“Point taken. By the way, I don’t think I am in any kind of shape to trot down to the Gazette’s offices and pick up any responses that our ad might have gotten.”
“I already have attended to that,” Wolfe said. “When you were asleep, I telephoned Saul, and he will go to the newspaper office tonight and collect whatever information we have received from the publication’s readers.”
That is just like Wolfe. He often doesn’t bother to fill me in on what he’s doing. I started to react but gave it up; I knew any comment from me would fall upon deaf ears.
Chapter 19
Saul Panzer, who knew the rigid schedule on which the brownstone operates, waited until just before nine o’clock to telephone, which meant that Wolfe and I were in the office with our post-prandial coffee.
“The Gazette ad drew a half-dozen responses,” he told me. “Should I bring them over?” I relayed the question to Wolfe, who nodded. Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang, and I admitted Saul, clad as usual in a well-worn gray suit and a more-or-less matching flat cap.
He looked me over and shook his head. “It looks like you’ve got quite a story to tell,” he said. “Do I want to hear it?”
“You will eventually, but not right now,” I told him as we went into the office and Saul planted himself in the red leather chair.
Wolfe, who is always glad to see Saul, asked, “Can Archie get you something to drink?”
“A scotch on the rocks would suit me fine,” our colleague said, grinning at me. I fulfilled my role as bartender and Saul took a sip and nodded his approval. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out several sheets of paper.
“Not exactly what I would call a bumper crop,” he said to Wolfe. “Want to read them?”
“Why don’t you do the reading?” was the response. “Archie and I are good listeners.”
Saul unfolded one of the sheets. “This guy writes, ‘I was walking with my girlfriend down along the riverfront when we heard what sounded like a gunshot coming from a block or so to the east on Fifth-Sixth Street. And then we saw a man running east. We did not want to get close to him, so we hurried away to the south.’
“That’s all there is,” Saul said.
“Fifty-Sixth Street was of course mentioned in the ad,” I said.
“There was nothing substantive in that report,” Wolfe stated. “What is next?”
“Three of the others are similar,” Saul went on, “although I can read them if you like.”
Wolfe shook his head, and Saul continued. “The gist of each is that the writer — only men responded to the ad — said he heard what he thought was a gunshot, and none of them added any helpful details.
“Here’s one, though, that might be of interest:
“‘I had just come out of a bar on Fifty-Sixth, half a block west of Eleventh Avenue, but I was sober, having had only one drink. I started to walk toward Eleventh when two men on the other side of the street seemed to be staggering and groaning. At first, I figured they both were drunk, but then I realized one of them apparently had been hurt and was limping. He yelled something that sounded like “aaugh! mein bein, mein bein,” while the other man was propping him up and trying to help him walk.
“‘I crossed over and asked if I could help them, but they wouldn’t even speak to me. They just growled and kept on walking, or I should say staggering, while the one who was hurt kept groaning and dragging one leg as he was pulled along. A couple of other pedestrians heard them and stared, but that was all. The two got to Tenth and turned north. I followed them at a distance, and they kept going north, eventually going into an apartment building. Maybe I should have done something, but I couldn’t figure out what to do, so I went home to my flat, and later I saw the item in the Gazette. I am not sure what I witnessed is part of the same event that was referred to.’”
“I suppose that the writer signed his name?” I asked.
“He did, along with an address and phone number,” Saul said, holding up the sheet. “He is one Jason Knowles,” Saul said, holding up the sheet that also gave his phone number and an address on Eighth Avenue.
“Call Mr. Knowles,” Wolfe ordered me. “I would like to meet the gentleman, tomorrow at eleven a.m., if possible.”
Being ever helpful, I dialed the number, and a deep male voice answered, “Knowles.”
“You are the one who responded to an advertisement in the Gazette?”
“Yes, that’s me,” he answered in an eager voice.
“The ad was placed by a private investigator, Nero Wolfe, and he—”
“Oh yes, I have certainly read about him, in several articles over the years,” Knowles said, sounding impressed.
“He would like to see you and hear your story. Would tomorrow morning at eleven be convenient?”
Knowles paused before responding. “Uh, well... I have a sales job on the floor at Macy’s Herald Square in the men’s department, but... yes, I could take an early lunch. They give me some flexibility. Where should we meet?”
I explained that Nero Wolfe rarely leaves home and gave the address of the brownstone, which I pointed out was not far from Herald Square.
“All right, yes, I can be there,” Knowles said. “Can I assume there is a reward, as was mentioned in the ad?”
“That will be determined by Nero Wolfe,” I said.
“And you are...?”
“Archie Goodwin, an associate of Mr. Wolfe’s.”
“Oh yes, of course. I believe I have seen your name in the newspapers, too.”
I let that comment pass, maybe out of modesty, although I’ve never thought of myself as being particularly modest. I told Knowles that we would expect him tomorrow.
The next morning the bell rang at 11 a.m. sharp, a point in our alleged witness’s favor. I swung open the front door to reveal a well dressed man of about forty whose short stature belied his deep voice. When I say well-dressed, I mean he looks like what you would expect from someone who sold menswear at Macy’s: He sported a three-piece, charcoal pin-striped suit along with a silk red-and-gray striped tie and red handkerchief sprouting from his breast pocket.
“Please come in, Mr. Knowles,” I said. “I’m Archie Goodwin.” If he was startled by my appearance, he didn’t show it, thanking me and stepping inside.
I walked our visitor down the hall to the office, directing him to the red leather chair. “Mr. Wolfe should be in shortly,” I told him.
“Shortly” turned out to be less than a half-minute. Wolfe strode in, placed a raceme of orchids in the vase on his desk, sat, and considered our guest. “Mr. Knowles, would you like something to drink? I am having beer.”
“Nothing for me, thanks, I have to be at work later,” Knowles said. As had been the case when he saw me, the man did not seem in the least surprised by Wolfe’s appearance.
“We found your report to be interesting,” Wolfe said as Fritz brought in two bottles of chilled beer and a stein. “Are you often out on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen in the evening?”
“I live alone, I’m a bachelor, since my divorce, Mr. Wolfe. And I have gotten into the habit of going out after dinner for a drink in any one of a number of bars within walking distance of my co-op on Eighth Avenue. I’m by no means a heavy drinker — I usually find that one rye is enough, or on occasions, two. They help me get to sleep. And I also like the exercise.”
“When you encountered those two men, do I assume you were taking a post-drink walk before returning home?”
“That is correct,” Knowles said. “I love the street life in the city, and I usually take a different route each night.”