So much for one of our daily rituals. He spun through the mail quickly, saw that it held nothing of interest, then pushed the buzzer on the underside of his desk. It squawks in the kitchen, signaling Fritz to bring beer — specifically, two bottles of Remmers. He then picked up his current book, Mars Beckons, by John Noble Wilford, which he was intending to read until lunch.
“Before you get smitten with the idea of hitching a ride on the next Mars-bound rocket, we had a visitor this morning,” I told him.
He set the book down deliberately and looked peevish. It’s his normal expression when his routine is messed with. I got an “All right, what is it?” glare, although his lips didn’t move.
“A gentleman stopped by,” I began as Fritz entered silently, bearing a tray with two bottles of beer and a pilsner glass. “This gentleman’s boss is getting threatening notes, and he wants to hire you to find out who’s penning them.”
The peevish expression remained as Wolfe poured beer and watched the foam settle. “Continue,” he said coldly.
“You know as well as I do what the current state of our finances is,” I responded.
Wolfe drew in air and let it out slowly, keeping his narrowed eyes on me. “Archie, you are maundering,” he snorted. “I am painfully aware that I will get no peace until you have unburdened yourself. Let’s get on with it.”
This was going to be tricky. “You remember how you once said that a client’s line of work is far less important than the problem he presents to us?”
“I expressed that thought in relation to a specific and unusual situation, as you well remember.”
“Through the years, we’ve had a lot of unusual situations, and for my money, we have another one.” I looked at Wolfe and got no encouragement, but I’ve never been one to let that stop me. “The man on the receiving end of the threatening notes is well-known,” I went on. “Maybe you’ve heard of him; his name is Barnabas Bay.”
“Pah. A clerical mountebank.”
“Pah yourself. I know you have a lot of respect for the knowledge and opinions of our friend Mr. Cohen. He tells me that Bay is far from a mountebank, and that—”
“You don’t even know the definition of the word,” Wolfe challenged.
“Wrong. I looked it up after it had been used to describe you by someone in this very room a few years back. And at that, she was the second person to call you a mountebank. One more and I’m going to start believing it. Anyway, Lon describes Bay as smart, honest, earnest, and a top-drawer preacher to boot. To say nothing of the good works his church does, among them shelters here in Manhattan for battered women and the homeless.”
“Commendable,” Wolfe answered without conviction. “Suggest that he talk to the police about the notes.”
“I did, but, at least according to his sidekick, Lloyd Morgan — he’s the man who stopped by — Bay is trying to avoid the kind of publicity that might result from an investigation.”
“Given his line of work, his reaction would seem a prudent one,” Wolfe said.
“That sounds suspiciously like a cheap shot,” I told him. “How about asking me for a verbatim report of my chat with Mr. Morgan?”
Wolfe sighed and closed his eyes, probably hoping I would disappear. “It appears that I’ll get one whether I want it or not. Go ahead.”
In the past, I’ve recounted conversations of hours in length to Wolfe without omitting a single word, so this shorty was a snap. I ended by placing the hate notes found in the collection plates in front of him. “Here, you may find these interesting,” I said.
Wolfe made a face but studied the sheets in silence for ninety seconds, careful not to touch them with his fingertips. “Anyone with a concordance could have done this all in ten minutes, fifteen at most,” he said, waving a hand.
“Okay, I’m willing to concede that there’s a gap in my knowledge: what’s a concordance?”
“A refreshing admission. It is a biblical subject index. Many Bibles have them in the back. Return these to Mr. Morgan,” he said curtly, pushing the notes in my direction.
“What should I tell him?”
“To go to the police, of course,” he snapped, picking up his book. If I’ve learned anything at all about the foibles of genius in the years of living in the same household with one, it’s knowing when to keep after him and when to back off. This was one of those times to back off — if only for a while. I left Wolfe to his beer and book and busied myself with the orchid-germination records, which kept me occupied until lunchtime.
Among the unwritten rules in the brownstone is that business — and that includes prospective business — is not to be discussed during meals. So as we feasted on Maryland crab cakes and Fritz’s Caesar salad with garlic croutons, Wolfe held forth on the advisability of the United States reorganizing into about a dozen states — certainly no more than fifteen. I mostly listened, chewed, and nodded, although I did ask who the rest of the country would make jokes about if there wasn’t a California to kick around anymore.
As usual, we returned to the office after lunch for coffee, but I still wasn’t ready to renew the Bay campaign. Wolfe read until it was time to visit his orchids at four, while I balanced the checkbook, paid the bills, and reread the Gazette’s account of the zany Mets game against Cincinnati at Shea, in which our boys scored six runs in the second inning on only one hit, a bunt single. Shows you what can happen when the opponents make three errors, hit a batter, give you three walks, and throw a wild pitch.
After Wolfe went upstairs, I called Morgan, who picked up on the first ring. “You talked to him?” he blurted before I could spit out anything other than my name.
“Yes, but I have nothing definite to report. We’re going to discuss your problem again later.”
“Oh, dear, that doesn’t sound terribly encouraging, does it?”
“Now, I didn’t say that. I promised to report today, though, and I wanted to make sure I caught you before you went home. I’ll phone you again in the morning.”
Morgan didn’t sound tickled with the news, but that was his problem; I had my own — getting Wolfe to take a church as a client. I tried him again when he came down from the plant rooms at six, and I’ll spare you the grim details, other than to say that he got so angry with my badgering, as he calls it, that he stalked out of the office, retreating to his bedroom until dinnertime. And following dinner, as we got settled in the office with coffee, I tried once more, pointing out to Wolfe that he didn’t have to go near the Silver Spire church himself.
“As usual, I’ll do all the on-site work,” I told him, “and for that matter, you don’t have to be exposed to Bay or any of his religious types until the very end, when you’ve figured the thing out.”
My answer was a glower and two sentences: “Archie, let me save your larynx further exercise on this subject. Under no circumstances will I accept a commission from Mr. Bay or his organization.”
“Uh-huh. The bank balance be hanged, eh? What do you suggest I say to Morgan?”
Wolfe turned a hand over. “Tell him whatever you like. This is not the first time we have rejected an entreaty, nor is it likely to be the last.”
“Keep your pronouns in the first person where they belong,” I shot back. “I didn’t reject anything.”
Wolfe glowered again and retreated behind his book, which gave me, some satisfaction, but not much. I contemplated quitting, something I’ve done for varying periods at least a dozen times over the years, but vetoed the idea because my vacation was coming up in less than a month, and Lily Rowan and I had all our reservations for two weeks in England and Scotland. True, I had a respectable amount squirreled away in savings and a few investments, but I was damned if I was going to let Wolfe off the hook for my well-earned furlough — with pay.