by Josh Pachter
“I’m listening.”
“About a week ago, I received an offer to buy the platypus. It came from J. Nelson Barnett, an enormously wealthy art, curio and jewelry collector. He offered us one hundred thousand dollars. I almost took him up on it, but the platypus really belongs here.”
“I see. If you have Mr. Barnett’s address and other contact information, please give them to Archie.”
“I’ll have them for you when you come out.”
He left, and I shut the door. Wolfe invited Linda Andelman to sit down. There was no chair large enough for him, so he perched on the edge of Moultrie’s desk.
“Ms. Andelman—”
“Please, call me Linda.”
“Very well. Linda, have you seen the missing figurine?”
“No, I never saw anything in the museum except for the gift shop and Mr. Moultrie’s office.”
“Never?”
“It really doesn’t interest me. This is just a job—though it’s one I like.”
Wolfe looked thoroughly minussed (I’d taunted him once by using that word instead of “nonplussed”). “I don’t suppose,” he said, “that you’ve ever been in possession of the museum’s keys.”
“That’s right, I haven’t.”
“Do you get along with the rest of the staff? Obviously you do with Mr. Winters.”
“Well, yes, he and I have been dating for a few months. I’m on a first-name basis with Mason and Hal—Harold—but I seldom run into Marc Porterfield, and, when I do, if I say hello, he just grunts. In a mildly friendly way … I think.”
“Thank you for your time,” Wolfe said. “Could you ask Mr. Russell to come in, please?”
She nodded and left. The daytime security guard arrived in less than a minute. He wore a uniform with a cap that bore the initials MSOP. What hair could be seen was salt-and-pepper. He had an amiable smile and stood a little taller than me. Wolfe gestured for him to sit down, but he declined. “Thank you, but my uniform is a bit tight. I’ve been meaning to take it to my tailor for refitting.”
“May I ask how long you have been a security guard for the museum?”
“From the first day it opened, about nine years ago.”
“Has there ever been a burglary before this one?”
“Never.”
Wolfe mulled that over, then said, “I have a hypothetical question. If you could steal anything in the museum and get away with it, what would it be?”
“That’s an interesting question. It certainly wouldn’t be the platypus.”
“Why not?”
“It would be nearly impossible to sell. The easiest way to turn a profit would surely be by taking complete runs of some of the comic books. The radio premiums would also be easy to get rid of on eBay.”
Wolfe asked about his keys, and then we were done.
We got home just before four. Wolfe went up to the plant rooms—much, I’m sure, to Theodore’s relief. Theodore, who is our resident plant nurse, is convinced that all of the orchids will die if Wolfe misses a session.
I sat down at my desk as the phone rang. It was Moultrie. He said both guards would come to the brownstone at nine; Mason Russell would stick around for the night shift until Harold Johnson returned. Michael Faraday, the museum’s treasurer, would come at the same time. If he got there early, my instructions were to show him to the front room, where he would wait till Wolfe finished questioning the guards.
After Moultrie hung up, I dialed the number he’d given me and spoke with the collector, J. Nelson Barnett. I asked him whether I could meet him the next day. When I told him why, he became quite cordial. “The platypus? By all means! Do you have my address?”
“I do.”
“If you come at eleven-thirty, you won’t have to wait. I’ll tell my secretary to send you right in.”
I thanked him, cradled the receiver, and began catching up on the germination records. When Wolfe came down, shortly after six, I reported my conversations with Moultrie and Barnett. That earned me a “satisfactory.”
Faraday arrived at ten to nine. He was slim, trim and well dressed. I estimated him to be in his early forties. I told him he would have to wait a while and led him to the front room. I offered him a drink, and he asked if we had any single malt. When I said yes, he asked which ones. Answering took several seconds, because we’re well stocked with both single and blended scotch. He was delighted to learn that one of them is Edradour. “A brandy snifter, please,” he said, then added, “Did you know it’s the smallest distillery in Scotland?”
I said no.
“Of course, it’s been quite some time since I last visited Pitlochry—that’s where they’re located—but when I was there they only had two employees. There’s a rumor they’re owned by the Mafia.”
I brought him a snifter, a napkin and the bottle, so he could help himself. He sat back with an expression that was positively beatific.
Just as I closed the door to the front room, the doorbell sounded, and I saw through the peephole that the two guards were there. Harold Johnson was quite tall, with skin so light he could pass for Caucasian. He was in his MSOP uniform. Marc Porterfield wore a dark featureless suit, ditto tie. He nodded hello through spectacles so thick I figured he must have some kind of eye condition.
In the office, I offered libations and Johnson thanked me and requested beer. The dour weekend guard went over to the bar and poured himself at least three ounces of Demerara rum, which made me shudder, since it’s 151 proof.
Wolfe entered and sat. Fritz brought his usual two bottles of beer plus one for Johnson. He had them on a tray, so he could also manage the two pilsner glasses. After thanking them for coming at such short notice, Wolfe repeated the same questions he’d put to Mason Russell. When asked what they’d steal from the museum, Hal, as he asked us to call him, agreed with Mason that the comic books would be the easiest to sell for a good profit. Porterfield, though, said he’d go into the medical room and help himself to some of the strange medicines there.
“Why?” Wolfe asked. “Would you sell them to a doctor or hospital?”
“No, I don’t need the money. I’d keep them.”
“Are you talking about drugs? Narcotics?”
He shook his head. “Those might be salable, but I could be caught. I’d be more interested in the poisons.”
“For what reason?”
“Whatever.” And that’s all he would say.
Wolfe, exchanging a worried glance with me and Hal, decided to drop it. After I showed them out but before I brought in Faraday, the boss beckoned to me. “We should find out about Mr. Porterfield.”
“Why?”
“I’ve got a bad feeling about him. Call Saul later. Whatever he finds might need to be passed along to Inspector Cramer. Now let’s see what Mr. Faraday has to tell us.”
I brought him in. He almost shook Wolfe’s hand but realized that was a bad idea. I told him to sit in the red leather chair, which he did. He immediately complimented Wolfe on the Edradour.
“Thank you, sir, but I seldom drink anything but beer and wine. The credit for stocking the bar belongs to Mr. Goodwin. I hope this visit isn’t an inconvenience.”
“Not at all. I’ve always wanted to meet you.”
“May I ask why?”
“Two reasons. Orchids fascinate me, and I would dearly love to see your collection.”
“I will be delighted to show you the plant rooms after we talk. And your second reason?”
“I have a copy of your splendid cookbook.”
Wolfe chuckled. “Again, I do not deserve any credit. It was prepared by Ms. Barbara Burn, an editor at Viking Press. She, of course, spent considerable time conferring with my chef, Mr. Fritz Brenner. But let’s get down to business. I presume you are aware of the museum’s theft?”
“Yes,” he said with a
sigh. “I’ve told Ben again and again that we should have more insurance, but he only bought the bare minimum.”
“Let me reassure you that the figurine will be found. Did you know that an offer has been made to buy it?”
“Sure, that was my doing. Nelson Barnett is an old friend. I’m his financial advisor.”
“Have you spoken to him since the theft?”
“I have,” Faraday replied. “When he learned that Ben hired you to find the platypus, he said it’s the best thing he could possibly have done. Then he told me, ‘When’—not if—‘it’s found, I’ll raise my offer to a quarter of a million.’”
Wolfe paused to open and pour his second bottle of Nordik Wolf. “I have two further questions. Where do you keep your museum keys, and how often do you use them?”
He took them from his pocket. “They’re always with me. I’ve never used them.”
“Thank you for your time and assistance, sir. Perhaps you’d like to have dinner with us sometime soon?”
“It would be an honor.”
After he left, I called Saul and Wolfe picked up and told him what he wanted. What I heard made good sense.
Next morning at eleven-thirty, I introduced myself to Barnett’s secretary, who showed me into his office with a dimply smile and brought me coffee. It was a large corner room on the thirty-fifth floor of a building at 47th and Madison. I sipped an excellent cup of Kona as J. Nelson Barnett entered. He was so short I couldn’t decide if he was a dwarf or a hobbit. He wore a dark three-piece business suit and a necktie that I thought was black, but when he moved it caught the light and thin red slants glinted.
“Mr. Goodwin—”
“Archie.”
“Archie, I’m glad you could meet me here, though I would have liked to visit Mr. Wolfe at his office.”
“That could be arranged.”
“Please be seated. Has the platypus been found?”
“Not yet,” I said, “but Mr. Wolfe is confident it will be. Why does it mean so much to you?”
“Well, I’m a collector, but I am not a hoarder. I feel the platypus is too important historically for such a small—though excellent—museum. If I buy it, I plan to offer it to the Smithsonian on permanent loan.”
“Did you have it stolen?”
He laughed. “No, Archie. But I know who did.”
When I reported later, Wolfe said, “Just as I expected.”
“Meaning?”
“It’s show time. Or will be soon. Arrange a meeting, preferably tonight at nine. Ask Mr. Moultrie to come, also Messrs. Barnett, Faraday and Winters, as well as Ms. Andelman. And you might as well invite Faraday for dinner.” Which shows that it’s smart to ask Wolfe to see his orchids.
“Might I suggest also inviting Barnett?”
He nodded. “I’ll ask Fritz what we should serve.”
I suggested braised platypus stuffed with crabmeat. He pretended not to hear me.
Dinner featured Beef Wellington, which Wolfe once said is a fine dish, “though it’s not serious gastronomy.” During the meal, he held forth on Dickens’s unfinished last novel, The Mystery of Edwin Drood. “The problem,” he contended, “is reasonably easy to solve if you are a competent detective. Have you read it?” Both guests said they had. “Good, then this won’t ruin it for you. Here’s what really happened and why.” I excused myself and took my plate into the kitchen. I’d been meaning to read Drood, and I didn’t want any spoilers.
The museum director arrived promptly at nine, along with his cashier and gift-shop manager. They joined Wolfe and our guests in the office. Faraday relinquished the red chair to Moultrie. Drinks were distributed, and Wolfe began.
“I was hired to find the platypus and identify the thief. It was soon apparent where the figurine was hidden, but I could not yet prove who took it.”
“Never mind that for now,” said Moultrie. “Where is it?”
Wolfe produced the photos I’d taken and passed them around. They all looked, but Moultrie said, “I don’t see it!”
“That’s because it’s disguised. Tell me what you do see.”
Moultrie stared with narrowed eyes. “Some of the Disney statuettes.”
“Yes. Which are most prominent?”
“Donald and Daisy Duck.”
“Exactly. Now, can you tell me why I’ve asked you this?”
A bright light suddenly glowed in Moultrie’s eyes. “Both of them have the same kind of bill as the platypus.”
“Correct,” said Wolfe. “A duck would be the perfect camouflage for a platypus. So you see, your platinum figure never left the museum. It should be there right now, disguised as either Donald or Daisy Duck.”
Barnett and Faraday both applauded. Wolfe nodded his appreciation, then continued. “Finding the platypus was only half my job, though. Now I’ll tell you who stole it.”
He looked pointedly at Larry Winters.
“Me?” Winters exclaimed. “Why me?”
“Two reasons,” Wolfe answered. “First, there are only three sets of keys to the museum. One is held by your employer and the second by Mr. Faraday, who never uses them.”
“How do you know that?”
“He told me so.” He held up his hand to stop the next question. “Yes, I believe him. I asked my operative Saul Panzer to investigate both him and Mr. Barnett, and also Ms. Andelman. They have all been declared completely trustworthy. So you are the only one left who had access to the platypus’s display case.”
“I told you I only had the keys for a few minutes.”
“That’s all it would take,” Wolfe said, “though in fact you had longer than ‘a few minutes.’ The day guard, who arrived late that day, says it was at least half an hour past his usual time before he got to the museum.”
“What about him, and the other two guards?”
“I questioned them. None was even remotely interested in stealing it, and rightly so: it would be almost impossible to sell. Which brings me to my second reason. There is one person who wants to buy the platypus, and he’s sitting right here.”
Winters looked at Barnett and sighed. “OK, you’ve got me. I offered it to him, but he refused. That’s when I should have left town.” All the while, I noticed that he was avoiding looking at Linda.
“Why did you need so much money?” Wolfe asked.
“So I could afford a house where Linda and I could live when we get married.”
She got up, approached him, and slapped his face. Very hard.
Of course Moultrie fired him, but declined to turn him over to the police. “Furthermore,” he said, “before this, I was pleased with the excellence of your work. If you seek employment elsewhere, I will give you a favorable letter of reference.”
The cashier’s jaw dropped, as did almost everyone else’s. Not Wolfe’s, but I saw that our client’s gesture made a great impression on him. “Mr. Moultrie,” he said, “you are the soul of generosity. I am going to do something quite unusual. With two conditions, you are released from paying the remainder of my fee.”
“Thank you! I agree to your conditions.”
Wolfe waggled a finger. “You’d best hear them first. I want you to donate the balance of what you agreed to pay me to the museum, to fund the new rooms you told us about.”
“Again, my thanks. And your second condition?”
“Permit me and Mr. Goodwin to visit at any time without charge.”
“Done, sir. What about your expenses?”
“Archie will send you a bill for two parking-lot charges and Mr. Panzer’s fee, which, like mine, will be rather dear.”
The crowd rose to leave. Larry Winters practically ran out, but Faraday asked Wolfe for permission to use the front room. When told that he could, he went in with Moultrie and Barnett. They were in there for maybe two minutes. When they came back, Moult
rie said, somewhat sadly, “I’ve decided to sell the platypus to Mr. Barnett.”
Two more things. When Wolfe found out what Saul had learned about the weekend security guard, he had me call Cramer at once. It seems that, though Porterfield was not married, he had been when he lived in Knoxville, Tennessee. His wife died soon after he took out an insurance policy on her. Naturally he was suspected of killing her, but no one could figure out what did her in. The coroner put it down to that universal catchall, heart failure. Cramer got in touch with the Tennessee police and worked out that she’d been given an almost undetectable poison. So the museum had to hire a new weekend guard.
Lastly—and this may have been a joke on me, though that’s not Wolfe’s style—I actually overheard him asking Fritz whether he thought an acceptable meal could be prepared with platypus meat.
But so far I have not tasted any.
PART II
PARODIES
The House on 35th Street
by Frank Littler
EDITOR’S NOTE: For those unfamiliar with The Saturday Review, it began its life in 1920 as a weekly supplement to The New York Post, then was published separately as The Saturday Review of Literature from 1924 to 1952, when it shortened its name to The Saturday Review. It changed ownership several times in the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s, folded in 1982, and made brief reappearances in ’84 and (online only) ’93. In April of 1925, a weekly front-of-the-book department called “The Phoenix Nest” was introduced; it featured an assortment of miscellaneous bits and pieces, similar in feel to The New Yorker’s “Talk of the Town.” The column came and went over the years, but by 1958 it was back on a semiregular basis with Martin Levin as its editor. Twice during the 1960s, Levin led off an installment of “The Phoenix Nest” with short Nero Wolfe parodies. The first of them, “The House on 35th Street,” appeared in the February 12, 1966, issue. It was credited to Frank Littler, about whom I have been able to find little information. There is a contemporary Australian artist by that name, but it’s hard to imagine he could be the same person. The twenty suspects who cram into Wolfe’s office in this story have such distinctive names that I suspected they must have been the names of real people … but a fruitless hour of Googling led me to conclude that Littler, whoever he may have been, simply made them all up.
