He shouldn’t have tried glaring because he wasn’t built for it. He wasn’t much bigger than Mrs. Koven, and he had narrow shoulders and broad hips. An aggressive baritone and a defiant glare coming from that make-up just couldn’t have the effect he was after. He needed coaching.
“You have already made me sore,” she told his back in a nice low voice, but not a weak one. “You act like a brat and you’re too old to be a brat. Why not grow up?”
He wheeled and snapped at her, “I look on you as a mother!”
That was a foul. They were both younger than me, and she couldn’t have had more than three or four years on him.
I spoke. “Excuse me,” I said, “but I am not a professional witness. I came to see Mr. Koven at his request. Shall I go hunt for him?”
A thin squeak came from behind me. “Good morning, Mrs. Koven. Am I early?”
As she answered I turned for a look at the owner of the squeak, who was advancing from the archway. He should have traded voices with Pete Jordan. He had both the size and presence for a deep baritone, with a well-made head topped by a healthy mat of gray hair nearly white. Everything about him was impressive and masterful, including the way he carried himself, but the squeak spoiled it completely. It continued as he joined us.
“I heard Mr. Goodwin, and Pete left, so I thought—”
Mrs. Koven and Pete were both talking too, and it didn’t seem worth the effort to sort it out, especially when the monkey decided to join in and started chattering. Also I could feel sweat coming on my forehead and neck, overdressed as I was with a coat and vest, since Pete and the newcomer were in shirt sleeves. I couldn’t follow their example without displaying my holster. They kept it up, including the monkey, ignoring me completely but informing me incidentally that the squeaker was not Adrian Getz as I had first supposed, but Byram Hildebrand, Pete’s co-worker in the grind of drawing Dazzle Dan.
It was all very informal and homey, but I was starting to sizzle and I crossed to the far side of the room and opened a window wide. I expected an immediate reaction but got none. Disappointed at that but relieved by the rush of fresh air, I filled my chest, used my handkerchief on the brow and neck, and, turning, saw that we had company. Coming through the archway was a pink-cheeked creature in a mink coat with a dark green slab of cork or something perched on her brown hair at a cocky slant. With no one bothering to glance at her except me, she moved across toward the fireplace, slid the coat off onto a couch, displaying a tricky plaid suit with an assortment of restrained colors, and said in a throaty voice that carried without being raised, “Rookaloo will be dead in an hour.”
They were all shocked into silence except the monkey. Mrs. Koven looked at her, looked around, saw the open window, and demanded, “Who did that?”
“I did,” I said manfully.
Byram Hildebrand strode to the window like a general in front of troops and pulled it shut. The monkey stopped talking and started to cough.
“Listen to him,” Pete Jordan said. His baritone mellowed when he was pleased. “Pneumonia already! That’s an idea! That’s what I’ll do when I work up to making Getz sore.”
Three of them went to the cage to take a look at Rookaloo, not bothering to greet or thank her who had come just in time to save the monkey’s life. She stepped to me, asking cordially, “You’re Archie Goodwin? I’m Pat Lowell.” She put out a hand, and I took it. She had talent as a handclasper and backed it up with a good straight look out of clear brown eyes. “I was going to phone you this morning to warn you that Mr. Koven is never ready on time for an appointment, but he arranged this himself so I didn’t.”
“Never again,” I told her, “pass up an excuse for phoning me.”
“I won’t.” She took her hand back and glanced at her wrist. “You’re early anyway. He told us the conference would be at twelve-thirty.”
“I was to come at twelve.”
“Oh.” She was taking me in — nothing offensive, but she sure was rating me. “To talk with him first?”
I shrugged. “I guess so.”
She nodded, frowning a little. “This is a new one on me. I’ve been his agent and manager for three years now, handling all his business, everything from endorsements of cough drops to putting Dazzle Dan on scooters, and this is the first time a thing like this has happened, him getting someone in for a conference without consulting me — and Nero Wolfe, no less! I understand it’s about a tie-up of Nero Wolfe and Dazzle Dan, having Dan start a detective agency?”
I put that question mark there, though her inflection left it to me whether to call it a question or merely a statement. I was caught off guard, so it probably showed on my face — my glee at the prospect of telling Wolfe about a tie-up between him and Dazzle Dan, with full details. I tried to erase it.
“We’d better wait,” I said discreetly, “and let Mr. Koven tell it. As I understand it, I’m only here as a technical adviser, representing Mr. Wolfe because he never goes out on business. Of course you would handle the business end, and if that means you and I will have to have a lot of talks—”
I stopped because I had lost her. Her eyes were aimed past my left shoulder toward the archway, and their expression had suddenly and completely changed. They weren’t exactly more alive or alert, but more concentrated. I turned, and there was Harry Koven crossing to us. His mop of black hair hadn’t been combed, and he hadn’t shaved. His big frame was enclosed in a red silk robe embroidered with yellow Dazzle Dans. A little guy in a dark blue suit was with him, at his elbow.
“Good morning, my little dazzlers!” Koven boomed.
“It seems cool in here,” the little guy said in a gentle worried voice.
In some mysterious way the gentle little voice seemed to make more noise than the big boom. Certainly it was the gentle little voice that chopped off the return greetings from the dazzlers, but it could have been the combination of the two, the big man and the small one, that had so abruptly changed the atmosphere of the room. Before they had all been screwy perhaps, but all free and easy; now they were all tightened up. They even seemed to be tongue-tied, so I spoke.
“I opened a window,” I said.
“Good heavens,” the little guy mildly reproached me and trotted over to the monkey’s cage. Mrs. Koven and Pete Jordan were in his path, and they hastily moved out of it, as if afraid of getting trampled, though he didn’t look up to trampling anything bigger than a cricket. Not only was he too little and too old, but also he was vaguely deformed and trotted with a jerk.
Koven boomed at me, “So you got here! Don’t mind the Squirt and his damn monkey. He loves that damn monkey. I call this the steam room.” He let out a laugh. “How is it, Squirt, okay?”
“I think so, Harry. I hope so.” The low gentle voice filled the room again.
“I hope so too, or God help Goodwin.” Koven turned on Byram Hildebrand. “Has seven-twenty-eight come, By?”
“No,” Hildebrand squeaked. “I phoned Furnari, and he said it would be right over.”
“Late again. We may have to change. When it comes, do a revise on the third frame. Where Dan says, ‘Not tonight, my dear,’ make it, ‘Not today, my dear.’ Got it?”
“But we discussed that—”
“I know, but change it. We’ll change seven-twenty-nine to fit. Have you finished seven-thirty-three?”
“No. It’s only—”
“Then what are you dome up here?”
“Why, Goodwin came, and you said you wanted us at twelve-thirty—”
“I’ll let you know when we’re ready — sometime after lunch. Show me the revise on seven-twenty-eight.” Koven glanced around masterfully. “How is everybody? Blooming? See you all later. Come along, Goodwin, sorry you had to wait. Come with me.”