“So you broke the trek into two parts, eh? Very smart. Okay, when do you want to gather them?”
“I suppose tonight is out of the question?”
“You suppose right. I know it may shock you, but many New Yorkers actually leave the sanctuary of their homes, particularly on Saturday nights, to sample some diversion or another in this great metropolis.”
“Sarcasm does not become you, Archie. You wield a broadsword when a rapier is called for.” He sighed. “But I suppose that is but one of the many prices I must pay for having a man of action on the premises. Tomorrow night, then.”
“Any idea how I can lure Clarice Wingfield across the Hudson?”
Wolfe sniffed. “You will find a way.”
Easy for him to say. We agreed on nine o’clock Sunday, which gave me twenty-seven hours to assemble the entire cast. I tackled the easiest one first, calling Vinson at home.
“Wolfe knows the murderer?” the publisher said tensely. “Who is it?”
“Sorry, but this is like a raffle — you’ve got to be present to be a winner,” I told him. “It’s a long-standing house rule here.” Vinson muttered something about this being a fine way to treat a client, but not for long, and not with any real conviction. He asked who would be present, and I reeled off the guest list, not bothering to mention that none of them had yet been invited. “Well, it should make for a damned interesting evening,” he conceded. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
I also got Franklin Ott and Debra Mitchell at home on the first try, telling each of them only that Wolfe had some important information pertaining to the death of Childress. Both squawked a bit before agreeing to show up, and, like Vinson, both wanted to know who else was on the guest list, which I told them. “I don’t know why you would possibly want me there,” Ott sputtered. “But I admit to a morbid curiosity. Deal me in.”
Debra Mitchell kept asking if Wolfe was going to expose the murderer. “That’s how he usually does these things,” she insisted. “I do read the papers, you know.”
I refused to tell her in so many words that names were going to be named, but I did toss out some broad hints that Wolfe might get specific, which satisfied her to the point where she grudgingly said she’d join the party.
I got no answer from Keith Billings, Patricia Royce, or Wilbur Hobbs on Saturday night, but I nailed all of them on Sunday morning. For the sake of brevity, put it down that on a hostility scale with ten as the tops, Billings was a nine, Hobbs a seven-plus, and Ms. Royce a four. But they all said they would show after learning who else would be in attendance.
Now to backtrack briefly to Saturday night: Clarice Wingfield was a special case, and I handled it accordingly by phoning Saul Panzer. “You were so successful in locating our missing Hoosier lassie that we’ve got another project,” I told him.
“Fire away,” came the reply. Saul has never been big on lengthy phone conversations.
“Mr. Wolfe is hosting a love-in with all of the Childress murder suspects, and I’m going to have my hands full orchestrating it. Would it be asking too much to have you deliver Clarice Wingfield to the brownstone tomorrow at, say, eight-forty-five in the evening? Without using undue force, of course? And at your usual rates, of course?”
“Consider it done.”
When Saul says that, I don’t need to hear anything else.
Sundays in the brownstone are pretty much free-form. The rigid weekday schedule sails out the window, and Wolfe may or may not play with his orchids. He normally spends much of the day at his desk plowing through the Sunday papers before vanquishing the Times Magazine crossword puzzle.
He was working his way through the Times at eleven-forty-five in the morning when I hung up from verbally sparring with Keith Billings. “That’s it, they’re all coming,” I told him, swinging around in my chair. “What about Cramer?”
He filled in another word, set down the puzzle, and drew in air, expelling it slowly. “Get him.”
Heaven forbid that Wolfe should have to punch out a telephone number himself. I called Homicide and was told that the inspector would not be in at all that day, so I looked up his home number in my address book. Mrs. Cramer answered and sounded reluctant to put her husband on. She muffled the speaker, but I could hear her saying “It’s Nero Wolfe’s office. Do you want to take it?”
I nodded for Wolfe to pick up his instrument while I stayed on the line, and the next thing I heard was the familiar, gruff “Yeah?”
“This is Nero Wolfe, Mr. Cramer. I regret disturbing you at home, but I felt you should be aware that I will be divulging the identity of Charles Childress’s murderer tonight.”
That brought one of Cramer’s most frequently used epithets, one you will never read in these pages. He repeated it, presumably to make sure Wolfe knew precisely how he felt. “Is this on the level?” he then snorted.
“It is, sir. You would do well to be here at nine o’clock. Will you be bringing Sergeant Stebbins?”
Cramer spat a yes and the line went dead. “He never even bothered to say good-bye, that barbarian,” I commented.
Wolfe scowled. “You know how to reach those people who were here?”
“The members of PROBE? Yes, I have telephone numbers and addresses for all of them, as you instructed.”
“Call the woman, Wilma Race,” he said, proceeding to give me brief instructions that were so surprising I made him repeat them. “Why her?” I then asked.
“She is clearly the most intelligent and perceptive of the three,” was his reply, which was good enough for me.
Fritz and I got the office set up with extra chairs from the dining room, and we converted the small table in the corner into a bar, stocking it with scotch, rye, gin, vodka, mixers, and a carafe of a good French white wine. The doorbell rang at precisely eight-forty-five, and I bet myself it was Saul and Clarice Wingfield. I won the bet.
As I opened the front door, Clarice glared at me from the stoop, her expression an interesting blend of anger and terror. “This is a disgrace, an absolute disgrace,” she hissed as Saul ushered her into the hall.
“She’s not a happy camper, Arch,” he said. “A neighbor’s taking care of the baby, that wasn’t a problem. But she—”
Clarice wheeled on Saul, eyes afire. “I am quite capable of speaking for myself, thank you,” she snapped. Turning to me: “Mr. Goodwin, this stops just short of kidnapping. The only reason I finally consented to come is that Mr. Panzer here guaranteed that your great Nero Wolfe is going to tell us all who killed Charles. Why he insists on a group meeting is beyond me, however.”
“Well, your presence is most appreciated,” I responded, flashing a smile that failed to alter her dour expression. As per our plan, Saul steered her to the front room, where they both would stay until everyone else was seated. Clarice complained mildly and curtly declined my offer of liquid refreshments, but she went along with the program. I closed the front room door behind me and reentered the hall just as the bell rang again. It was Cramer and Sergeant Purley Stebbins.
“All right, you got us here,” Cramer wheezed, stating the obvious and barreling by me with the sergeant in his wake. A word about Purley Stebbins: He has worked for Cramer at least as long as I’ve worked for Wolfe. He’s got a long, bony face with a square jaw at the south end, and if he has a sense of humor, he manages to keep it out of sight. He’s tough, he’s honest, and he doesn’t waste words. Purley and I have what I would term grudging respect for each other; Purley doesn’t completely trust me — or Wolfe — and never will, figuring that anybody who earns his keep as a private detective is questionable by definition and will during any case eventually be at cross-purposes with the machinery of law enforcement. And while I appreciate many of Purley’s qualities, I would not put it past the good sergeant to withhold even nonessential information from us, for no other reason than to be contrary.