Rex Stout

A Family Affair

When someone pushes the button at the front door of the old brownstone, bells ring in four places: in the kitchen, in the office, down in Fritz's room, and up in my room. Who answers it depends on the circumstances. If it's ten minutes to one at night and I'm out, no one does unless it won't give up. If it keeps going, say for fifteen minutes, Fritz rolls out, comes up, opens the door the two inches the chain permits, and says nothing doing until morning. If I'm home I roll out, open a window and look down to see who it is, and deal with the problem.

It doesn't often ring at that hour, but it did that Monday night-Tuesday morning-late in October. I was home, but not up in bed. I was in the office, having just got in from taking Lily Rowan home after a show and a snack at the Flamingo. I always look in at the office to see if Wolfe has written anything on the pad on my desk. That night he hadn't and I was crossing to the safe to check that it was locked when the bell rang, and I went to the hall and through the one-way glass of the front door saw Pierre Ducos on the stoop.

Pierre had often fed me. He had fed many people, in one of the three rooms upstairs at Rusterman's restaurant. I had never seen him anywhere else-cer- tainly never on that stoop in the middle of the night. I slipped the bolt back, opened the door, and said, 'I'm not hungry, but come in.'

He crossed the sill and said, I've got to see Mr. Wolfe.'

'At this hour?'

I shut the door. 'Not unless ifs life and death.'

'It is.'

'Even so.'

I looked at him. I had never seen him without his uniform. I knew his age, fifty-two, but he looked older in a loose-fitting tan topcoat down to his knees. No hat. He looked as if inside of the topcoat he had shrunk, and his face looked smaller and seamier. 'Whose life and death?'


'You can tell me about it.'

I turned. 'Come along.'

He followed me to the office. When I offered to take his coat he said he would keep it on, which was sensible, since the heat had been off for two hours, and we had lowered the thermostat four degrees to save oil. I moved up one of the yellow chairs for him and sat at my desk and asked him what it was.

He gestured with both hands. 'It's what you said. Life and death. For me. A man is going to kill me.'

'That won't do. Good waiters are scarce, and anyway you're not old enough to die. Who is he, and why?'

'You make it a joke. Death is not a joke.'

'Sure it is. It's life that's not a joke. Who's going to kill you?'

'I'll tell Mr. Wolfe.'

'He's in bed asleep. He sees people only by appointment, but for you he would make an exception. Come at eleven in the morning. Or if it's urgent, tell me.'

'I-' He looked at me. Since he had seen me at close quarters at least fifty times, maybe a hundred, surely he had me sized up, so he may not have been con- sidering me, but he was deciding something for at least ten seconds. He opened his mouth and shut it, then opened it again to speak. 'You see, Mr. Good-win, I know Mr. Wolfe is the greatest detective in the world. Felix says he is-not only Felix, everybody does. Of course you're a good detective too, everybody knows that too, but when a man is sure he's going to be killed unless he- unless…'

His hands on his knees were fists, and he opened them, palms up. 'I've just got to tell Mr. Wolfe.'

'Okay. Eleven o'clock tomorrow morning. What time do you go to work?'

'I won't go tomorrow.'

He looked at his wristwatch. 'Just ten hours. If I could-there on that couch? I won't need covers or anything. I won't disturb anything. I won't make any noise.'

So he was really wide open, or thought he was. The couch, in the corner beyond my desk, was perfectly sleepable, as I knew from experience, having spent quite a few nights on it in emergencies, and on the other side of the projecting wall that made the comer was an equipped bathroom. But leaving anyone loose all night in the office, with the ten thousand items in the files and drawers, many of them with no locks, was of course out of the question. There were four alternatives: persuade him to tell me, go up and wake Wolfe, give him a bed, or bounce him. The first might take an hour, and I was tired and sleepy. The second was inadvisable. If I bounced him, and he couldn't come at eleven in the morning because he was dead, the next time Wolfe lunched or dined in the little upstairs room at Rusterman's he would be served by a new waiter, and that would be regrettable. Also, of course, I would be sorry.

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