'Who is this?'
'Archie Goodwin.'
'Oh, hallo there. I’ve been thinking you might call. To give me hell for getting you into a mess. I don’t blame you. Go on and say it.'
'I could all right, but I’ve got another idea. You said you’d return the favour some day, and tomorrow is the day. I want to run up to Grantham House and have a talk with someone there, preferably the woman in charge, and they’re probably having too many visitors and won’t let me in. So I thought you might say a word for me-on the phone, or write a letter I can take, or maybe even go along. How about it?'
Silence. Then: 'What makes you think a word from me would help?'
'You’re Mrs Robilotti’s nephew. And I heard somebody say, I forget who, that she has sent you there on errands.'
Another silence. 'What are you after? What do you want to talk about?'
'I’m just curious about something. Some questions the cops have asked me because I was there last night, the mess you got me into, have made me curious.'
'What questions?'
'That’s a long story. Also complicated. Just say I’m nosy by nature, that’s why I’m in the detective business. Maybe I’m trying to scare up a client. Anyway, I’m not asking you to attend a death by poisoning, as you did me, though you didn’t know it. I just want you to make a phone call.'
'I can’t, Archie.'
'No? Why not?'
'Because I’m not in a position to. It wouldn’t be- It might look as if- I mean I just can’t do it.'
'Okay, forget it. I’ll have to feed some other curiosity-I’ve got plenty. For instance, my curiosity about why you asked me to fill in for you because you had such a cold you could hardly talk when you didn’t have a cold-at least not the kind you tried to fake, I haven’t told the cops about that, your faking the cold, so I guess I’d better do that and ask them to ask you why. I’m curious.'
'You’re crazy. I did have a cold. I wasn’t faking.'
'Nuts. Take care of yourself. I’ll be seeing you, or the cops will.'
Silence, a short one. 'Don’t hang up, Archie.'
'Why not? Make an offer.'
'I want to talk this over. I want to see you, but I don’t want to leave here because I’m expecting a phone call. Maybe you could come here?'
'Where is here?'
'My apartment. Eighty-seven Bowdoin Street, in the Village. It’s two blocks south-'
'I know where it is. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Take some aspirin.'
When I had hung up, Fritz, who was at the sink, turned to say, 'As I thought, Archie. I knew there would be a client, since you were there.'
I told him I’d have to think that over to decide how to take it, and went to the office to tell the conference it would have to manage without me for a while.
Chapter Seven
There’s no telling what 87 Bowdoin Street had been like a few years back-or rather, there is, if you know the neighbourhood-but someone had spent some dough on it, and it wasn’t at all bad when you got inside. The tile floor was a nice dark green, the walls were a lighter green but the same tone, and the frame of the entrance for the do-it-yourself elevator was outlined with a plain wide strip of dull aluminium. Having been instructed over the intercom in the vestibule, I entered the elevator and pushed the button marked 5.
When I emerged on the fifth floor Byne was there to greet me and ushered me in. After taking my hat and coat he motioned me through a doorway, and I found myself in a room that I would have been perfectly willing to move to when the day came that Wolfe fired me or I quit, with perhaps a few minor changes. The rugs and chairs were the kind I like, and the lights were okay, and there was no fireplace. I hate fireplaces. When Byne had got me in a chair and asked if I would like a drink, and I had declined with thanks, he stood facing me. He was tall and lanky and loose-jointed, with not much covering for his face bones except skin.
'That was a hell of a mess I got you into,' he said. 'I’m damn sorry.'
'Don’t mention it,' I told him. 'I admit I wondered a little why you picked me. If you want some free advice, free but good, next time you want to cook up a reason for skipping something, don’t overdo it. If you make it a cold, not that kind of a cold, just a plain everyday virus.'
He turned a chair around and sat. 'Apparently you’ve convinced yourself that was a fake.'
'Sure I have, but my convincing myself doesn’t prove anything. The proof would have to be got, and of course it could be if it mattered enough-items like people you saw or talked to Monday evening, or phoned to yesterday or they phoned you, and whoever keeps this place so nice and clean, if she was here yesterday-things like that. That would be for the cops. If I needed any proof personally, I got it when as soon as I mentioned that the cold was a fake you had to see me right away. So why don’t we just file that?'
'You said you haven’t told the cops.'
'Right. It was merely a conclusion I had formed.'
