Vukcic apparently was not on the premises that night, so we were greeted by Felix, one of the owner’s right-hand men. “Mr. Goodwin, Miss Rowan, so good to see you both this evening,” he said, executing a courtly bow. “I know that Marko will be sad that he missed you, but I will do my best to serve you in his absence.”
Felix’s best, of course, was better than you are likely to find from a gastronomic standpoint anywhere else in Manhattan, with the exception of a certain kitchen in a brownstone on West Thirty-Fifth Street.
“All right, Escamillo,” Lily said once we were seated at a table tucked away from both foot traffic and the chatter of other diners. “We have known each other for a long time, so there is no need to be anything but frank. Something is troubling you, and I believe it is more than just that concussion you are recovering from.”
“As usual, you read me like a book, my dear. Something is going on that I can’t figure out.” I proceeded for several minutes to tell Lily everything that had transpired in Hell’s Kitchen right up to the present.
“And what does Nero Wolfe think?”
“That’s something else that I can’t figure out. He isn’t reacting in either of the two ways he usually does when he is at a crucial point in an investigation. He normally either—”
“Pardon the interruption,” Lily said, “but I believe I can finish your sentence. Mr. Wolfe either closes his eyes, goes into a trance, and pushes his lips in and out several times and presto! he has a solution, or, if he’s stumped, he goes on an eating binge for several days.”
“You have summed up my boss’s predictable behavior nicely,” I said as we were served our guinea hens, one of the house specialties. “In this case, however, he is doing nothing and seems to either have lost interest or is totally stumped.”
“I find it hard to believe Mr. Wolfe would have lost interest, given what has happened to Theodore Horstmann.”
“I totally agree. Maybe I am misreading him — it would not be the first time — but Inspector Cramer also is behaving strangely. The two of them were in the office, and it seemed to me they were talking in circles, maybe because I was present and they were hiding something.”
“What in the world could they possibly be hiding?” Lily asked. “Do you think you’re getting paranoid?”
“I doubt that, but I suppose anything’s possible. After all, I did take quite a bump on the noggin.”
“You still seem like the same old Archie to me, though,” Lily said, placing a hand over mine. “Are we having dessert?”
“But of course. And then it’s off to the Churchill. I’m in the mood to tango the night away.”
“Ah, you do indeed seem to be the same old Archie, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Chapter 28
By the time I got home that night, Wolfe had gone upstairs, but he had left a handwritten note on my desk:
AG
Please see me in my room in the morning.
It isn’t often Wolfe allows his morning meal to be interrupted, so I figured he was stirring himself to action. The next day after finishing my own breakfast in the kitchen, I went upstairs at seven-thirty, knocked on his bedroom door, and stepped in after hearing a muttered “enter.”
As often as I have seen my boss at this early hour, I still marvel at the spectacle of him, clad in yellow pajamas in a bed covered by a black silk coverlet, and eating off a tray with folding legs. His meal was the same as mine had been: orange juice, eggs au beurre noir, bacon, hashed brown potatoes, and blueberry muffins. One difference: Where my morning beverage of choice is coffee, his taste runs to hot chocolate.
“Reporting as requested,” I told him.
“Sit,” he ordered, pointing to a bedside chair. I sat.
“I gather from your recent behavior that you do not feel I have been vigorous enough in pursuing this enigma,” he said as he polished off a muffin.
“I’m frustrated that we don’t seem to be getting anywhere.”
“Frustration often leads to impulsive and unwise actions,” Wolfe replied. “Do you have any suggestions?”
“Not right now,” I said. “I was hoping you had some sort of plan.”
He drew in air and let it out slowly. “It has been nearly a year since Mr. Cohen has eaten with us,” he said.
“That’s correct — last August, to be exact.”
“Invite him to dine here tonight. Tell him we are having vitello tonnato along with broccoli and herb-stuffed potatoes.”
“Shall I also mention an after-dinner snifter of Remisier is included in the menu?”
“Not necessary. Mr. Cohen knows that the elixir is always available on his visits.”
I wasn’t sure having Lon Cohen over for dinner was a sign Wolfe was going back to work, but I was all for it. When I phoned him, Lon sounded harried, as usual, but he had time to say, “Nice to hear from you, of all people. Have you called with something I can use on page one tomorrow?”
“No, I—”
“Then I’m not interested. You have not exactly been forthcoming lately, so—”
“Now it’s my turn to do the interrupting, dammit. Nero Wolfe would like you to join us for dinner tonight.”
That brought him up short. “Dinner at the brownstone? I never say no to that invitation. Although I suppose I am expected to sing for my supper.”
“My boss didn’t say. You can always claim you have another engagement.”
“Not a chance. I will be there, with shoes shined and wearing a fresh shirt.”
“What more can we ask for?”
At six thirty, I answered the doorbell and admitted Lon Cohen, who was indeed presentable. Wolfe had not yet come down from his room, so I mixed drinks for Lon and me and we sat in the office. “I hope your boss isn’t expecting a lot from me,” he said. “By the way, you look kind of funny, with some of your hair shaved off. You never have told me what happened to you, and all I have to go by is police gossip from one of our reporters.”
“It’s a long story,” I told him, “and it will probably come out later tonight.”
When Wolfe did make his appearance, we went into the dining room, where we were served the vitello tonnato, which, for those of you like me not conversant with Italian, is a dish consisting of veal and tuna. In Fritz’s hands, it was delicious.
Lon knew our protocol enough to realize business is not discussed during meals, and he also knew Wolfe invariably selected the subject for dinner table discussion. This night it was the Marshall Plan, which had been instituted in 1948 by the United States to give financial aid to Western European countries that had been devastated by World War II. Lon was enthusiastic over the success of the plan, Wolfe less so, feeling certain countries were favored over others in the doling out of the dollars — millions of them. As usual, I took a neutral position.
In the office with coffee after dinner and dessert, Lon settled into the red leather chair, savoring that snifter of Remisier he knew would be coming his way, as was always the case on his visits. “As pleasant as this evening has been, I have a feeling I was invited for a reason,” he said to Wolfe, running a hand over his dark, slicked-back hair.
“Mr. Cohen, this is a question I have often posed: Would you say that on balance, are we more or less even, involving favors we have bestowed upon each other?”
“I would agree. I feed you information, and you feed me what turn out to be scoops. Overall, it has worked out on both sides.”
“Very well. You have of course noticed that Archie shows signs of physical strife, and we will go into that in the course of the evening. First, a question. Have your reporters encountered many cases of smuggling, particularly involving displaced persons who are in this country either legally or otherwise?”