“Not necessarily, but it could come up at some point. Anyway, I think I’ve covered everything I need to know for now. I’ll keep you apprised of our progress when there are developments, but in the meantime, feel free to call me. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough.” She stood and held out a hand. She wasn’t smiling, but that’s okay; I prefer people whose faces accurately reflect their feelings and, as I suggested earlier, Noreen James didn’t have a great deal to smile about at the moment.
Eleven
I spent what was left of Friday, not counting dinner, trying to get Wolfe to discuss the James-Linville case, but he wasn’t having any, and when he digs his heels in, there’s not a lot I can do, despite my bragging to Noreen that I am able to push him better than anybody else on the globe.
I finally gave up after we’d been in the office for about an hour following dinner. “Lord knows, I don’t ask a lot,” I had said to the covers of the open book that hid Wolfe’s face from me. “Just a set of basic instructions to get me moving in the right direction. Here we’ve taken money from this trusting young woman, who for whatever reasons has confidence in your detecting abilities. At this very moment she probably is sitting at home wondering about how you are progressing on this—”
Wolfe set his book down deliberately and fixed me with a glare that would have done credit to Bela Lugosi. “Archie, you are becoming a Momus.”
“Yes, sir. I must be getting edgy because of that maddening middle-class Midwestern conscience of mine; you know, the one that whispers to me that I should be industrious at all times.” That sentence and a few more variations on the same theme accomplished absolutely nothing, other than to send Wolfe back to the sanctuary of his book. I sulked at my desk for several minutes, then got up, yawned loudly, and walked out.
It wasn’t as though I had nothing to do: Just before dinner, Saul Panzer had called to announce that he was putting together an impromptu poker game that night. Normally, a group of us gets together at Saul’s on Thursdays, but this was a bonus session, called by the host because an old friend was passing through town. “You don’t give a guy much notice, do you?” I had told Saul at the time, saying the odds were against my making it because we were working on a case. Now, however, with Wolfe having gone into hibernation, I was only too glad to get out of the house, which I did.
I’d like to report that the evening spent with spades, hearts, diamonds, clubs, chips, and five other dollar-ante gamblers was a success, but in truth I was forced to open my wallet several times during the evening to underwrite my continued participation, and when a merciful halt was called to the hostilities a little before one, I was able to say that I had added to the financial well-being of at least three of my tablemates.
So much for Friday. The next morning, I was determined to somehow jump-start Wolfe. The Saturday routine in the brownstone is exactly like that on weekdays, with the lord and master of the manor devoting his standard four hours — two in the morning and two before dinner — to his orchids. So I knew I wouldn’t have a crack at him until he came down from the plant rooms at eleven, being as how he views interruptions during his playtime about the same way he views anyone who dares to use “contact” as a verb in his presence.
Both morning papers had stories on young Michael James’s arrest, with the Daily News splashing it on page one in the form of a photo showing Michael with his lawyer just after he made bond. His head was down in the picture, which was headlined ARREST IN YUPPIE MURDER, and the lawyer was putting up an arm, presumably to shield his client — but not himself — from the glare of publicity. Even the Times gave the story front-page play, with a two-column headline in the lower-right-hand corner and a short, relatively unenlightening story about Michael’s arrest and release along with biographical information on both Megan and Doyle James that stressed their well-upholstered life-styles. But both stories reported that Michael had given no motive as to why he killed Linville.
I knew Wolfe had digested all of this too, because he reads two papers thoroughly while demolishing the breakfast Fritz delivers on a tray to his bedroom.
After my own breakfast, I busied myself typing letters and massaging the orchid-germination records in the personal computer. I’d run out of work by ten-twenty and was trying to improve my vocabulary by working the Times crossword puzzle when the intercom line on the phone rang, meaning I was getting a rare call from Wolfe during his orchid session.
“I have instructions,” he said, his tone clearly indicating his displeasure at conducting business from the plant rooms.
“Shoot.”
“I believe Mr. Linville’s funeral is later today. You should be present.”
“It’s at twelve-thirty, and I’d been planning to go — whether or not you asked.”
He grunted and went on. “I also would like to see Inspector Cramer at eleven.”
“This morning?”
“Of course,” he answered testily. Wolfe always assumes the entire world is poised for an invitation to the brownstone.
“And if he can’t make it then?”
“He’ll make it. Tell him Michael James is our client. And ask Miss Rowan to be here this afternoon at three. You should be back by then. Further, I wish to see Michael James tonight. Nine o’clock. His sister may wish to accompany him. However, if she does, I will insist on conversing with Mr. James alone.”
“All right. What else?”
“The what-else is yet to be determined, but it is probable that you will have assignments for tomorrow.”
“On Sunday? My day off? I’ve got box seats for the Mets-Cardinals game.”
“Give them away,” Wolfe sniffed. He had me and he knew it. I was mad because of the likelihood of missing the game but at the same time pleased because he appeared to be using his mental faculties. I went to work, starting with Lily, who was at home.
“Mr. Wolfe would like the pleasure of your company,” I purred into the mouthpiece. “This afternoon, no less. At three.”
“We’re flattered,” she responded with a purr of her own, better than mine. “May I assume this has something to do with Michael, or has your boss finally succumbed to my not inconsiderable charms?”
“Some of each, no doubt, although he’s requesting your pleasure ostensibly because of the former.”
“See you at three, then, lover. Ta-ta.”
“Ta-ta, yourself,” I said, hanging up and dialing Cramer. I got a sergeant whose name I didn’t recognize who said the inspector wasn’t available. I told him Nero Wolfe was calling, and that it was important. A pause followed, then muffled conversations.
“Wolfe?” It was Cramer, who didn’t sound like he’d just won the lottery. “What is it?”
“It’s Goodwin, calling for Mr. Wolfe,” I said. “He wondered if you could stop by, say at eleven?”
“Why the hell should I? Is he announcing that he’s moving to Montenegro?”
“Nothing so exciting. He’s taken on Michael James as a client, and I suppose he wants to talk about the case.”
Cramer spat a word but apparently wasn’t happy with the pronunciation because he spat it again. “I knew it. The minute I learned you were involved in all this — ah, hell.” He slammed his receiver down, which I took to be an acceptance of our invitation.
I then dialed Megan James’s apartment, where Noreen had said she would be staying for the weekend. Carmella answered and after asking who I was called our real client to the phone. “Archie! Has anything happened?” Noreen asked in an out-of-breath tone.
“Nothing you don’t know about,” I told her. “How’s Michael?”