavailable. Pete let me know that he thought that was a hell of a way for a private eye to spend his time, and I didn’t argue the point. By the time I finally got him eased out to the stoop and the door closed, I was ready to concede that maybe my governor needed oiling. Pete was going to be a damn nuisance, no doubt of it. I should have choked my impulse to invite him in as a playmate for Wolfe. Whenever I catch myself talking me into chalking one up against me, it helps to take a drink, so I went to the kitchen for a glass of milk. As I returned to the office the phone was ringing — Orrie Cather making a report.

At the dinner table that evening neither Wolfe nor Fritz gave the slightest indication that starlings had ever come between them. As Wolfe took his second helping of the main dish, which was Danish pork pancake, he said distinctly, “Most satisfactory.” Since for him that was positively lavish, Fritz took it as offered, nodded with dignity, and murmured, “Certainly, sir.” So there were no sparks flying when we finished our coffee, and Wolfe was so agreeable that he said he would like to see me demonstrate Mosconi’s spectacular break shot I had told him about, if I cared to descend to the basement with him.

But I didn’t get to demonstrate. When the doorbell rang as we were leaving the dining room, I supposed of course it was Pete, but it wasn’t. The figure visible through the glass panel was fully twice as big as Pete, and much more familiar — Sergeant Purley Stebbins of Manhattan Homicide West. Wolfe went into the office, and I went to the front and opened the door.

“They went thataway,” I said, pointing.

“Nuts. I want to see Wolfe. And you.”

“This is me. Shoot.”

“And Wolfe.”

“He’s digesting pork. Hold it.” I slipped the chain bolt to hold the door to a two-inch crack, stepped to the office, told Wolfe Stebbins wanted an audience, stood patiently while he made faces, was instructed to bring the caller in, and returned to the front and did so.

Over the years a routine had been established for seating Sergeant Stebbins in our office. When he came with Inspector Cramer, Cramer of course took the big red leather chair near the end of Wolfe’s desk, and Purley one of the yellow ones, which were smaller. When he came alone, I tried to herd him into the red leather chair but never made it. He always sidestepped and pulled up a yellow one. It wasn’t that he felt a sergeant shouldn’t sit where he had seen an inspector sit, not Purley. It may be he doesn’t like to face a window, or possibly he just doesn’t like red chairs. Some day I’ll ask him.

That day he got his meat and muscle, of which he has a full share, at rest on a yellow chair as usual, eyed Wolfe a moment, and then twisted his neck to confront me. “Yesterday you phoned me about a car — a dark gray fifty-two Cadillac, Connecticut license YY nine-four-three-two. Why?”

I raised my shoulders and let them drop. “I told you. We had information, not checked, that the car or its owner or driver might have been involved in something, or might be. I suggested a routine inquiry.”

“I know you did. Exactly what was your information and where did you get it?”

I shook my head. “You asked me that yesterday and I passed it. I still pass. Our informant doesn’t want to be annoyed.”

“Well, he’s going to be. Who was it and what did he tell you?”

“Nothing doing.” I turned a hand over. “You know damn well this is just a bad habit you’ve got. If something has happened that makes you think I’ve got to tell you who and what, tell me what happened and let’s see if I agree with you. You know how reasonable I am.”

“Yeah, I sure do.” Purley set his jaw and then relaxed it. “At six-forty this afternoon, two hours ago, a car stopped for a red light at the corner of Thirty-fifth Street and Ninth Avenue. A boy with a rag went to it and started wiping a window. He finished that side and started for the other side, and as he was circling in front of the car it suddenly jumped forward and ran over him, and kept going fast, across the avenue and along Thirty-fifth Street. The boy died soon after the ambulance got him to the hospital. The driver was a man, alone in the car. With excitement like that people never see much, but two people, a woman and a boy, agree about the license number, Connecticut YY nine-four-three-two, and the boy says it was a dark gray Cadillac sedan. Well?”

“What was the boy’s name? The one that was killed.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“I don’t know. I’m asking.”

“His name was Drossos. Peter Drossos.”

I swallowed. “That’s just fine. The sonofabitch.”

“Who, the boy?”

“No.” I turned to Wolfe. “Do you tell it or do I?”

Wolfe had closed his eyes. He opened them to say, “You,” and closed them again.

I didn’t think it was necessary to tell Stebbins about the domestic crisis that had given me the impulse to take Pete in to Wolfe, but I gave him everything that was relevant, including Pete’s second visit that afternoon. Though for once in his life he was satisfied that he was getting something straight in that office, he asked a lot of questions, and at the end he saw fit to contribute an unfriendly comment to the effect that worthy citizens like Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin might have been expected to show a little more interest in a woman with a gun in her ribs wanting a cop.

I wasn’t feeling jaunty, and that stung me. “Specimens like you,” I told him, “are not what has made this country great. The kid might have made it all up. He admitted he didn’t see the gun. Or the woman might have been pulling his leg. If I had told you yesterday who had told me what, you would have thought I was screwy to spend a dime on it for a phone call. And I did give you the license number. Did you check on it?”

“Yes. It was a floater. It was taken from a Plymouth that was stolen in Hartford two months ago.”

“No trace?”

“None so far. Now we’ll ask Connecticut to dig. I don’t know how many floater plates there are in New York this minute, but there are plenty.”

“How good a description have you got of the driver?”

“We’ve got four and no two alike. Three of them aren’t worth a damn and the other one may be — a man that had just come out of the drugstore and happened to notice the kid going to the car with his rag. He says the driver was a man about forty, dark brown suit, light complexion, regular features, felt hat pulled down nearly to his ears. He says he thinks he could identify him.” Purley got up. “I’ll be going. I’ll admit I’m disappointed. I fully expected either I’d get a lead from you or I’d find you covering for a client.”

Wolfe opened his eyes, “I wish you luck, Mr. Stebbins. That boy ate at my table yesterday.”

“Yeah,” Purley growled, “that makes it bad. People have no business running over boys that ate at your table.”

On that sociable note he marched out, and I went to the hall with him. As I put my hand on the doorknob a figure rose to view outside, coming up the steps to the stoop, and when I pulled the door open there she was — a skinny little woman in a neat dark blue dress, no jacket and no hat, with puffed red eyes and her mouth pressed so tight there were no lips.

Stebbins was just back of me as I addressed her. “Can I help you, madam?”

She squeezed words out. “Does Mr. Nero Wolfe live here?”

I told her yes.

“Do you think I could see him? I won’t be long. My name is Mrs. Anthea Drossos.”

She had been crying and looked as if she might resume any second, and a crying woman is one of the things Wolfe won’t even try to take. So I told her he was busy, and I was his confidential assistant, and wouldn’t she please tell me.

She raised her head to meet my eyes straight. “My boy Pete told me to see Mr. Nero Wolfe,” she said, “and I’ll just wait here till I can see him.” She propped herself against the railing of the stoop.

I backed up and shut the door. Stebbins was at my heels as I entered the office and spoke to Wolfe. “Mrs. Anthea Drossos wants to see you. She says her boy Pete told her to. I won’t do. She’ll camp on the stoop all night if she has to. She might start crying in your presence. What do I do, take a mattress out to her?”

That opened his eyes all right. “Confound it. What can I do for the woman?”

“Nothing. Me too. But she won’t take it from me.”

“Then why the devil — pfui! Bring her in. That performance of yours yesterday — bring her in.”

I went and got her. When I ushered her in Purley was planted back in his chair. With my hand on her elbow because she didn’t seem any too sure of her footing, I steered her to the red leather number, which would have held three of her. She perched on the edge, with her black eyes — blacker, I suppose, because of the contrast with the inflamed lids — aimed at Wolfe.

Her voice was low and a little quavery, but determined. “Are you Mr. Nero Wolfe?”

He admitted it. She shifted the eyes to me, then to Stebbins, and back to Wolfe. “These gentlemen?” she asked.

“Mr. Goodwin, my assistant, and Mr. Stebbins, a policeman who is investigating the death of your son.”

She nodded. “I thought he looked like a cop. My boy Pete wouldn’t want me to tell this to a cop.”

From her tone and expression it seemed pretty plain that she didn’t intend to do anything her boy Pete wouldn’t have wanted her to do, and therefore we had a problem. With Purley’s deep suspicion that Wolfe, not to mention me, would rather be caught dead than with nothing up his sleeve, he sure wasn’t going to bow out. But without hesitation he arose, said, “I’ll go to the kitchen,” and headed for the door.

My surprise lasted half a second, until I realized where he was going. In the alcove at the rear end of the hall, across from the kitchen, there was a hole in the wall that partitioned the alcove from the office. On the office side the hole was covered with a trick picture, and from the alcove side, when you slid a panel, you could see and hear movements and sounds from the office. Purley knew all about it.

As Purley disappeared I thought it just as well to warn Wolfe. “The picture.”

“Certainly,” Wolfe said peevishly. He looked at Mrs. Drossos. “Well, madam?”

She was taking nothing for granted. She got up and went to the open door to look both ways in the hall, shut the door, and returned to her seat. “You know Pete got killed.”

“Yes, I know.”

“They told me, and I ran down to the street, and there he was. He was unconscious but he wasn’t dead. They let me ride in the ambulance with him. That was when he told me. He opened—”

She stopped. I was afraid it was going to bust, and so was she, but after sitting for half a minute without a muscle moving she had it licked and could go on. “He opened his eyes and saw me, and I put my head down to him. He said — I think I can tell you just what he said — he said, ‘Tell Nero Wolfe he got me. Don’t tell anybody but Nero Wolfe. Give him my money in the can.’”

She stopped and was rigid again. After a full minute of it Wolfe nudged her. “Yes, madam?”

She opened her bag, of black leather that had seen some wear but was good for more, fingered in it, extracted a small package wrapped in paper, and arose to put the package on Wolfe’s desk.

“There’s four dollars and thirty cents.” She stayed on her feet. “He made it himself, it’s his money that he kept in a tobacco can. That was the last thing he said, telling me to give you his money in the can; after that he was unconscious again, and he died before they could do anything at the hospital. I came away and came home to get his money and come and tell you. Now I’ll go back.” She turned, took a couple of steps, and turned again. “Did you understand what I told you?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Do you want me to do anything?”

“No, I think not. Archie?”

I was already there beside her. She seemed a little steadier on her feet than she had coming in, but I kept her arm anyway, on out to the stoop and down the seven steps to the sidewalk. She didn’t thank me, but since she may not even have known I was there I didn’t hold it against her.

Purley was in the hall when I re-entered, with his hat on. I asked him, “Did you shut the panel?”

“Taking candy from a kid I might expect,” he said offensively. “But taking candy from a dead kid, by God!”

He was leaving, and I sidestepped to block him. “Oaf. Meaning you. If we had insisted on her taking it back she would have—”

I chopped it off at his grin of triumph. “Got you that time!” he croaked, and brushed past me and went.

So as I stepped into the office I was biting a nail. It is not often that Purley Stebbins can string me, but that day he had caught me off balance because my sentiments had been involved. Naturally I reacted by trying to take it out on Wolfe. I went to his desk for the little packet, unfolded the paper, and arranged the contents neatly in front of him: two dollar bills, four quarters, nine dimes, and eight nickels.

“Right,” I announced. “Four dollars and thirty cents. Hearty congratulations. After income tax and deducting ten cents for expenses — the phone call to Stebbins yesterday — there will be enough left to—”

“Shut up,” he snapped. “Will you return it to her tomorrow?”

“I will not. Nor any other day. You know damn well that’s impossible.”

“Give it to the Red Cross.”

“You give it.” I was firm. “She may never come again, but if she does and asks me what we did with Pete’s money I won’t feel like saying Red Cross and I won’t feel like lying.”

He pushed the dough away from him, to the other edge of the desk, toward me. “You brought him into this house.”

“It’s your house, and you fed him cookies.”

That left it hanging. Wolfe picked up his current book from the other end of his desk, opened to his place, swiveled and maneuvered his seventh of a ton to a comfortable position, and started reading. I went to my desk and sat, and pretended to go over yesterday’s reports from Saul and Fred and Orrie while I considered the situation. Somewhat later I pulled the typewriter around, put in paper, and hit the keys. The first draft had some flaws, which I corrected, and then typed it again on a fresh sheet. That time I thought it would do. I turned to face Wolfe and announced, “I have a suggestion.”

He finished his paragraph, which must have been a long one, before glancing at me. “Well?”

“We’re stuck with this dough and have to do something with it. You may remember that you told Pete that the point is not so much to earn a fee as it is to feel that you earned it. I should think you would feel you earned this one if you blow it all on an ad in the paper reading something like this:

“Woman with spider earrings and scratch on cheek who on Tuesday, driving a car, told boy at Thirty-fifth Street and Ninth Avenue to get a cop, please communicate with Nero Wolfe at address in phone book.”

I slid the paper across his desk to him. “In the Times the fee might not quite cover it, but I’ll be glad to toss in a buck or two. I regard it as brilliant. It will spend Pete’s money on Pete. It will make Cramer and Stebbins sore, and Stebbins has it coming to him. And since there’s not one chance in a million that it will get a nibble, it won’t expose you to the risk of any work or involvement. Last but not least, it will get your name in the paper. What do you say?”

He picked up the sheet and glanced over it with his nose turned up. “Very well,” he agreed grumpily. “I hope to heaven this has taught you a lesson.”

Chapter 3

The hardware manufacturer’s son was finally spotted and corralled the next day, Thursday afternoon. Since that was a hush operation for more reasons than one — to show you how hush, he wasn’t a hardware manufacturer and he wasn’t from Youngstown — I can supply no details. But I make one remark. If Wolfe felt that he earned the fee he soaked that bird for, no ego was ever put to a severer test.

So Thursday was a little hectic, with no spare time for consideration of the question whether, if we had taken a different slant on the case Pete had come to share with us, Pete might still be breathing. In the detective business there are plenty of occasions for that kind of consideration, and while there is no percentage in letting it get you down, it doesn’t hurt to take time out now and then for some auditing.

It had been too late Wednesday night to get the ad in for Thursday. Friday morning I had to grin at myself a couple of times. When I went down the two flights from my bedroom and entered the kitchen, the first thing I did after greeting Fritz was to turn to the ads in the Times for a look at ours. That rated a grin. It meant nothing, either professionally or personally, since the chance of getting an answer was even slimmer than my estimate of one in a million. The second grin came later, when I was dealing with corn muffins and sausage — Fritz having taken Wolfe’s breakfast tray up to him according to schedule — with the Times in front of me on the rack, and the phone rang and I nearly knocked my chair over getting up to go for it. It was not someone answering the ad. Some guy on Long Island wanted to know if we could let him have three plants in bloom of Vanda caerulea. I told him we didn’t sell plants, and anyway that Vandas didn’t bloom in May.

But Pete’s case was brought to us again before noon, though not by way of the ad. Wolfe had just got down to the office from the plant rooms and settled himself at his desk for a look at the morning mail when the doorbell rang. Going to the hall and seeing the ringer through the one-way panel, I had no need to proceed to the door to ask him what he wanted. That customer always wanted to see Wolfe, and his arriving on the dot of eleven made it certain.

I turned and told Wolfe, “Inspector Cramer.”

He scowled at me. “What does he want?” Childish again.

“Shall I ask him?”

“Yes. No. Very well.”

I went and let him in. From the way he grunted a greeting, if it could be called a greeting, and from the expression on his face, he had not come to give Wolfe a medal. Cramer’s big red face and burly figure never inspire a feeling of good-fellowship, but he had his ups and downs, and that morning he was not up. He preceded me to the office, gave Wolfe the twin of the greeting he had given me, lowered himself into the red leather chair, and aimed a cold stare at Wolfe. Wolfe returned it.

“Why did you put that ad in the paper?” Cramer demanded.

Wolfe turned away from him and fingered in the little stack of papers on his desk that had just been removed from envelopes. “Archie,” he said, “this letter from Jordan is farcical. He knows quite well that I do not use Brassavolas in tri-generic crosses. He doesn’t deserve an answer, but he’ll get one. Your notebook. ‘Dear Mr. Jordan. I am aware that you have had ill success with—’”

“Save it,” Cramer rasped. “Okay. Putting an ad in the paper is not a felony, but I asked a civil question.”

“No,” Wolfe said with finality. “Civil?”

“Then put it your way. You know what I want to know. How do you want me to ask it?”

“I would first have to be told why you want to know.”

“Because I think you’re covering something or somebody that’s connected with a homicide. Which has been known to happen. From what you told Stebbins yesterday, you have no interest in the killing of that boy, and you have no client. Then you wouldn’t spend a bent nickel on it, not you, and you certainly wouldn’t start an inquiry that might make you use up energy. I might have asked you flat, who’s your client, but no, I stick to the simple fact why did you run that ad. If that’s not civil, civilize it and then tell me.”

Wolfe took in a long-drawn sigh and let it out. “Archie. Tell him, please.”

I obliged. It didn’t take long, since he already had Purley’s report, and I had merely to explain how we had decided to disburse Pete’s money, to which I had added $1.85 of my own. Meanwhile Cramer’s hard gray eyes were leveled at me. I had often had to meet those eyes and stall or cover or dodge, so they didn’t bother me any when I was merely handing it over straight.

When he had asked a couple of questions and had been answered, he moved the eyes to Wolfe and inquired abruptly, “Have you ever seen or heard of a man named Matthew Birch?”

“Yes,” Wolfe said shortly.

“Oh. You have.” A gleam showed in the gray eyes for a fraction of a second. If I hadn’t known them so well I wouldn’t have caught it. “I intend to make this civil. Would you mind telling me when and where?”

“No. In the Gazette day before yesterday, Wednesday. As you know, I never leave this house on business, and leave it as seldom as may be for anything whatever, and I depend on newspapers and the radio to keep me informed of the concerns and activities of my fellow beings. As reported, the body of a man named Matthew Birch was found late Tuesday night — or Wednesday, rather, around three A.M. — in a cobbled alley alongside a South Street pier. It was thought that a car had run over him.”

“Yeah. I’ll try to frame this right. Except for newspaper or radio items connected with his death, had or have you ever seen or heard of him?”

“Not under that name.”

“Damn it, under any name?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Have you any reason to suppose or suspect that the man found dead in that alley was someone you had ever seen or heard of in any connection whatever?”

“That’s more like it,” Wolfe said approvingly. “That should settle it. The answer is no. May I ask one? Have you any reason to suppose or suspect that the answer should be yes?”

Cramer didn’t reply. He tilted his head until his chin touched the knot of his tie, pursed his lips, regarded me for a long moment, and then went back to Wolfe. He spoke. “This is why I came. With the message the boy sent you by his mother, and the way the car jumped him from a standstill and then tore off, already it didn’t look like any accident, and now there are complications, and when I find complicated trouble and you even remotely involved I want to know exactly where and how you got on — and where you get off.”

“I asked about reasons, not about animus.”

“There’s no animus. Here’s the complication. The car that killed the boy was found yesterday morning, with that floater Connecticut plate still on it, parked up on One hundred and eighty-sixth Street. Laboratory men worked on it all day. They cinched it that it killed the boy, but not only that, underneath it, caught tight where an axle joins a rod, they found a piece of cloth the size of a man’s hand. That piece of cloth was the flap torn from the jacket which was on the body of Matthew Birch when it was found. The laboratory is looking for further evidence that it was that car that killed Birch, but I’m no hog and I don’t need it. Do you?”

Wolfe was patient. “For a working hypothesis, if I were working on it, no.”

“That’s the point. You are working on it. You put that ad in.”

Wolfe’s head wagged slowly from side to side to punctuate his civilized forbearance. “I’ll stipulate,” he conceded, “that I am capable of flummery, that I have on occasion gulled and hoaxed you, but you know I eschew the crudeness of an explicit lie. I tell you that the facts we have given you in this matter are guileless and complete, that I have no client connected with it in any way, and that I am not engaged in it and do not intend to be. I certainly agree—”

The phone ringing stopped him. I got it at my desk. “Nero Wolfe’s office, Archie Goodwin speaking.”

“May I speak to Mr. Wolfe, please?” The voice was low, nervous, and feminine.

“I’ll see if he’s available. Your name?”

“He wouldn’t know my name. I want to see him — it’s about his advertisement in the Times this morning. I want to make an appointment with him.”

I kept it casual. “I handle his appointments. May I have your name, please?”

“I’d rather — when I come. Could I come at twelve o’clock?”

“Hold the wire a minute.” I consulted my desk calendar, turning to a page for next week. “Yes, that’ll be all right if you’re punctual. You have the address?”

She said she did. I hung up and turned to report to Wolfe. “A character who probably wants to look at the orchids. I’ll handle it as usual.”

He resumed to Cramer. “I certainly agree that the evidence that the boy and Matthew Birch were killed by the same car is a noteworthy complication, but actually that should make it simpler for you. Even though the license plate is useless, surely you can trace the car itself.”

Cramer’s expression had reverted to the cold stare he had started with. “I have never had any notion,” he stated, “that you are a crude liar. I have never seen you crude.” He arose. In Wolfe’s presence he always made a point of getting upright from a chair with the leverage of his leg muscles only, because Wolfe used hands and arms. “No,” he said, “not crude,” and turned and marched out.

I went to the hall to see the door close behind him and then returned to the office and my desk.

“The letter to Mr. Jordan,” Wolfe instructed me.

“Yes, sir.” I got my notebook. “First, though, I still say it was one in a million, but the one turned up this time. That was a woman on the phone about the ad. No name, and I didn’t want to press her with company present. She made an appointment for noon today.”

“With whom?”

“You.”

His lips tightened. He released them. “Archie. This is insufferable.”

“I know damn well it is. But considering that Cramer wasn’t being civilized, I thought it might be satisfactory to have a little chat with her before phoning him to come and get her.” I glanced up at the wall clock. “She’ll be here in twenty minutes — if she comes.”

He grunted. “‘Dear Mr. Jordan...’”

Chapter 4

She came. She was much more ornamental in the red leather chair than Inspector Cramer, or, for that matter, most of the thousands of tenants I had seen in it, but she sure was nervous. At the door, after I opened it and invited her in, I thought she was going to turn and scoot, and so did she, but she finally made her legs take her over the sill and let me conduct her to the office.

The scratch on her left cheek, on a slant down toward the corner of her mouth, was faint but noticeable on her smooth fair skin, and it was no wonder that Pete, looking straight at her face, had taken in the spider earrings. I agreed with him that they were gold, and they were fully as noticeable as the scratch. In spite of the scratch and the earrings and the jerky nervousness, on her the red leather chair looked good. She was about my age, which was not ideal, but I have nothing against maturity if it isn’t overdone.

When Wolfe asked her, not too grumpily, what he could do for her, she opened her bag and got out two pieces of paper. The bag was of soft green suede, the same as the jacket she wore over a dark green woolen dress, and also the cocky little pancake tilted to one side of her head. It was an ensemble if I ever saw one.

“This,” she said, “is just a clipping of your advertisement.” She returned it to the bag. “This is a check made out to you for five hundred dollars.”

“May I see it, please?”

“I don’t — not yet. It has my name on it.”

“So I would guess.”

“I want to ask you — some things before I give you my name.”

“What things?”

“Well, I — about the boy. The boy I asked to get a cop.” Her voice wouldn’t have been bad at all, in fact I might have liked it, if it hadn’t been so jumpy. She was getting more nervous instead of less. “I want to see him. Will you arrange for me to see him? Or it would be — just give me his name and address. I think perhaps that would be enough for the five hundred dollars — I know you charge high. Or I might want — but first tell me that.”

Wolfe invariably kept his eyes, when they were open, directly at the person he was talking to, but it had struck me that he was giving this visitor a specially keen inspection. He turned to me. “Archie. Please look closely at the scratch on her cheek.”

I got up to obey. She had alternatives: sit and let me look, cover her face with her hands, or get up and go; but before she had time to choose I was there, bending over, with my eyes only a foot from her face.

She started to say something, then checked it as I straightened up and told Wolfe, “Made with something with a fine sharp point. It could have been a needle, but more likely a small scissors point.”

“When?”

“The best guess is today, but it could have been yesterday I suppose. Not possibly three days ago.” I stayed beside her.

“This is impudent!” she blurted. She left the chair. “I’m glad I didn’t tell you my name!” She couldn’t sweep out without sweeping through me.

“Nonsense.” Wolfe was curt. “You couldn’t possibly have imposed on me, even without the evidence of the scratch, unless you had been superlatively coached. Describe the boy. Describe the other occupants of the car. What time did it happen? What did the boy say? Exactly what did he do? And so on. As for your name, that is no longer in your discretion. Mr. Goodwin takes your bag, by force if necessary, and examines its contents. If you complain, we are two to one. Sit down, madam.”

“This is contemptible!”

“No. It’s our justifiable reaction to your attempt to humbug us. You are not under duress, but if you go you leave your name behind. Sit down and we’ll discuss it, but first the name.”

She may have been over-optimistic to think she could breeze into Nero Wolfe’s office and fool him, but she wasn’t a fool. She stood surveying the situation, all signs of nervousness gone, came to a conclusion, opened her bag, and got out an object which she displayed to Wolfe. “My driving license.”

He took it and gave it a look and handed it back to her, and she seated herself. “I’m Laura Fromm,” she said, “Mrs. Damon Fromm. I am a widow. My New York residence is at Seven-forty-three East Sixty-eighth Street. Tuesday, driving a car on Thirty-fifth Street, I told a boy to get a cop. I gathered from your advertisement that you can direct me to the boy, and I will pay you for it.”

“So you don’t admit this is an imposture.”

“Certainly not.”

“What time of day was it?”

“That’s not important.”

“What was the boy doing when you spoke to him?”

“Neither is that.”

“How far away was the boy when you spoke to him, and how loudly did you shout?”

She shook her head. “I’m not going to answer any questions about it. Why should I?”

“But you maintain that you were driving the car and told the boy to get a cop?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re in a pickle. The police want to question you about a murder. On Wednesday a car ran over the boy and killed him. Intentionally.”

She gawked. “What?”

“It was the same car. The one you were driving Tuesday when the boy spoke to you.”

She opened her mouth and closed it. Then she got words out. “I don’t believe it.”

“You will. The police will explain to you how they know it was the same car. There’s no question about it, Mrs. Fromm.”

“I mean the whole thing — you’re making it up. This is — worse than contemptible.”

Wolfe’s head moved. “Archie, get yesterday’s Times.”

I went for it to the shelf where the papers are kept until they’re a week old. Opening it to page eight and folding it, I crossed and handed it to Laura Fromm. Her hand was shaking a little as she took it, and to steady it while she read she called on the other hand to help hold it.

She took plenty of time for the reading. When her eyes lifted, Wolfe said, “There is nothing there to indicate that Peter Drossos was the boy you had accosted on Tuesday, but you don’t need to take my word for that. The police will tell you about it.”

Her eyes darted back and forth, from Wolfe to me and back again, and then settled on me. “I want — could I have some gin?”

She had let the newspaper drop to the floor. I picked it up and asked, “Straight?”

“That will do. Or a Gibson?”

“Onion?”

“No. No, thank you. But double?”

I went to the kitchen for the ingredients and ice. As I stirred I was thinking that if she was hoping for any cooperation from Wolfe it was too bad she had asked for gin, since in his book all gin drinkers were barbarians. That was probably why, when I took the tray in and put it on the little table beside her chair, he was leaning back with his eyes closed. I poured and served. First she swigged it, then had a few sips, and then swigged again. Meanwhile she kept her eyes lowered, presumably to keep me from looking in through them to watch her mind work.

Finally she emptied the glass the second time, put it on the tray and spoke. “A man was driving the car when it struck the boy.”

Wolfe opened his eyes. “The tray, Archie?”

The smell of gin, especially with lunch only half an hour away, was of course repulsive. I took the vile object to the kitchen and returned.

“... but though that isn’t conclusive,” Wolfe was saying, “since in a man’s clothes you could pass for a man if you avoided scrutiny, I admit it is relevant. Anyhow, I am not assuming that you killed the boy. I tell you merely that by being drawn to me by that advertisement, and coming rigged in those earrings and that bogus scratch, you have put your foot in it, and if you stick to it that you were driving that car on Tuesday you will have fully qualified as a feeble-minded donkey.”

“I wasn’t.”

“That’s better. Where were you Tuesday afternoon from six-thirty to seven?”

“At a meeting of the Executive Committee of the Association for the Aid of Displaced Persons. It lasted until after seven. It was one of the causes my husband was interested in, and I am going on with it.”

“Where were you Wednesday afternoon from six-thirty to seven?”

“What has that — oh. The boy was — yes. That was day before yesterday.” She paused, not for long. “I was having cocktails at the Churchill with a friend.”

“The friend’s name, please?”

“This is ridiculous.”

“I know it is. Almost as ridiculous as that scratch on your cheek.”

“The friend’s name is Dennis Horan. A lawyer.”

Wolfe nodded. “Even so you are in for some disagreeable hours. I doubt if you have been willfully implicated in murder. I have had some experience watching faces, and I don’t think your shock on hearing of the boy’s death was feigned; but you’d better get your mind arranged. You’re going to get it. Not from me. I don’t ask why you tried this masquerade, because I’m not concerned, but the police will be insistent about it. I won’t attempt to hold you here for them; you may go. You will hear from them.”

Her eyes were brighter and her chin was higher. It doesn’t take gin long to get in a kick. “I don’t have to hear from them,” she said with assurance. “Why do I?”

“Because they’ll want to know why you came here.”

“I mean why do you have to tell them?”