Robert Goldsborough
Silver Spire
TO BARBARA STOUT
and
REBECCA STOUT BRADBURY
for their continuing
encouragement and
enthusiasm
One
With two baritone belches of the horn, the Samuel I. Newhouse eased from its slip at South Ferry, and we were on the briny. It being the middle of the day, only a couple of dozen people or so were scattered throughout the big boat, most of them either reading or dozing or trying to wriggle into comfortable positions on the molded, one-size-fits-all blue plastic seats.
The interior of the ferry had all the charm of a warehouse, and after five minutes of trying to get comfortable myself, I went out onto the small deck at the bow and let the May breeze blow across my face. The Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, New York’s newest tourist attraction, were off to the right — make that the starboard, mate — and the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge arched gracefully to port, while dead ahead through the haze of New York Harbor, the low green hills of Staten Island began to take form.
That morning as I sat in the kitchen of Nero Wolfe’s brownstone on West Thirty-fifth Street devouring wheatcakes and the Times, I recalled the last time I had been on Staten Island, which most New Yorkers don’t even think of as part of the city — when they think of it at all. That was almost ten years ago, when Wolfe took a case involving an arrogant old art collector on the island whose prized Cézanne had been filched from his house and replaced with a good but not great copy.
All arrows pointed to the collector’s crotchety and somewhat larcenous maid, but it turned out the switch had been pulled by a guy posing as a gas company employee who said he’d been sent out to find a leak in the line. Anyway, thanks to Wolfe’s brainpower and my leg power, the phony gas man, a onetime art history student with a police record as long as a pickpocket’s fingers, got nailed, the Cézanne was recovered, and our bank balance received a healthy and much-needed transfusion.
This time, however, I was venturing forth to the borough of Richmond on what both Wolfe and I considered far more momentous business. But then, I’m getting ahead of myself, so I’ll start where they say you’re supposed to start — at the beginning.
The beginning was a rainy May morning — a Thursday, for those among you who want specifics. Wolfe was upstairs in the brownstone’s rooftop greenhouse puttering with his beloved orchids, as is his sacred routine from nine to eleven every morning and four to six in the P.M. I sat at my desk in the office, entering orchid-germination records into the personal computer, as is part of my own more or less sacred routine.
The doorbell rang at ten-seventeen, and because the brownstone’s Most Valuable Player, chef Fritz Brenner, was out buying provisions that later would be part of three-star meals, I did the honors, walking down the hall and peering through the one-way glass in the front door. The visitor on the stoop was high-shouldered and barrel-chested, and in his vested charcoal pinstripe, he looked like a banker faced with the prospect of having to give a loan, or maybe he was just suffering gas pains. But he didn’t seem like the type to carry a concealed weapon, so I swung the door open.
“Good morning,” I said with gusto. “We already have a set of Britannicas and currently subscribe to no fewer than eleven magazines — I can show you the list. Also, everyone who lives here is well insured, and we are not in the market for a vacuum cleaner, a set of genuine horsehair brushes, or a food processor. Now, what can I do for you, or you for me?”
I didn’t even get a lip twitch for my efforts. “I am here to seek Nero Wolfe’s counsel,” the banker-type intoned somberly. “May I assume that you are Archie Goodwin, his associate?”
“Assume to your heart’s content,” I said. “Before this conversation goes a single sentence further, however, I must warn you that Mr. Wolfe sees no one — repeat, no one — without an appointment. And because I am the keeper of the appointment book, I am keenly aware that you don’t have one — an appointment, that is.”
“Correct. I realize that I took a chance by coming here without telephoning first. Maybe that was an ill-conceived strategy, but I thought perhaps you, Mr. Goodwin, would be willing to hear my supplication and decide whether it merits Mr. Wolfe’s consideration.”
“That’s a lot of syllables, but I’m used to all that and more from my employer. Tell you what: If you promise not to toss too many more big words around, I’ll hear your — what was it — supplication? No guarantees, though.”
“No guarantees,” the banker-type agreed, still poker-faced.
“Another thing,” I told him, planting myself in the doorway. “Is it fair to assume that your parents gave you a name?”
“What? Oh, yes, of course.” He made a pathetic stab at smiling. It was gas pains, I decided. “Please excuse my manners. My name is Lloyd Morgan, and I work very closely with the Reverend Barnabas Bay.”
“Bay as in that big church I’ve read about over on Staten Island, the one with the bells-and-whistles TV show?”
“The Tabernacle of the Silver Spire.” Morgan rolled the syllables around proudly, as if they themselves were holy. “We feel our televised service is quite tasteful, however.”
“Well, anyway, that’s the place,” I said, ushering Morgan into the brownstone and down the hall to the office. I pointed him at the red leather chair in front of Wolfe’s desk and slid in behind my own desk, swiveling to face him. “Mr. Wolfe is up playing with his orchids,” I told our visitor, “and he won’t be back down until eleven. But you have my undivided attention; what’s the problem?”
Morgan considered the well-tended nails on his thick fingers, then took what I assume was a thoughtful breath before making eye contact. “First off, Barney — that’s what Father Bay asks everybody on the staff to call him — knows I’m here, although he doesn’t entirely approve. He considers me a worrywart. That is the exact word he used: ‘worrywart,’” Morgan said in an offended tone. “However, worrywart or not, I insisted that we needed outside help and informed him of Nero Wolfe, whom he’d never heard of.”
“The poor fellow must be living in a state of sensory deprivation,” I deadpanned. “Everyone has heard of Nero Wolfe, probably even those Sherpa guides up on Mount Everest.” Okay, so I was having a little fun at the poor guy’s expense, mainly because I knew he wouldn’t pick up on it. He didn’t. In fact, the expression on his round, slightly ruddy face remained unchanged, which is to say basically blank. No smile, no frown, no scowl, no nothing.
“Barney maintains an incredible schedule,” Morgan went on without apology, defending his boss, which is always worth a few points in my book. “It seems like he’s on the move every minute — a speech to the ministerial council in Newark, a benefit dinner for one of our shelters for the homeless in the Bronx, the mayor’s prayer breakfast downtown. He probably doesn’t always peruse the newspapers as thoroughly as he should.”
“Maybe none of us does.” I almost liked Morgan — but not quite. “Now that we’ve agreed on something, how do you see Nero Wolfe helping you and the good reverend?”
Morgan, who had primly declined my offer of coffee, did loosen to the extent of unbuttoning his suitcoat, which was progress. Then he cleared his throat several times, which was not. “Mr. Goodwin, may I assume that this conversation is utterly confidential?”
“You may, unless a crime has been committed, in which case, as a private investigator licensed by the sovereign state of New York, I am required to report said crime. No choice.” Okay, so there have been a few times — make it quite a few — when I’ve done some fudging with that particular requirement.