The phone rang — it was Lon Cohen. “Maybe you remember me. The guy you call when you need information, but the guy you forget when he needs information.”
“Oh yeah, now I remember, the guy who helps to lighten my wallet at the gaming table every Thursday night.”
He made a sound that was a cross between a growl and a chuckle. “What’s going on with Durkin? He won’t come to the phone when I call — never mind that I’ve known him for years. And Parker doesn’t return my calls, but then, that’s a lawyer for you. Come across, Archie, give me something for tomorrow’s home edition. This story’s gone into the dumpster for days now.”
“Sorry, but I’ve got nothing to give. I’m as anxious as you are — hell, more anxious — to have something happen.”
“What’s Wolfe think?”
“Damned if I know. He rarely unburdens himself to me. Listen, you know that if and when something pops around here, you’ll be the first one I call.”
“Yeah. Can I get that in writing?”
“My word — spoken — is my bond,” I told him, getting a word in reply before the line went dead. I turned back to the sheet of paper in my hand.
I’m the first to admit my ignorance of the Bible, but when I was in confirmation class more years ago than you’ll get me to own up to, I memorized all the books of both the Old and New Testaments, and I got a red-and-gold pin for being the first one to do it. Never mind that I didn’t bother to learn what was in those books, beyond a few “begats” and “thou shalt nots.”
So much for my biblical training. I stared at Meade’s notations and wondered what, if anything, Wolfe would make of them. There were seven verses, neatly scripted and spaced out about three lines apart on the yellow sheet:
1 Tim 6:10
Job 5:16
Acts 17:28
Matt 2:12
Psalm 86:13
Eccles 5:17
Rom 13:14
I briefly contemplated pulling one of Wolfe’s Bibles off the shelf and trying to make something out of all this, but I finished my sandwich instead, then started in on updating the orchid-germination records. I know how to use the old noodle, but I also know my limitations. On our team, Wolfe is the brains, and I’m the legs and the eyes and the sweat, when sweat is called for, which is most of the time. By and large, that division of authority works pretty well, and I wasn’t about to mess with it.
Fifteen
I was still at the computer when I heard the groaning of the elevator at six. Wolfe entered the office, slipped an orchid into the vase on his desk, got settled, and rang for beer. “The veal cutlets were superb,” he announced.
“So was my ham sandwich — take it from the man who made it. I put some reading material on the blotter. You want to go over it first, or should I report?”
He raised his eyebrows. “These verses?”
“The best I could do. Meade apparently wasn’t big on marking up his Bibles. But I found that list on his desk, along with the names and phone numbers.”
Wolfe pulled in a bushel of air. “Report,” he said, pouring beer into a glass from one of two bottles Fritz had just brought in. I gave him my usual playback, which took just over twenty minutes. He sat with his eyes closed, opening them occasionally to locate his glass and lift it to his lips. When I finished, he studied the sheet with the verses. “Get Mr. Bay,” he said.
“It’s after six. He’s probably gone home.”
“You are resourceful, as you remind me daily.”
“Yes, sir.” I punched the church’s number and got a recorded woman’s voice informing me that the office hours were nine to five daily and reciting the times of the Sunday services. It ended by giving a number that could be called in case of emergency. I decided this was not an emergency and called directory assistance for Bay’s home number. They had it, which was a mild surprise. Wolfe already was on the line when the man himself answered.
“Mr. Bay? Nero Wolfe. I need information.”
“Can’t it wait till tomorrow?” he asked plaintively. “My wife and I are just sitting down to dinner.”
“This will take but a moment. At the time of his death, was Mr. Meade in the process of preparing a sermon?”
“No... not that I know of. I’m not taking another vacation until November. Roy probably would have been in the pulpit at least one of the weeks I was to be gone, but we hadn’t discussed it yet.”
“Might he have been scheduled to preach elsewhere?”
“Unlikely,” Bay replied. “Roy didn’t give guest sermons very often, although he certainly was free to do so. And when he did, I usually knew about it, because he almost always asked my advice on content and organization.”
“The reason for my questions is that Mr. Goodwin discovered a listing of Bible passages on Mr. Meade’s desk today,” Wolfe said. “Seven of them. The first is I Timothy 6:10.”
“The most misquoted verse of all,” Bay said.
“Inarguably.”
“As I’m sure you know, in most modern translations it reads something like ‘the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil.’ But the words ‘the love of’ seem to get dropped when the passage is cited — at least by lay people.”
“Can you suggest any reason Mr. Meade might have set down these passages?” Wolfe read the other six for Bay.
“No,” the minister answered. “Diane told me that Mr. Goodwin had made a photocopy of some material from Roy’s office, and I was going to take a look at the originals tomorrow. I will not claim to be an expert on every verse in the Bible, Mr. Wolfe, but from what I do know, those you mentioned just now don’t seem to follow a particular pattern. Roy probably was using them in his own personal devotions, for whatever specific reasons he had. That’s not at all unusual. I often make note of certain verses myself when I’m reading the Bible. They help me to focus both my thoughts and my prayers.”
Wolfe thanked Bay and cradled the receiver, studying the verses again. He glared at his empty glass before refilling it, then walked to the bookshelves and pulled a Bible out, carrying it back to the desk. He thumbed through it, stopping occasionally to make a notation on a sheet of bond I had supplied at his request.
“Finding anything?” I asked sociably after several minutes. I got a grunt in response. He repeated the process with a second Bible from the shelf and a third, and judging by the expression on his face, he had discovered no more in them than he had in the first. He still had all three of the books open on the desk when Fritz announced dinner.
Wolfe seemed like his usual self at the table, polishing off three helpings of the salmon mousse with dill sauce — his own recipe — and launching into a monologue on why the country consistently elects Republican Presidents and Democratic Congresses. The way he laid it out, it made perfect sense to me.
When we were back in the office after dinner, I started to get worried. First off, Wolfe didn’t ring for beer after he’d finished his coffee. He just sat for five minutes with his hands on the arms of the chair and his eyes shut, then closed the Bibles, returned them to the shelves, and announced he was going to bed. It was nine o’clock, and he never turns in much before midnight. It had all the earmarks of that most dreaded of Wolfe’s maladies — a relapse.
I have never figured out what brings on the relapses, but he’s been having them all the years I’ve been on the payroll. He doesn’t get one on every case — not even close. And he doesn’t necessarily fall into them on the most difficult cases. But when one comes, nothing short of a five-alarm fire in his bedroom will blast him out of it. I’ve seen these things last anywhere from one day to two weeks, and in the extreme, I’ve known him to quit altogether. That happened in the Farnstrom Jewelry swindle, which never did get solved, and we had to give back a retainer that would have kept Wolfe in beer, books, and beluga caviar for months, never mind that he doesn’t eat caviar.