by Josh Pachter
To Wolfe’s right in the photo was Marko Vukcic, holding a rifle loosely at his side. “Which one’s your uncle?” I asked Maria.
She leaned close enough so I could smell her perfume and pointed to one of the kneelers in front. He was dark-haired and intense like most of the others, but he appeared smaller than most of them. None of the nine, though, looked as if he were trying to win a congeniality contest. If they were as tough as they appeared, I’m glad I wasn’t fighting against them.
“This picture was taken up in the mountains,” Maria said. “Uncle Milos only showed it to me to point out Mr. Wolfe, but he wouldn’t talk any more about the other men or what they were doing.”
“Not going to a picnic,” I said. “I’d like to hang on to this for a while. Now, what about you, Miss Radovich? How does it happen you’re living with your great-uncle?”
She told me about how her mother, a widow, had died when she was a child in Yugoslavia, and that Stefanovic, her mother’s uncle, had legally adopted her. Divorced and without children, he was happy to have the companionship of a nine-year-old. Maria said he gave her all the love of a parent, albeit a strict one, taking her with him as he moved around Europe to increasingly better and more prestigious conducting jobs. At some time before moving to England, he had changed his name to Stevens—she couldn’t remember exactly when. It was while they were living in London that he was picked as the new conductor, or music director if you prefer, of the New York Symphony. Maria, who by that time was twenty-three, made the move with him, and she was now a dancer with a small troupe in New York.
“Mr. Goodwin,” she said, leaning forward and tensing again, “my uncle has worked hard all his life to get the kind of position and recognition he has today. Now somebody is trying to take it away from him.” Her hand gripped my forearm.
“Why not just go to the police?” I asked with a shrug.
“I suggested that to Uncle Milos, and he became very angry. He said it would leak out to the newspapers and cause a scandal at the Symphony, that the publicity would be harmful to him and the orchestra. He says these notes are from a crazy person, or maybe someone playing a prank. I was with him when he opened the first one, or I might not know about any of this. He read it and said something that means ‘stupid’ in Serbo-Croatian, then crumpled the note and threw it in the wastebasket. But he hardly spoke the rest of the evening.
“I waited until he left the room to get the note from the basket. It was then that I said we should call the police. He became upset and said it was probably a prankster, or maybe a season-ticket holder who didn’t like the music the orchestra had been playing.”
“How long until the next note?” I asked.
“I started watching the mail after that. Six days later, we got another envelope printed just like the first one. I didn’t open it—I never open my uncle’s mail. But again I found the crumpled note in the wastebasket next to his desk in the library. This time I didn’t mention it to him, and he said nothing about it to me, but again he seemed distressed.
“The third note came yesterday, six days after the second, and again I found it in the wastebasket. Uncle Milos doesn’t know that I’ve seen the last two notes, or that I’ve saved all three.”
“Miss Radovich, does your uncle have any enemies you know of, anyone who would gain by his leaving the Symphony?”
“The music director of a large orchestra always has his detractors.” She took a deep breath. “There are always people who think it can be done better. Some are jealous, others just take pleasure in scoffing at talented people. My uncle does not discuss his work very much at home, but I do know—from him and from others—that he has opposition even within the orchestra. But notes like this, I can’t believe—”
“Someone is writing them, Miss Radovich. I’d like to hear more about your uncle’s opposition, but Mr. Wolfe will be down in just a few minutes, and it’s best if you’re not here when he comes in. He may get interested in your problem, but you’ll have to let me be the one to try getting him interested.”
For the third time, Maria dove into her bag. She fished out a wad of bills and thrust it at me. “There’s five hundred dollars here,” she said. “That is just for agreeing to try to find out who’s writing the notes. I can pay another forty-five hundred dollars if you discover the person and get him to stop.”
Five grand was a long way below what Wolfe usually got for a fee, but I figured that, for Maria Radovich, it was probably big bucks. I started to return the money, then drew back and smiled.
“Fair enough,” I said. “If I can get Nero Wolfe to move, we keep this. Otherwise, it goes back to you. Now we’ve got to get you out of here. You’ll be hearing from me soon—one way or the other.” I wrote her a receipt for the money, keeping a carbon, and hustled her out to the hall and on with her coat.
My watch said ten fifty-eight as she went down the steps to the street. I rushed back to the office, put the money and receipt in the safe, and arranged Wolfe’s morning mail in a pile on his blotter. Included in the stack was one item the carrier hadn’t delivered: a faded fifty-year-old photograph.
The Purloined Platypus
by Marvin Kaye
AUTHOR’S NOTE: I’ve been a devotee of the Nero Wolfe stories since college. My late wife, Saralee, and I joined the Wolfe Pack, the society devoted to the Rex Stout series. When Mr. Stout died, Wolfe Pack members voted on who might do a good job continuing the Nero Wolfe adventures. I was one of three authors named. (The others were Robert B. Parker and Lawrence Block.) Having already written seven mystery novels, I was honored, but the only story I was interested in writing would have been an origin tale—how Wolfe and Archie first met. I abandoned the idea when an excellent story addressing that issue appeared in the Wolfe Pack’s Gazette and was later the subject of Robert Goldsborough’s Archie Meets Nero Wolfe.
A few years ago, I had an idea for a very brief Wolfean anecdote and asked Rex Stout’s daughters whether I might run it in Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine. They not only said yes, they told me I could write as many NW stories as I wished, provided they weren’t novels, since those rights are held by Bob Goldsborough. This started me, and by now I’ve written some twenty new Nero Wolfe tales, including this one.
At a few minutes after eleven that summer morning, Wolfe entered the office. We exchanged our usual pleasantries, and I told him we’d had a call from Benjamin Moultrie.
He sat down in the chair reinforced to bear his seventh of a ton, rang for beer and said, “That’s a familiar name, but I don’t remember why.”
“He’s president and board chairman of the MSOP.”
“MSOP? What on earth is that?”
“The Museum of the Strange, Odd and Peculiar. It’s on the corner of 29th and Third Avenue.”
“I’ve been curious about that place,” he said, pouring beer. “I’ve actually considered visiting it.”
Wonder of wonders, I thought.
“What does Mr. Moultrie want?” he asked.
“To be our next client.”
I knew it was unlikely Wolfe would agree, given the healthy condition of our bank account, but he surprised me: “Ask him to be here tonight at nine.”
When I thought about it, I realized why Wolfe was in a good mood. Yesterday he’d received an invitation to visit his favorite orchid grower, Lewis Hewitt, at his estate on Long Island. That in itself wouldn’t have made him so cheerful; though he does enjoy visiting Hewitt, it still means enduring two long rides with white knuckles. But he’d been pestering his friend for years for a cutting of Hewitt’s two rarest orchids, and Hewitt had finally said yes.
Before Wolfe could change his mind, I called Moultrie. He said he’d come at nine.
Good as his word, he rang the doorbell right on time. I examined him through the peephole. He could have his picture in the dictionary under “dandy.” Middle height, sleek black hair, a
trim mustache, and a monocle. He wore a three-piece suit and tie; both looked expensive. Because it was a warm day in August, he sported neither topcoat nor hat. I welcomed him and brought him back to the office, buzzing Wolfe in the kitchen to cue his grand entrance. I placed Moultrie in the red leather chair.
“Good evening,” said Wolfe, entering and taking his seat. Fritz was right behind him with a pilsner glass and two bottles of Nordik Wolf beer, which I suspected he wanted to try because of its name. “As you see, sir, I am having beer. Would you care for a drink?”
“Thank you,” the museum director said. “Either red wine or brandy would be appreciated.” I told him what we had and he chose a snifter of Armagnac, which he sipped and proclaimed superb.
“I’ve been interested in your museum for some time,” said Wolfe, sampling the Nordik Wolf.
Moultrie smiled. “You must come as our guest. My granddaughter Daphne says it’s ‘cool.’”
“I rarely leave this house, but I believe I will make an exception in this case. However, I do not think you’re here because of the museum, are you?”
“Actually, Mr. Wolfe, I am. We’ve had a robbery.”
“Oh? What was taken?”
“An extremely valuable platinum figurine in the form of a platypus. Its bill, feet and tail are gold, and its eyes are two large diamonds.”
“That sounds plenty valuable,” I said.
“Yes. Its materials alone are worth a small fortune, but its ultimate value is historical. Though unconfirmed, it is believed to have been a gift from the Indian ruler of that time to none other than Kubla Khan. It was found at Xanadu, which was Kubla Khan’s palace.”
Wolfe finished his beer and tossed its cap in the drawer of his desk. He said to me, “By the way, Archie, this is superior.”
“Glad to hear it. It’s a shame they don’t spell it with an E.”
“Don’t be flippant.” He opened the second bottle, poured, adjusted the bead, sipped, and returned his attention to Benjamin Moultrie. “Before I decide whether to take on your problem, you should know that my fee is large … some would say exorbitant.”
“I am aware of that. We are prepared to meet your price.”
“When you say ‘we,’ do you refer to the museum’s other officers?”
Moultrie shook his head. “We do have a treasurer. His name is Michael Faraday. He operates out of his office at a Madison Avenue brokerage firm. But I wasn’t counting him when I used the collective. I always include the museum itself.”
Wolfe smiled. “I find that droll. Well, sir, what would you have me do? Find the missing figurine, or do you also wish me to apprehend the thief?”
“Both. It is likely that the culprit works for us.”
“How many staff members do you employ?”
He held up one hand with all fingers raised. “Five. There’s the cashier—”
“Please provide their names and details about them.”
“Very well. Larry Winters is our cashier. He is a young man in his early thirties. Then there’s the gift-shop clerk, an attractive young woman, Linda Andelman. She and Larry are, as they say, ‘an item.’ The other three employees are our security guards. They wear uniforms with badges and caps. The daytime officer’s name is Mason Russell; he is, I believe, in his late fifties. He lives in Brooklyn with his wife. The night guard is Harold Johnson, a tall black man, unmarried, who lives in Greenwich Village. Marc Porterfield works the weekend shifts, day and night. He actually sleeps at the museum. Unmarried, very private. That’s all I know about him, except that he just had his forty-fifth birthday.”
Wolfe finished his beer. “Mr. Moultrie, I have decided to take your case. My fee will be fifty thousand dollars, half payable before I begin. The second half, plus expenses, will be due when I have located the figurine and perhaps also identified the thief. If I cannot do either, I will retain the original twenty-five thousand dollars nonetheless.”
“That is acceptable.” Moultrie took out his checkbook and pen and began to write. He proffered the check, which Wolfe read and passed to me. “Archie,” he said, “I am going to cancel my morning session with the orchids tomorrow. As soon as we finish breakfast, you will drive me to the museum, park and join me inside.”
We arrived a little before nine-thirty, and I dropped Wolfe at the door. When I entered the museum a few minutes later and greeted Benjamin Moultrie, I found Wolfe standing next to an attractive redhead, who was helping him browse through the gift shop. Every time it looked as if he might buy something, our client tried to give it to him as a gift, but Wolfe said no. “Thank you, but this would not be a legitimate expense. If I choose to purchase anything, I will pay for it.” He spotted me. “Ah, Archie, you found a parking space.”
“I left it in a lot.”
He nodded. “Let us begin.”
Moultrie asked if he intended to interview the staff.
“Later. First, please show us the museum, including the spot where the figurine stood before it was taken.”
The MSOP has six exhibit rooms, though Moultrie said he was hoping to eventually add three more. First, he took us into a chamber filled with Egyptian artifacts: statuary, vases, two mummies in their cases. “Those are authentic,” our host said, polishing his monocle.
The second room was filled with comic-book art, both American and foreign. I saw complete runs of Action, Archie, Classic Comics (and its later incarnation, Classics Illustrated), Donald Duck, Mad, Pogo, Spy Smasher, The Spirit, Star Wars and various others. One large display case featured radio tie-ins such as Captain Midnight and Little Orphan Annie decoders, a Tom Mix Indian arrowhead, and a Lone Ranger western town, which, fully assembled, took up a great deal of space. In a corner stood an array of figurines of Walt Disney characters: Mickey and Minnie Mouse; Donald and Daisy Duck; Donald’s nephews Huey, Dewey, and Louie; Goofy; Pluto; Uncle Scrooge; and more.
I could have spent hours browsing and reading—Moultrie said all the comics had been digitized, so the originals needn’t be handled. Wolfe, however, was not interested and was ready to move on, so I promised myself I’d come back.
The third room was devoted to odd and often bizarre medical paraphernalia. This seemed to interest Wolfe, but he said, “I’d like to spend some time here, but for now let us see the rest of the museum.” Room Four was devoted to the supernatural, with exhibits of ghosts, ghouls, monsters, vampires, witches and wizards and werethings. Number Five featured food and drink that would be right at home on Andrew Zimmern’s Travel Channel shows Bizarre Foods and Bizarre Foods America.
When we entered the last room, which was devoted to Asian culture, Moultrie waved at an empty shelf inside a display case. “That’s where the platypus was kept. The glass is quite thick, almost unbreakable.” He opened his cell phone and showed us a photo of the platinum platypus.
“Archie,” Wolfe asked, “is your phone capable of taking pictures?” I said yes. “Then see if you can copy the platypus from Mr. Moultrie.” He waited till I did it, then turned to the museum director and asked, “How many keys are there to this case?”
“Three. I have one set of all our keys, and so does our treasurer. The third set is held by the senior security guard, Mason Russell. He passes it to the night guard, who returns it to Mason each morning.”
He nodded. “Mr. Moultrie, we will adjourn for lunch. When we return, I’ll want to speak to all available members of your staff. Perhaps you can arrange for the other guards to meet me at my office. Also Mr. Faraday. The sooner the better, ideally this evening.”
On our way out, he said, “Hopefully, Archie, we’ll be home in time for me to go up to the orchids at four. In the meantime, please prepare a camera. I’ll want you to take photos in one of the rooms we’ve been to, also measurements.”
“Which room? What pictures should I take, and what measurements?”
He told me.
> I couldn’t figure why he wanted pictures of a room he’d showed no interest in, but when we got back I took them and joined him just as he was about to question Larry Winters, the cashier. Winters was a young man with blue eyes and blond hair so light it was almost white. His suit was the kind of pastel hue you often see on houses in Hawaii. He said hello and shook my hand, then told Wolfe he hoped he could help him find the missing statuette.
“I notice that we are the only people in the museum,” Wolfe remarked.
“We get busier in the afternoon.”
Wolfe indicated the woman behind the gift-shop counter. “I understand that you and Ms. Andelman are seeing one another.”
Larry smiled. “We are. I’ve been saving money and working up the courage to propose.”
I wished him good luck.
“One more question,” said Wolfe. “Do you have a set of museum keys?”
“No. Once in a while, the night guard asks me to pass his set along to Mason, our day guard.”
“Has that happened recently?”
He thought about it for a moment. “I don’t think so.”
But his sweetheart was close enough to hear him. “Larry,” she said, “don’t you remember? Harold gave them to you a few days ago, when Mason was late because the subway he takes got backed up.”
Larry shook his head, obviously annoyed at himself. “That’s right!” He turned to Wolfe. “I only had them briefly. Mason got here maybe five or ten minutes later.”
“Very well,” said Wolfe. “Now I have a few things to ask you, Ms. Andelman.” He beckoned to Moultrie. “Do you have an office where I can talk to her and then Mr. Russell?”
Moultrie nodded. “I should have thought of that. Right this way.” We followed him to his own headquarters, a modest-sized room with a mahogany desk and swivel chair, but before I shut the door he said to Wolfe, “I forgot to mention something. It might be important.”
