by Josh Pachter
“Nero Wolfe will be paid,” Sir Lawrence cut me off. “Good night, Mr. Goodwin. If you need anything, ring for William.”
I left the room and heard him turn the key in the lock and secure the deadbolt. I went back to the sitting room, where Isabella was chatting with the reverend.
“Not what I’d call a cheerful evening,” I observed.
“The Saunderses are afraid of Mr. Wolfe,” Isabella said, “and John’s gone to bed.”
The reverend murmured something about the Good Lord punishing the wicked, and got to his feet. And it was at that moment that William showed up, livid and trembling.
“What’s eating you?” I said.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” William spluttered, “but someone has stolen the potato masher.”
A little after midnight, I crept into the hallway, resolved to catch the mysterious burglar. I was keeping an open mind: Had we been hoodwinked, or was some unknown person hiding out in the mansion? A creak, not far off, suggested that the second hypothesis was likely the correct one. I stuck my hand in my pocket and tiptoed toward the kitchen, partly illuminated by a single moonbeam. He was there, I was sure of it. I could hear him breathing as he searched the pantry. Then he brandished a bottle, uncorked it with the ease of a jazz trumpeter launching into an improvisation, and, head tilted back, performed a piece that must have been difficult, judging by the motion of his Adam’s apple. Moonlight hit his face, revealing his identity.
“Cheers,” I said, my voice hollow.
The reverend choked, then bent double to catch his breath, as I took the bottle of liquor from his hands.
“Praise God,” he spluttered.
“Interesting way to do it,” I observed. “What are you doing here?”
“Er—the things that have disappeared—I thought I would search the office.”
“Sure you did. You didn’t help disappear the sherry, by any chance?”
The reverend said something from Ecclesiastes. I was about to reply with a little something from 1 Kings when a harsh light came on in the sitting room.
“Quick,” I whispered, “find a place to hide.” The breadbox was too small, the pantry too full, so we had no choice. I pushed the reverend into the refrigerator, which was huge, and slid in behind him, pulling the door after me, careful not to close it all the way. This observation post was well chosen though chilly, and I was daydreaming of fishing for walrus on an ice floe when a faint sound from outside signaled that danger was near.
“Don’t make a sound,” I whispered.
“I beg your pardon?” the reverend exclaimed.
“Hush!”
I could hear two voices in the kitchen, quietly conversing. The pastor stirred behind me and sighed.
“They’re not leaving,” I whispered.
“My head is on fire,” he moaned.
“That’s the price you pay, padre. Patience!” I glued my eye to the gap. “One of them’s a guy,” I said.
The reverend, wanting to see for himself, moved awkwardly and bumped loudly into some refrigerated object, which startled the pair outside. There was a sharp scream, and the guy swore, and then they were gone.
“What are they doing?” the pastor demanded.
“They were kissing,” I grumbled, and the reverend crossed himself and whispered an allusion to Sodom and celestial fire, which did nothing to warm up the atmosphere.
So, young Saunders had a secret appointment with Isabella. Though I’d recognized him, I hadn’t seen her face. But that scream—that had been Isabella’s voice, no doubt about it! So, were they the thieves? If sherry was their cordial of choice, a cheese would have been an appropriate snack, but where did a potato masher fit in? I left the protective coolness of our hiding place, scratching my head, and the reverend followed me. I figured I’d better have a little chat with Isabella.
“Wait for me in the sitting room,” I told the pastor and, once he was out of sight, I took a turn at the bottle and played myself a tune. It was bourbon, the good stuff. Reinvigorated, I prepared to go on the offensive.
But at that moment, a sort of rattle came from the sitting room. I got there in three steps.
“The—” the reverend stammered. “The—”
I’ll be damned if the mansion’s ghost wasn’t frolicking right there on the carpet. It was a dirty white, standard-issue spirit. It floated left and right, knocking over furniture with a brutality that contradicted its apparently immaterial nature. A voice, more wrathful than sepulchral, issued from the depths of its snowy ectoplasm.
“It must be the attic ghost,” the pastor spluttered. “Hallway ghosts are smaller.”
“Actually, I think it’s an underground ghost,” I said. “I base that on the cursing.”
While the reverend recited a prayer for the relief of souls in pain, I switched on the lights. Before us stood a figure entangled in the off-white piano cover, which some prankster had seen fit to toss over his shoulders, enfolding him in fabric. We helped the man untangle himself.
“Billy,” the reverend said.
Young Saunders, clenching his fists, marched up to me.
“Was it you,” he groaned, “who dreamed up this little trick?”
“No,” I said, “it was the reverend. He did the same thing to me just now for a laugh. But what, I ask myself, were you doing down here at one in the morning, anyway, all dressed up for the city?”
“I was thirsty,” Billy said. “I came downstairs to get a drink, and someone attacked me.”
“You didn’t see anyone between your bedroom and the sitting room?”
Young Saunders reddened. “No.”
“And when you get thirsty in the middle of the night, you get dressed, complete with a collar and tie, before coming downstairs?”
“Do I have to explain myself to you?”
“To me? No. But maybe, in a little while, the cops will take an interest.”
He blanched and turned to the pastor, frightened.
“What’s going on? Did something happen to Sir Lawrence?”
“That’s an interesting thought,” I said. “Let’s go see.”
We reassured ourselves that Sir Lawrence was sleeping peacefully, since we could hear through his bedroom door a concert of snoring so perfectly chromatic I was sorry I couldn’t record it for the symphony crowd.
“Satisfied?” Billy scowled. “Do you mind if I get my drink now?”
“Mind? Not me. I just think you people are a little too thirsty around here. Good night, fellas.”
I left them, and, just before I re-entered my bedroom, I heard the reverend cry, “I swear it wasn’t me!” Then the two of them drifted off toward the kitchen.
I was awakened at nine o’clock by a pounding on my door.
“Mr. Goodwin, come quickly.” I recognized William’s voice. “It’s Sir Lawrence.”
I jumped into my dressing gown and opened up. William was so upset he could barely explain himself.
“I called for him,” he said, “but there was no response. I’m frightened.”
I went into Wolfe’s bedroom.
“Ah, Archie,” Wolfe groaned. “Is the car ready?”
He had just finished packing. His suitcase, neatly buckled, lay on one of the two armchairs.
“Look, boss. If I was to tell you the old man might be dead—”
“I would not be surprised,” Wolfe said somberly. “Poisoned, no doubt, by his miserable ham and kidneys. The devil can have him!”
“Yeah, sure. But, speaking of the devil, I saw the famous ghost.”
Since Wolfe is incapable of tying his tie by himself, I brought him up to speed while tweaking a splendid knot around his neck.
“Go, Archie,” Wolfe ordered, “and make the necessary preparations. We leave within the hour. This comedy has lasted long enough.”
“Comedy?”
“You still don’t understand?”
When the boss doubts my intellectual capacity, I like to take a hike before the discussion turns to his advantage. So I rejoined William, who was still shivering outside Sir Lawrence’s door, now accompanied by the reverend.
“On three,” I said. I counted, and we threw ourselves against the door. On our third attempt, it cracked. The next time, a plank broke loose and I was able to maneuver the key and deadbolt. The door opened.
“Heavens!” the reverend said.
“He’s dead!” William cried.
Sir Lawrence, clad in pajamas, lay collapsed at the base of the wall, facing the closed window. His cowering position and the rictus that had disfigured his face suggested he hadn’t gone out easily.
“Go fetch Nero Wolfe,” I told William. “Then call a doctor.”
I interrupted the reverend’s prayers and sent him off to keep curious onlookers at bay. Then I searched the room for the vial that had contained the poison, since I was pretty sure Sir Lawrence had been poisoned. But I didn’t see anything that looked like an ampule or syringe. I examined the body and found a minuscule scratch, a little swollen around the edges, on the back of his right hand—the sting that had killed the scientist. It couldn’t have been a suicide, but there was no way into the room except the door and the window, both of which had been solidly locked. So no one could have entered the bedroom, and no one had left it.
Hands on my hips, I studied the scene. The position of the body was bizarre. It lay with its face on a rug that ought to have been in the center of the room but had been moved over to the base of the wall, where it covered a large rectangle of parquet floor that had been cleared of furniture. As much as I love gangsters, murderers, and other specialists in euthanasia, I hate puzzles, complicated crimes, and mysteries that agitate the brain.
A dip in the floorboards told me Wolfe had arrived.
He glanced at the dead man, then sat heavily on the bed, which sagged under his seventh of a ton, and threw me the morning paper.
“How dare they,” he said.
An enormous headline crossed the page: “Nero Wolfe Leaves Home for First Time in Five Years.” And, as a subhead: “Hired to Save Inventor of Machine That Brings Down Planes.”
“This arrived by messenger,” he resumed. “You should be quite happy with your work, Archie.”
Something ironic in his tone made me prick up my ears.
“Maybe I killed him,” I grumbled.
He didn’t deign to respond. His eyes flicked over the body, the walls, the furniture.
“His right hand is scratched,” I said. “I think—”
“Bring John,” Wolfe cut in.
I found the lot of them in the hallway: John, Isabella, and the three Saunderses.
“It wasn’t me,” Billy said. “I can prove it.”
I gave Isabella’s arm a squeeze and waved John through the splintered door. He was wan and detached as usual. He stood facing Wolfe like a student resigned to failure.
“Sir Lawrence,” Wolfe said, “did physical exercise in the morning?”
“Yes, sir. There’s a program on the radio at eight o’clock.”
“Archie, turn it on.”
“Can’t,” John said. “It went haywire three days ago, and we haven’t had time to get it fixed.”
“Then how could your uncle—?”
“There’s another radio in my bedroom next door. You can hear it clearly from in here.”
“Archie?”
I went to John’s bedroom and tuned in a Bing Crosby song, “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?” A pounding on the wall told me the experiment was over. I returned to Wolfe. The location of the body was explained: Sir Lawrence had died during his physical-fitness session. But who had killed him, and how had the murderer gained entry?
“You want Billy, boss?” I suggested.
“No.”
“You know who stole the ham, the cheese, and the rest of it?”
“Yes.”
“And of course you know why somebody transformed Billy into a ghost last night?”
“Naturally.”
“So you can explain how the killer got through that locked door?”
“Certainly.”
That tore it. “Well, then, should I bring the car around?”
“Please.”
I tried for an insulting sneer.
“Your disdain needs work, Archie,” Wolfe said. “Try rehearsing it in a mirror. And you might inquire if Reverend Norton or one of the Saunderses is trained in Swedish gymnastics.”
I was so irate I almost slammed the door. Wolfe wanted—well, I’d show him!
The hallway was empty. The residents of the mansion must be dressing, since they knew the cops were on their way. I went into Billy’s room without knocking.
“Do you partake in fitness training?” I said.
“Does it show?” he cried, blushing with pleasure. He stuck out his right arm and flexed it. “Here, feel my muscle. Go ahead!”
Disgusted, I swiped an index finger across the soft protuberance that slightly bulged his sleeve. I had a strong desire to pinch it.
“I’m going to be an athlete,” Billy affirmed.
He gestured at an array of placards fixed to the walls of his bedroom. Jumping out of bed is the elixir of life. Tell me how you breathe and I’ll tell you who you are. Ad nauseum.
“Swell,” I said. “What exercises did you do this morning?”
He scratched his head, thinking about it. “First some rotation of the anteriors with flexion of the posteriors and lateral extension of the deltoids. Then one minute of walking on my hands, a minute of relaxing the supinators, two minutes of duck steps—”
“That’s enough,” I said. Duck steps … lovin’ babe!
I moved on to the reverend’s quarters.
“Do you exercise?”
He didn’t seem to understand my question, so I repeated it, an octave higher, mimicking a windmill with my arms.
“Ah, yes,” he murmured, “physical exercise. Certainly.”
“Were you listening to the radio this morning at eight o’clock?”
“I was, my child, like everyone in the manor.”
“First, I’m not your child. Second, exactly what exercises did you do? Spill it, for God’s sake!”
The reverend crossed himself and whispered, his face reddening, “I did two minutes of duck steps.”
“Duck steps,” I said. I was beginning to get the picture.
I burst into the quarters of Mrs. Saunders, the large, and she fled behind a screen.
“You did duck steps this a.m.,” I exclaimed in a Mephistophelian voice. “Don’t deny it.”
She gabbled, and I made my exit. There was a large man in a flannel suit in the hallway.
“Might I see Sir Lawrence’s nephew?” he said. “I’ve been sent by the Armstrong Company.”
Wolfe appeared in his doorway.
“What do you want with the young man?”
“I am to offer him an option on his uncle’s patent,” the visitor explained.
“Then Sir Lawrence’s invention has monetary value?” Wolfe demanded.
The other man smiled and winked. “If it didn’t, would you be here, Mr. Wolfe?”
“You hear that, Archie?” Wolfe said, his face dark.
He went back into his room, and I pointed out John’s door to the Armstrong Company’s representative before joining him.
“They all did gymnastics,” I said, not even pretending to hide my annoyance.
“What type of gymnastics?”
“Movements, relaxing exercises. You wouldn’t understand.”
Wolfe frowned.
“You are aware that I dislike repeating my
self, Archie. What exercises did they do this morning?”
“Duck steps.”
“Show me.”
“Listen, boss, I’m a patient guy, but—”
“Are you or are you not my employee, Mr. Goodwin?”
“Oh, fine.” I squatted and hopped toward him. “Do you want me to quack?” I demanded.
Wolfe observed me, his heavy eyelids half closed. “That’s enough,” he said.
“May I point out,” I said, “that my job description does not—”
“I have my reasons,” he cut in. “No red Coelogyne ever existed, Archie. Get them. Get them all. Then search their bedrooms, all of them, until you find a phonograph record, and bring it.”
In the quarters of the Saunders ladies, I found nothing but beauty products. The reverend’s bedroom held bottles, lots of them in all shapes and sizes, all empty. I next tried Billy’s bedroom, which contained nothing interesting, just clothing, ties, and books with suggestive titles: How to Become a Champion; Physical Fitness Is Within Everyone’s Reach; Power, Health, and Love. I lit a cigarette, and that’s when I smelled it, a stale odor I tracked to a cardboard hatbox up on a closet shelf. Climbing onto a chair, I pulled down the box and hurried to the window, which I opened very wide. I had hit what a casual observer might call pay dirt: a bottle of sherry, a ham, a potato masher, and something that had to be a Cheshire cheese.
I’d been suspicious of young Billy from the beginning. But that elephant Wolfe had sent me to search for was a record, so I continued hunting.
And in Isabella’s bedroom I uncovered not one record but four of them, hidden between the pages of a photo album. From their labels, they were apparently dance records. The boss was definitely showing his age. Maybe it was time for me take over more of the firm’s brainwork.
I left the album and the hatbox in the hall and returned to Sir Lawrence’s bedroom, where Wolfe, still sitting on the bed, was busy questioning Isabella. Billy, very pale, was avoiding looking at the cadaver. The Saunders dames and the reverend seemed about to give up, and John was biting his nails. A sweet little family gathering.
“When the bullet was fired at your uncle,” Wolfe said, “you were there?”
“No,” Isabella said.
