When the door finally opened, and a visitor entered it wasn’t Inspector Cramer. It was Lieutenant Rowcliff, whose murder I will not have to premeditate when I get around to it because I have already done the premeditating. There are not many murderers so vicious and inhuman that I would enjoy seeing them caught by Rowcliff. He jerked a chair around to sit facing me and said with oily satisfaction, “At last we’ve got you, by God.”
That set the tone of the interview.
I would enjoy recording in full that two-hour session with Rowcliff, but it would sound like bragging, and therefore I don’t suppose you would enjoy it too. His biggest handicap is that when he gets irritated to a certain point he can’t help stuttering, and I’m onto him enough to tell when he’s just about there, and then I start stuttering before he does. Even with a close watch and careful timing it takes luck to do it right, and that evening I was lucky. He came closer than ever before to plugging me, but didn’t, because he wants to be a captain so bad he can taste it and he’s not absolutely sure that Wolfe hasn’t got a solid in with the Commissioner or the Mayor or possibly Grover Whalen himself.
Cramer never showed up, and that added another resentment to my healthy pile. I knew he had been to see Wolfe, because when they had finally let me make my phone call, around eight o’clock, and I had got Wolfe and started to tell him about it, he had interrupted me in a voice as cold as an Eskimo’s nose.
“I know where you are and how you got there. Mr. Cramer is here. I have phoned Mr. Parker, but it’s too late to do anything tonight. Have you had anything to eat?”
“No, sir. I’m afraid of poison and I’m on a hunger strike.”
“You should eat something. Mr. Cramer is worse than a jackass, he’s demented. I intend to persuade him, if possible, of the desirability of releasing you at once.”
He hung up.
When, shortly after eleven, Rowcliff called it off and I was shown to my room, there had been no sign of Cramer. The room was in no way remarkable, merely what was to be expected in a structure of that type, but it was fairly clean, strongly scented with disinfectant, and was in a favorable location since the nearest corridor light was six paces away and therefore did not glare through the bars of my door. Also it was a single, which I appreciated. Alone at last, away from telephones and other interruptions, I undressed and arranged my gray pinstripe on the chair, draped my shirt over the end of the blankets, got in, stretched, and settled down for a complete survey of the complications. But my brain and nerves had other plans, and in twenty seconds I was asleep.
In the morning there was a certain amount of activity, with the check-off and a trip to the lavatory and breakfast, but after that I had more privacy than I really cared for. My watch had slowed down. I tested the second hand by counting, with no decisive result. By noon I would almost have welcomed a visit from Rowcliff and was beginning to suspect that someone had lost a paper and there was no record of me anywhere and everyone was too busy to stop and think. Lunch, which I will not describe, broke the monotony some, but then, back in my room, I was alone with my wristwatch. For the tenth time I decided to spread all the pieces out, sort them, and have a look at the picture as it had been drawn to date, and for the tenth time it got so damn jumbled that I couldn’t make first base, let alone on around.
At 1:09 my door swung open and the floorwalker, a chunky short guy with only half an ear on the right side, told me to come along. I went willingly, on out of the block to an elevator, and along a ground-floor corridor to an office. There I was pleased to see the tall lanky figure and long pale face of Henry George Parker, the only lawyer Wolfe would admit to the bar if he had the say. He came to shake my hand and said he’d have me out of there in a minute now.
“No rush,” I said stiffly. “Don’t let it interfere with anything important.”
He laughed, haw-haw, and took me inside the gate. All the formalities but one which required my presence had already been attended to, and he made good on his minute. On the way up in the taxi he explained why I had been left to rot until past noon. Getting bail on the Sullivan Act charge had been simple, but I had also been tagged with a material witness warrant, and the DA had asked the judge to put it at fifty grand! He had been stubborn about it, and the best Parker could do was talk it down to twenty, and he had had to report back to Wolfe before closing the deal. I was not to leave the jurisdiction. As the taxi crossed Thirty-fourth Street I looked west across the river. I had never cared much for New Jersey, but now the idea of driving through the tunnel and on among the billboards seemed attractive.
I preceded Parker up the stoop at the old brownstone on West Thirty-fifth, used my key but found that the chain bolt was on, which was normal but not invariable when I was out of the house, and had to push the button. Fritz Brenner, chef and house manager, let us in and stood while we disposed of our coats and hats.
“Are you all right, Archie?” he inquired.
“No,” I said frankly. “Don’t you smell me?”
As we went down the hall Wolfe appeared, coming from the door to the dining room. He stopped and regarded me. I returned his gaze with my chin up.
“I’ll go up and rinse off,” I said, “while you’re finishing lunch.”
“I’ve finished,” he said grimly. “Have you eaten?”
“Enough to hold me.”
“Then we’ll get started.”
He marched into the office, across the hall from the dining room, went to his oversized chair behind his desk, sat, and got himself adjusted for comfort. Parker took the red leather chair. As I crossed to my desk I started talking, to get the jump on him.
“It will help,” I said, not aggressively but pointedly, “if we first get it settled about my leaving that room with my gun there in the drawer. I do not—”
“Shut up!” Wolfe snapped.
“In that case,” I demanded, “why didn’t you leave me in the coop? I’ll go back and—”
“Sit down!”
I sat.
“I deny,” he said, “that you were in the slightest degree imprudent. Even if you were, this has transcended such petty considerations.” He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk. “This is a letter which came yesterday from a Mrs. E. R. Baumgarten. She wants me to investigate the activities of a nephew who is employed by the business she owns. I wish to reply. Your notebook.”
He was using what I call his conclusive tone, leaving no room for questions, let alone argument. I got my notebook and pen.
“Dear Mrs. Baumgarten.” He went at it as if he had already composed it in his mind. “Thank you very much for your letter of the thirteenth, requesting me to undertake an investigation for you. Paragraph. I am sorry that I cannot be of service to you. I am compelled to decline because I have been informed by an official of the New York Police Department that my license to operate a private detective agency is about to be taken away from me. Sincerely yours.”
Parker ejaculated something and got ignored. I stayed deadpan, but among my emotions was renewed regret that I had missed Wolfe’s and Cramer’s talk.
Wolfe was saying, “Type it at once and send Fritz to mail it. If any requests for appointments come by telephone refuse them, giving the reason and keeping a record.”
“The reason given in the letter?”
“Yes.”
I swiveled the typewriter to me, got paper and carbon in, and hit the keys. I had to concentrate. This was Cramer’s farthest north. Parker was asking questions, and Wolfe was grunting at him. I finished the letter and envelope, had Wolfe sign it, went to the kitchen and told Fritz to take it to Eighth Avenue immediately, and returned to the office.
“Now,” Wolfe said, “I want all of it. Go ahead.”
Ordinarily when I start giving Wolfe a full report of an event, no matter how extended and involved, I just glide in and keep going with no effort at all, thanks to my long and hard training. That time, having just got a severe jolt, I wasn’t so hot at the beginning, since I was supposed to i
nclude every word and movement, but by the time I had got to where I opened the window it was coming smooth and easy, As usual, Wolfe soaked it all in without making any interruptions.
It took all of an hour and a half, and then came questions, but not many. I rate a report by the number of questions he has when I’m through, and by that test this was up toward the top. Wolfe leaned back and closed his eyes.
Parker spoke. “It could have been any of them, but it must have been Koven. Or why his string of lies, knowing that you and Goodwin would both contradict him?” The lawyer haw-hawed. “That is, if they’re lies—considering your settled policy of telling your counselor only what you think he should know.”
“Pfui.” Wolfe’s eyes came open. “This is extraordinarily intricate, Archie. Have you examined it any?”
“I’ve started. When I pick at it, it gets worse instead of better.”
“Yes. I’m afraid you’ll have to type it out. By eleven tomorrow morning?”
“I guess so, but I need a bath first. Anyway, what for? What can we do with it without a license? I suppose it’s suspended?”
He ignored it. “What the devil is that smell?” he demanded.
“Disinfectant. It’s for the bloodhounds in case you escape.” I arose. “I’ll go scrub.”
“No.” He glanced at the wall clock, which said 3:45—fifteen minutes to go until he was due to join Theodore and the orchids up on the roof. “An errand first. I believe it’s the Gazette that carries the Dazzle Dan comic strip?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Daily and Sunday?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want all of them for the past three years. Can you get them?”
“I can try.”
“Do so.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Wait a minute—confound it, don’t be a cyclone! You should hear my instructions for Mr. Parker, but first one for you. Mail Mr. Koven a bill for recovery of his gun, five hundred dollars. It should go today.”
“Any extras, under the circumstances?”
“No. Five hundred flat.” Wolfe turned to the lawyer. “Mr. Parker, how long will it take to enter a suit for damages and serve a summons on the defendant?”
“That depends.” Parker sounded like a lawyer. “If it’s rushed all possible and there are no unforeseen obstacles and the defendant is accessible for service, it could be merely a matter of hours.”
“By noon tomorrow?”
“Quite possibly, yes.”
“Then proceed, please. Mr. Koven has destroyed, by slander, my means of livelihood. I wish to bring an action demanding payment by him of the sum of one million dollars.”
“M-m-m-m,” Parker said. He was frowning.
I addressed Wolfe. “I want to apologize,” I told him, “for jumping to a conclusion. I was supposing you had lost control for once and buried it too deep in Cramer. Whereas you did it purposely, getting set for this. I’ll be damned.”
Wolfe grunted.
“In this sort of thing,” Parker said, “it is usual, and desirable, to first send a written request for recompense, by your attorney if you prefer. It looks better.”
“I don’t care how it looks. I want immediate action.”
“Then we’ll act.” That was one of the reasons Wolfe stuck to Parker; he was no dilly-dallier. “But I must ask, isn’t the sum a little flamboyant? A full million?”
“It is not flamboyant. At a hundred thousand a year, a modest expectation, my income would be a million in ten years. A detective license once lost in this fashion is not easily regained.”
“All right. A million. I’ll need all the facts for drafting a complaint.”
“You have them. You’ve just heard Archie recount them. Must you stickle for more?”
“No. I’ll manage.” Parker got to his feet. “One thing, though, service of process may be a problem. Policemen may still be around, and even if they aren’t I doubt if strangers will be getting into that house tomorrow.”
“Archie will send Saul Panzer to you. Saul can get in anywhere and do anything.” Wolfe wiggled a finger. “I want Mr. Koven to get that. I want to see him in this room. Five times this morning I tried to get him on the phone, without success. If that doesn’t get him I’ll devise something that will.”
“He’ll give it to his attorney.”
“Then the attorney will come, and if he’s not an imbecile I’ll give myself thirty minutes to make him send for his client or go and get him. Well?”
Parker turned and left, not loitering. I got at the typewriter to make out a bill for half a grand, which seemed like a waste of paper after what I had just heard.
VI
AT MIDNIGHT that Tuesday the office was a sight. It has often been a mess, one way and another, including the time the strangled Cynthia Brown was lying on the floor with her tongue protruding, but this was something new. Dazzle Dan, both black-and-white and color, was all over the place. On account of our shortage in manpower, with me tied up on my typing job, Fritz and Theodore had been drafted for the chore of tearing out the pages and stacking them chronologically, ready for Wolfe to study. With Wolfe’s permission, I had bribed Lon Cohen of the Gazette to have three years of Dazzle Dan assembled and delivered to us, by offering him an exclusive. Naturally he demanded specifications.
“Nothing much,” I told him on the phone. “Only that Nero Wolfe is out of the detective business because Inspector Cramer is taking away his license.”
“Quite a gag,” Lon conceded.
“No gag. Straight.”
“You mean it?”
“We’re offering it for publication. Exclusive, unless Cramer’s office spills it, and I don’t think they will.”
“The Getz murder?”
“Yes. Only a couple of paragraphs, because details are not yet available, even to you. I’m out on bail.”
“I know you are. This is pie. We’ll raid the files and get it over there as soon as we can.”
He hung up without pressing for details. Of course that meant he would send Dazzle Dan COD, with a reporter. When the reporter arrived a couple of hours later, shortly after Wolfe had come down from the plant rooms at six o’clock, it wasn’t just a man with a notebook, it was Lon Cohen himself. He came to the office with me, dumped a big heavy carton on the floor by my desk, removed his coat and dropped it on the carton to show that Dazzle Dan was his property until paid for, and demanded, “I want the works. What Wolfe said and what Cramer said. A picture of Wolfe studying Dazzle Dan—”
I pushed him into a chair, courteously, and gave him all we were ready to turn loose of. Naturally that wasn’t enough; it never is. I let him fire questions up to a dozen or so, even answering one or two, and then made it clear that that was all for now and I had work to do. He admitted it was a bargain, stuck his notebook in his pocket, and got up and picked up his coat.
“If you’re not in a hurry, Mr. Cohen,” muttered Wolfe, who had left the interview to me.
Lon dropped the coat and sat down. “I have nineteen years, Mr. Wolfe. Before I retire.”
“I won’t detain you that long.” Wolfe sighed. “I am no longer a detective, but I’m a primate and therefore curious. The function of a newspaperman is to satisfy curiosity. Who killed Mr. Getz?”
Lon’s brows went up. “Archie Goodwin? It was his gun.”
“Nonsense. I’m quite serious. Also I’m discreet. I am excluded from the customary sources of information by the jackassery of Mr. Cramer. I—”
“May I print that?”
“No. None of this. Nor shall I quote you. This is a private conversation. I would like to know what your colleagues are saying but not printing. Who killed Mr. Getz? Miss Lowell? If so, why?”
Lon pulled his lower lip down and let it up again. “You mean we’re just talking.”
“Yes.”
“This might possibly lead to another talk that could be printed.”
“It might. I make no commitment.” Wolfe wasn’t eager.
“You wouldn’t. As for Miss Lowell, she has not been scratched. It is said that Getz learned she was chiseling on royalties from makers of Dazzle Dan products and intended to hang it on her. That could have been big money.”
“Any names or dates?”
“None that are repeatable. By me. Yet.”
“Any evidence?”
“I haven’t seen any.”
Wolfe grunted. “Mr. Hildebrand. If so, why?”
“That’s shorter and sadder. He has told friends about it. He has been with Koven for eight years and was told last week he could leave at the end of the month, and he blamed it on Getz. He might or might not get another job at his age.”
Wolfe nodded. “Mr. Jordan?”
Lon hesitated. “This I don’t like, but others are talking, so why not us? They say Jordan has painted some pictures, modern stuff, and twice he has tried to get a gallery to show them, two different galleries, and both times Getz has somehow kiboshed it. This has names and dates, but whether because Getz was born a louse or whether he wanted to keep Jordan—”
“I’ll do my own speculating, thank you. Mr. Getz may not have liked the pictures. Mr. Koven?”
Lon turned a hand over. “Well? What better could you ask? Getz had him buffaloed, no doubt about it. Getz ruled the roost, plenty of evidence on that, and nobody knows why, so the only question is what he had on Koven. It must have been good, but what was it? You say this is a private conversation?”
“Yes.”
“Then here’s something we got started on just this afternoon. It has to be checked before we print it. That house on Seventy-sixth Street is in Getz’s name.”
“Indeed.” Wolfe shut his eyes and opened them again. “And Mrs. Koven?”
Lon turned his other hand over. “Husband and wife are one, aren’t they?”
“Yes. Man and wife make one fool.”
Lon’s chin jerked up. “I want to print that. Why not?”
“It was printed more than three hundred years ago. Ben Jonson wrote it.” Wolfe sighed. “Confound it, what can I do with only a few scraps?” He pointed at the carton. “You want that stuff back, I suppose?”
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