On the way uptown I went over it. I was quite aware that Wolfe didn’t really expect me to deliver, not even Phoebe. He merely wanted to get Marko off his neck, and sending me out to pass a miracle was his first and most natural notion, and also the least trouble for him. He knew it would make me sore, so the first thing I decided was not to be sore. When, stopping for a light on Fifth Avenue in the Forties, I caught myself muttering, “The fat lazy bum,” I saw that wasn’t working very good and took a fresh hold.
I parked a few yards west of the house I wanted to get into, on the same side of the street, just back of a dark gray sedan with an MD plate alongside the license. Sitting there with my eyes on the house entrance, which was the sort of granite portal to be expected in that upper-bracket neighborhood, I tried going over it again. I could get the door to open just by pushing the bell button. I could get inside by the momentum of 180 pounds. There were even simple stratagems that would probably get me to Mrs. Whitten. But what about from there on? With the house right there in front of me I got ambitious. It would be nice to make a delivery that Wolfe didn’t expect. The notion of playing it straight, saying that we had been engaged by Pompa and would like to have a conversation with the family, had been rejected before I had got to 42nd Street. I had other notions, some risky, some screwy, and some clever, but nothing that seemed to fit all the requirements. When I looked at my wrist watch and saw 10:40 I decided I had better settle for one and shoot it, did so, and climbed out to the sidewalk. As I swung the car door shut, I saw a man emerging from the entrance I was bound for. The light wasn’t very bright there, but there was plenty to see that it wasn’t either of the sons or the son-in-law. He was past middle age, and he was carrying the kind of black case that means doctor anywhere. He crossed the sidewalk to the gray sedan with an MD plate on it, got in, and rolled away. Naturally, with my training and habits, I automatically noted the license number and filed it.
I walked to the portal, entered the vestibule, and pushed the button. In a moment the door opened enough to show me a baldheaded guy in conventional black, with a big pointed nose, and to show me to him.
“My name is Archie Goodwin,” I informed him, “and I would like to see Mrs. Whitten.”
He said authoritatively, “No newspapermen are being admitted,” and started to close the door. My foot stopped it after a couple of inches.
“You have newspapermen on the brain,” I told him courteously but firmly. “I happen to be a detective.” I got my card case from my pocket. “Like this.” I pulled my license card, with photograph and thumbprint, from under the cellophane and handed it to him, and he inspected it.
“This does not indicate,” he asserted, “that you are a member of the police force.”
“I didn’t say I was. I merely—”
“What’s the trouble, Borly?” a voice came from behind him. He turned, and the pressure of my foot made the door swing in more. Since an open door is universally regarded as an invitation to enter, I crossed the threshold.
“There’s no trouble, Mr. Landy,” I said cheerfully. “The butler was just doing his duty.” As I spoke two other men came in sight from a door to the right, which made it four to one. I was going on. “My name’s Goodwin, and I work for Nero Wolfe, and I want to see Mrs. Whitten.”
“The hell you do. On out.” With a gesture he indicated the door he wished me to use. “I said out!”
He took a step toward me. I was mildly confused because I hadn’t expected to have to deal with a whole quartet immediately on entering. Of course it was no trick to spot them, from their pictures in the papers and descriptions. The one outing me, which he might possibly have done since he was a little bigger, up to heavyweight specifications, with a big red face having eyes too far apart, was Mortimer. The one with dark hair slicked back, wirier and smaller and smarter looking, was his elder brother Jerome. The middle-sized one, who looked like a washed-out high school teacher, was their brother-in-law, the famous columnist who was more widespread than AMBROSIA, Daniel Bahr.
“You can,” I admitted, “put me out, but if you wait half a minute you can still put me out. I have come to see Mrs. Whitten on behalf of Miss Julie Alving. It would be only fair to let Mrs. Whitten herself decide whether she wants to see someone who wishes to speak for Miss Alving. If you—”
“Beat it.” He took another step. “You’re damn right we can put you out—”
“Take it easy, Mort.” Jerome was approaching, in no haste or alarm. He saw the license card in the butler’s hand, took it and glanced at it, and handed it to me. “My mother’s upstairs asleep. I’m Jerome Landy. Tell me what you want to say for Miss Alving and I’ll see that it gets attention.”
“She’s asleep?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s sick?”
“Sick?”
“Yeah. Ill.”
“I don’t know. Not me. Why?”
“I just saw a doctor leave here carrying his case, and of course if he gave her sleeping pills and then stopped for a chat with you, naturally she would be asleep now. It’s the way a detective’s mind works, that’s all.” I grinned at him. “Unless she’s not the patient. One of your sisters maybe? Anyhow, I have nothing to say for Miss Alving except direct to Mrs. Whitten. I don’t know whether she would agree that it’s urgent and strictly personal, and there’s no way of deciding but to ask her. By tomorrow it might be too late. I don’t know about that either.”
“Ask him,” suggested Daniel Bahr, who had joined us, “whether it’s a request for money. If it is an attempt at a shakedown there is only one possible answer.”
“If that was it,” I said, “our blackmail department would be handling it, and I’ve been promoted from that. That’s as far as I can go except to Mrs. Whitten.”
“Wait here,” Jerome instructed me, and made for the stairs.
I stood in quiet dignity, but allowed my eyes to move. This, of course, was the reception hall, with the stairs at the left, the door to the living room on the right, and at the far end the door to the dining room, where the secret meeting of sons and daughters had been held. The hall was large and high-ceilinged and not overfurnished, except maybe a pink marble thing against the wall beyond the living-room door. It had a bare look because there was nothing but a couple of straw mats on the floor, but since it was July that was understandable. The only action while Jerome was gone was Mortimer’s dismissing the butler, who disappeared through the door to the dining room.
It wasn’t too long before Jerome came halfway down the stairs and called to me.
“Up here, Goodwin.”
I mounted to join him. On the landing above he turned to face me.
“You’ll keep it brief. I’m telling you. Is that understood?”
“Sure.”
“My mother’s in bed but not asleep. The doctor didn’t give her sleeping pills because she doesn’t need them. Her heart isn’t as good as it might be, and what happened here night before last, and these two days — I tried to persuade her not to see you, but she takes a lot of persuading. You’ll make it brief?”
“Sure.”
I followed him up to the third floor, which seemed a bad location for a woman with a weak heart, and into a room at the front. Inside I halted. Within range there was not one woman, but three. The one standing over by the bed, dark and small like Jerome, was Eve. The one who had been doing something at a bureau and turned as we entered was Phoebe, the child who, according to my day’s collection of scraps, most resembled her father. My quick glance at her gave me the impression that Father could have asked for no nicer compliment. Jerome was pronouncing my name, and I advanced to the bedside. As I did so there were steps to my rear and I swiveled my neck enough to get a glimpse of Mortimer and Daniel Bahr entering. That made it complete — all the six that Wolfe wanted to see!