He said no, without looking up.
“Parker said to give you his regards. I am not under bail. He talked Mandelbaum out of it.”
He grunted.
“They’ve decided that Jarrell’s private affairs are no longer private. They’ll be after you any time, in the morning at the latest. Do you want a report?”
He said no, without looking up.
“Any instructions?”
He lifted his eyes, said, “I’m reading, Archie,” and lowered them back to the book.
The best thing to throw at him would have been the typewriter, but I didn’t own it. Next best would have been the telephone, but I didn’t own that, either, and the cord wasn’t long enough. I got up and left, mounted the two flights to my room, showered, decided not to shave, put on a clean shirt and a lighter suit, and was sewing buttons on pajamas when Fritz called up that dinner was ready.
It was at the table that I caught on that something was up. Wolfe wasn’t being crusty because the outlook was dark; he was being smug because he had tasted blood, or was expecting to. He always enjoyed his food, whether in spite of circumstances or in harmony with them, and after ten thousand meals with him I knew all the shades. The way he spread pâté on a cracker, the way he picked up the knife to slice the filet of beef in aspic, the way he used his fork on the salad, the way he made his choice from the cheese platter — no question about it, he had something or somebody by the tail, or at least the tail was in sight.
I was thinking that when we were back in the office with coffee he might think it was time to let me have a taste too, but no. After taking three sips he picked up his book. That was a little too much, and I was deciding whether to go after him head on or take him from the flank, when the doorbell rang and I went to answer it. In view of Wolfe’s behavior I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been the whole gang, all seven of them, with a joint confession in triplicate signed and ready to deliver, but it was merely a middle-aged man in a light brown suit and no hat whom I had never seen before.
When I opened the door he spoke before I did. “Is this Nero Wolfe’s house?”
“Right.”
“Are you Archie Goodwin?”
“Right again.”
“Okay.” He extended a hand with a little package. “This is for Nero Wolfe.”
I took it and he turned and was going. I told him to wait, but he called over his shoulder, “No receipt,” and kept going. I looked at the package. It was the size of a box of kitchen matches, wrapped in brown paper, fastened with Scotch tape, and if it bore any name or address it was in invisible ink.
I shut the door and returned to the office and told Wolfe, “The man who handed me this said it was for you, but I don’t know how he knew. There’s no name on it. It doesn’t tick. Shall I open it under water?”
“As you please. It’s hardly large enough to be dangerous.”
That seemed optimistic, remembering the size of the capsule that had once exploded in that office inside a metal percolator, blowing the percolator lid at the wall, missing Wolfe’s head by an inch. However, I could stand it if he could. I got out my knife to cut the tape, removed the paper wrapping, and disclosed a cardboard box with no label. Putting it on the desk midway between us, which was only fair, I eased the lid off. Cotton. I lifted the cotton, and there was more cotton, with an object resting in its center. Bending over for a close-up, I straightened and announced, “A thirty-eight bullet. Isn’t that interesting?”
“Extremely.” He reached for the box and gave it a look. “Very interesting. You’re sure it’s a thirty-eight?”
“Yes, sir. Quite a coincidence.”
“It is indeed.” He put the box down. “Who brought it?”
“A stranger. Too bad I didn’t invite him in.”
“Yes. Of course there are various possibilities — among them, that some prankster sent it.”
“Yeah. So I toss it in the wastebasket?”
“I don’t think so. There is at least one other possibility that can’t be ignored. You’ve had a long day and I dislike asking it, but you might take it to Mr. Cramer, tell him how we got it, and suggest that it be compared with the bullets that killed Mr. Eber and Mr. Brigham.”
“Uh-huh. In time, say in a week or so, that might have occurred to me myself. My mind’s not as quick as yours.” I replaced the top layer of cotton and put the lid on. “I’d better take the wrapping paper too. If the bullet matches, and it just might, he’ll want it. Incidentally, he’ll want me too. If I take him a thirty-eight bullet, with that suggestion, and with that story of how we got it, I’ll have to shoot my way out if you want to see me again tonight.”
“The devil.” He was frowning, “You’re quite right. That won’t do.” He thought a moment. “Your notebook. A letter to Mr. Cramer.”
I got at my desk and took notebook and pen.
He dictated: “Dear Mr. Cramer. I send you herewith a package which was delivered at my door a few minutes ago. It bore no name or address, but the messenger told Mr. Goodwin it was for me and departed. It contains a bullet which Mr. Goodwin says is a thirty-eight. Doubtless it is merely a piece of tomfoolery, but I thought it best to send it to you. You may think it worthwhile to have the bullet compared with those that killed Mr. Eber and Mr. Brigham. Then discard it. Don’t bother to return it. Sincerely.”
“By mail?” I asked.
“No. Take it, please. Immediately. Hand it in and return at once.”
“Glad to.” I pulled the typewriter around.
Chapter 16
That Monday night may not have been the worst night Fritz ever spent, for he has had some tough ones, but it was bad enough. When I had got back after delivering the package at 20th Street, a little after ten o’clock, Wolfe had called him to the office.
“Some instructions, Fritz.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Archie and I will go up to bed shortly, but we are not here and will not be here. You will answer the phone. You do not know where we are or when we will return. You do not know exactly when we left. You may be bullyragged, by Mr. Cramer or others, but you will maintain that position. You will take messages if any are given, to be delivered to us when we return. You will ignore the doorbell. You will open no outside door, stoop or basement or back, under any circumstances whatever. If you do, a search warrant may be thrust at you and the house will be overrun. A contingency might arise that will make you consider it necessary to disturb Archie or me, but I think not and hope not. Bring my breakfast an hour early, at seven o’clock. Archie will have his at seven also. I shall be sorry if you fail of a proper night’s sleep, but it can’t be helped. You can take a nap tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.” Fritz swallowed. “If there is danger, may I suggest—” He stopped and started over. “I know you are reluctant to leave the house, that is understood, but there are times when it is better to leave a house, at least for a short time. Especially in your profession.” He looked at me. “You know that, Archie.”
Wolfe reassured him, “No, Fritz, there is no danger. On the contrary, this is the preamble to triumph. You understand the instructions?”
He said he did, but he wasn’t happy. For years he had been expecting the day to come when Wolfe would be dragged out of the house in handcuffs, not to mention me, and he was against it. He gave me a reproachful look, which God knows I didn’t deserve, and left, and Wolfe and I, not being there anyway, went up to bed.
Seven o’clock is much too early a breakfast hour unless you’re a bird or a bird watcher, but I made it to the kitchen by 7:08. My glass of orange juice was there, but Fritz wasn’t, and the phone was ringing. It was a temptation to take it and see how well I could imitate Fritz’s voice, but I let it ring. By the time Fritz came it had given up. I told him he must have been late taking Wolfe’s breakfast tray up, and he said no, he had got it there on the dot at seven, but had stayed to report on the night.