Cramer glowered at Wolfe but rose and walked out without uttering a word. I followed him to the door and let the silence continue.
“He usually yells and throws a cigar at the wastebasket when he leaves. I do hope he isn’t ill,” I said to Wolfe.
“The inspector has a lot on his mind, and I believe what has been transpiring in Hell’s Kitchen troubles him greatly, as it does me.”
I started to ask Wolfe what he meant but was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. It was Lily Rowan.
“I’ve been back from visiting my cousin in St. Louis for three days now, and have not heard a single word out of you, my dear Escamillo. I was concerned that you had grown tired of my company or had found someone else in my absence.”
I mentioned Lily earlier, and I should add to that she is beautiful, rich through inheritance, and, by her own definition, lazy, although I don’t agree with the lazy part. She gives scads of money and lots of time to needy causes. She and I go out often — to plays, the opera, hockey games, dinner, and dancing. And just so you don’t get any ideas, I always pay.
“Me, grow tired of your company? Surely you jest. And no, I definitely haven’t found someone else. I have no reason to go looking.”
“Then why haven’t I heard from you?”
“Well... something has come up that—”
“Archie Goodwin — level with me!”
When Lily calls me by my full name, I know she demands an answer. “Okay, I ran into some trouble the other night, and I’m, well, a little bit banged up.”
“A little banged up! I am coming over right now!”
“No, we’re about to have lunch, and—”
“Put Nero Wolfe on the line, this instant.”
“Lily wishes to speak to you,” I said. Wolfe normally is not comfortable around women, but he has always made an exception for Lily, probably because the first time they met, which was years ago, she asked to see all those orchids up on the roof. To this day, he sends her orchids on her birthday.
“Yes, Miss Rowan,” he said into the mouthpiece. “By all means you are welcome. We are having sweetbreads in béchamel sauce with truffle and chervil, beet and watercress salad, and strawberries Romanoff. Yes, one fifteen.” Wolfe nodded to me to pick up as he cradled his receiver.
“So, you up and invited yourself to lunch?”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures, my dear,” she said.
“Well, be prepared to see a wreck of a man,” I complained.
“I am sure that I will be able to stand it. Besides, no matter how bad you look, Fritz’s cuisine will more than make up for whatever shock I incur.”
“Just don’t say later that you had not been warned.”
At one o’clock, the front bell chimed; Lily was prompt, as usual. I could have sent Fritz to answer the door, but I thought it was best that she got a good look at me at the start of her visit, so she would have adjusted to my appearance before sitting down to eat.
“Oh, Escamillo, I was expecting to find you swathed in bandages from head to foot, like a walking mummy. As it is, you are... well, more or less bearable to the eye,” she said as she stepped in and gave me a hug and a kiss.
“Aw, shucks, little lady, you say the nicest things to a feller,” I told her. “And in return, I have to say you look terrific, as you always do.”
I knew she was dying to ask me how I came to look this way, but that would have to come later. She knew from past dining experiences in the brownstone that Wolfe never allows business to infringe upon the conversation at the table. And as usual today, he set the topic for the meal, which was the westward movement in the United States. “This trend has been discussed for decades, ever since the newspaper editor Horace Greeley is supposed to have written, ‘Go West, young man,’ in the 1860s,” Wolfe said. “Transportation challenges stifled the move west until this century, and it now appears to be occurring with alacrity. California was our fifth-most-populous state in 1940, and it surely will surpass Archie’s very own Ohio when last year’s final census numbers get released.”
“I have been to California twice, Mr. Wolfe,” Lily said, “and I can see its attraction. It would not surprise me if someday more people live there than in any other state.”
“I agree,” Wolfe responded, and we were off on a discussion of the effects of weather and the local culture on population swings. I did not have a lot to add, other than to mention that I had been to California once and did not have a burning desire to return.
After we had finished our strawberries Romanoff, Wolfe rose, saying “Pardon me, but I must excuse myself to consult with Fritz on a number of culinary matters.” That was his way of saying that he knew Lily wanted to learn more about what had happened to me, so the two of us went into the office with cups of coffee.
“Don’t go to your desk,” she said, “but come and sit with me over here.” She patted the cushions of the sofa against one wall. I followed orders and we parked side by side.
“All right, Escamillo, tell me exactly how you have come to look as you do. I want to know everything, and I do mean everything.”
I unloaded the works, starting with Theodore’s suspicions and his subsequent mugging and continuing through the bridge games at McCready’s, my stay at the Elmont, questionable activities on the docks, the shooting of Chester Miller, my own mugging and concussion, and my gunshot that crippled the man being identified as William Hartz.
Lily remained silent throughout my recitation. When I finished, she shook her head in wonder. “What about Theodore Horstmann?”
“He’s still in a coma, and Doc Vollmer is closely monitoring his condition. My boss has a substitute gardener working with him on the orchids.”
“Does the doctor have a prognosis?”
“He is taking what I would call a wait-and-see attitude. He claims there’s been a slight improvement in Theodore’s condition, and he also says he has known of cases in which a person in a coma can fully recover even after a long period of being unconscious.”
“How about you, Escamillo? What does the doctor say regarding your concussion?”
“I’m supposed to take it easy for at least a week, meaning no physical exertion, and I can eat normally and drink plenty of liquids.”
“Do you think you will be able to ‘take it easy’ for a whole week?” Lily asked, arching an eyebrow.
“Well, it might help if you came over every day and provided me with some personal care.”
“Is that so? I suppose you also want me to wear a nurse’s uniform.”
“Well... since you mentioned it, I think that would look very, very—”
“Never mind! It is clear to me you have a concussion that causes you to live in a fantasy world.”
“I really expected more sympathy from you. After all, look at all that I have been through.”
“Poor baby,” she said, placing a slender, manicured hand on my forehead. “You don’t seem to be at all feverish.”
“Must be that it comes and goes.”
“Maybe, and speaking of going, I have to be off, my dear. I have a meeting of the board at the women’s shelter in Brooklyn.”
“I will try my best to survive in your absence,” I told her.
“I have no doubt that you will, my darling Escamillo,” she replied, planting a kiss on my forehead and striding out, high heels clicking on the hall floor.
After Lily had gone, I put in a call to the folks at Yellow Cab, asking for my favorite driver, Herb Aronson, and giving my name. I was told by an efficient female voice with a New Jersey accent that “We will attempt to reach Mr. Aronson, Mr. Goodwin.” Within ten minutes, the telephone jangled. “Hi, Archie, long time, no hear from you.”