Supper was in the kitchen because it was still raining and the creek terrace was cold and clammy. Lily’s copy of the Register was there on a shelf; presumably she had thought Mimi should know about the new status of two of the guests. The other two guests had seen it; as Wolfe and I entered the kitchen Diana, at the center table, stopped dishing her plate to look at us as if she had never seen us before, and Wade said, “Congratulations! I didn’t realize you were that famous. When does the ball start rolling?”
I told him not until after supper because we never talked business during a meal. We had decided, after I had made the phone call to Saul, not to tell Lily about it. It would have made her uncomfortable to know that the pasts of two of her guests were being investigated by the other two, and if Saul drew a blank she needn’t ever know. I was a little uncomfortable myself, sitting there passing Diana the salt or asking Wade how the outline was going, and probably Wolfe was too. That made no sense, since they knew darned well they would have been Grade A suspects if they had had any motive, but there was one chance in ten million that Saul would not draw a blank, and in that case there would be a behavior problem not covered by Amy Vanderbilt. Meanwhile, as we dealt with the leg of lamb, green lima beans (from the freezer), Mrs. Barnes’s bread, sliced tomatoes, and huckleberry pie with coffee ice cream, I enjoyed watching Diana trying to decide if she should change her technique with us, and if so how. Evidently Wade had decided. For him we were still just fellow guests to discuss things with, like baseball (me) or structural linguistics (Wolfe).
The blaze in the fireplace in the big room had attractions on an evening like that, and the others went there with coffee, but Wolfe and I went to his room, I supposed to consider the better things to do tomorrow. But inside, instead of going to his chair by the window, he stood and asked, “Does Mr. Farnham have a telephone?”
I said yes.
“Will he have seen that newspaper?”
I said probably.
“Call him. Tell him we wish to come and discuss matters with him and anyone else available.”
“In the morning?”
“Now.”
I nearly said something silly. My lips parted to say, “It’s raining,” but I closed them before it got out. People get in ruts, including me. Many a time I had known him to postpone sending me on an errand if the weather was bad, and it took something very special, like a chance to get a specimen of a new orchid, to get him out of the house in rain or snow. But evidently this was extra special — getting back home as soon as possible — and, saying nothing, I went down the hall to the big room and across to the table where the phone was, and dialed a number, and after four rings a voice said hello.
“Bill? Archie Goodwin.”
“Oh, hello again. I see you’ve got a badge.”
“Not a badge, just a piece of paper. Apparently you’ve seen the Register.”
“I sure have. You and Nero Wolfe. Now the fur will start to fly, huh?”
“Maybe. We hope so. Mr. Wolfe and I would like to drop in for a little talk with you and yours — everybody that’s around — if it’s convenient. Especially Sam Peacock. A good way to pass a rainy evening.”
“Why especially Sam?”
“The man who found the body is always special. But the others too — naturally Mr. Wolfe wants to meet the people who saw the most of Brodell. Okay?”
“Sure, why not? Mr. DuBois was just saying he would like to meet him. Come ahead.”
He hung up. Lily, with Diana and Wade, was over by the fireplace with her back to it, watching television, and when I asked if we could take the car to run up to Farnham’s she said of course with no question or comment, and I went to my room for ponchos.
I had never seen Wolfe in a hooded poncho of any color, and the ones Lily stocked were bright red. They were all the same size, barely big enough to take his dimensions, but even so he looked very gay — leaving out his face, which was pretty grim. It was still grim when, leaving the car under the firs at Farnham’s, we splashed around to the front, with a flashlight to spot puddles, and I opened the screen door and knocked on the solid one, which was closed. It was opened by William T. Farnham.
And, after shaking hands with Farnham and getting his help with the poncho, Wolfe put on an act. He always welcomed a chance to show off, but there it served two other purposes: impressing the audience and avoiding shaking so many hands. Besides Farnham there were six people in the room: three men and a woman around a card table over near the fireplace, and two men standing, kibitzing. Wolfe walked over, stopped four paces away, and said, “Good evening. I have been told of you by Mr. Goodwin.” He nodded at the woman. “Mrs. Amory.”
At the man across from her — round-faced, wide-browed, with his balding process well started: “Dr. Robert Amory, from Seattle.”
At the man at her left — late thirties, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, needing a shave: “Mr. Joseph Colihan, from Denver.”
At the man at her right — middle forties, foreign-looking, dark skin, bushy eyebrows: “Mr. Armand DuBois, also from Denver.”
At the man standing behind Amory — nudging sixty, rough weathered skin, thick gray hair, in working Levi’s and a pink shirt with a tear on one shoulder: “Mr. Bert Magee.”
At the man standing back of Colihan, farther off — around thirty, thin scrawny neck, thin bony face, undersized — also in Levi’s, with a shirt that looked like dirty leather, and a red and white neck rag: “Mr. Sam Peacock.”
Farnham, there after disposing of the ponchos, said, “Now I call that a roundup.” Of the six men present, not counting Wolfe and me, he was the only one I would have called handsome — rugged outdoors open-spaces handsome. He asked Wolfe, “How about some wet cheer? Anything from Montana Special to coyote piss, if I’ve got it.”
“He drinks beer,” Armand DuBois said.
Wolfe asked, “What’s Montana Special?”
“Any open moving water but rainwater. Creek or river. Good for you either plain or diluted, but in weather like this it’s better diluted with gargle. Name it. Beer?”
“Nothing now, thank you. Perhaps later. As you know, Mr. Goodwin and I have a job to do. But we’re interrupting a game.”
“Bridge isn’t a game,” DuBois said, “it’s a brawl. We’ve been at it all day.” He pushed his chair back and rose. “We would much rather hear you ask questions, at least I would.”
“I hear you’re tough,” Farnham said, “but you don’t look tough. Of course like the dude said to the bronc, you can’t always tell by appearances. Do you want us one at a time or in a herd?”
“One at a time would take all night,” Wolfe said. “We are officially accredited, but we came to inquire, not to harass. Shall we sit?”
They moved. There were two long roomy couches at right angles to the fireplace, and DuBois and Farnham took the card table and chairs away. Knowing that Wolfe would share a couch with others only if there was no alternative, I brought a chair that would take him and put it at the end of the couches, facing the fireplace, and one for me. They got distributed — Farnham, Peacock, Magee, and Colihan on the couch at our left, and DuBois and the Amorys on the one at the right. As she sat, Mrs. Amory said to Wolfe, “I’m trying to think of something you can ask me. I’m closer to tight than I’ve been for years after this rainy day and I want to see what I’d say.” She put a hand to her mouth to cover what might have been a burp. “I think I’d make something up.”