young face. If you think it's a racket phone the Metropolitan Trust Company at Thirty-fourth Street. They'll tell you that I make a little change in my spare time tending baby carriages.'
Square jaws grinned. 'I don't know. Mr. Kimball has a dozen appointments, the first one is ten-thirty. I'm his secretary, I know more about his business than he does. You'd better tell me.'
'I'm sorry, it has to be him.'
'All right, I'll see what I can do. Go on out front-no, wait here. Want to look at the paper?'
He tossed me the paper and got up and gathered some mail and stuff together and left the room with them. At a quick early breakfast I had taken a glance at the front page but hadn't had time for more. Turning through, I saw that the Barstow case was already back to page seven, and not much of it there. Anderson was saying that 'progress was being made in the investigation.' Dear old progress, I thought, you haven't changed a bit since I saw you last except you're covered with wrinkles and your teeth are falling out. The coroner had nothing definite on the poison, but soon would have. There had never been, in any paper that I had seen, any hint of a suspicion that it was a family job; and now, I thought, there never would be. But this piece took another little crack at Dr. Bradford, and I knew it would be a long time before he would be able to look coronary thrombosis in the face without swallowing hard. I turned to the sports page.
The door opened, and the secretary was there.
'Mr. Goodwin. This way.'
In the next room but one, a big room with windows on two sides, a lot of old furniture and a ticker going in a corner, a man sat at a desk. He was smooth-shaven, his hair was turning gray, and while he wasn't fat there was size to him. He looked worried but amused, as if someone had just told him a funny story but he had a toothache. I wondered whether it was the worry or the amusement that came from what the secretary had told him about me, but found out on acquaintance that it was neither one, he always looked that way.
The secretary said, 'This is the man, Mr. Kimball.'
Kimball grunted and asked me what I wanted. I said that my business was strictly personal. Kimball said, 'In that case you'd better take it up with my secretary so I won't have the bother of turning it over to him.' He laughed and the secretary smiled and I grinned.
I said, 'I only asked for ten minutes, so if you don't mind I'll get started. Nero Wolfe would like to have you call at his office this morning at eleven o'clock.'
'Goodness gracious!' The amusement was on top. 'Is Nero Wolfe the King of England or something?'
I nodded. 'Something. I'll tell you, Mr. Kimball, you'll get this quicker and easier if you let me do it my own way. Just humor me. On Sunday, June fourth, Peter Oliver Barstow died suddenly while he was playing golf with his son and you and your son. On Thursday the eighth you left for Chicago. On Sunday the eleventh the results of an autopsy were announced. I suppose it was in the Chicago papers?'
'Oh, that's it.' The worry had ascended. 'I knew that would be a nuisance when I got back. I read a lot of poppycock about poison and a needle and whatnot.' He turned to his secretary. 'Blaine, didn't I write you this would be a nuisance when I returned?'
The secretary nodded. 'Yes, sir. You have an appointment at eleven-thirty with a representative of the Westchester District Attorney. I hadn't had time to mention it.'
I kept my grin inside. 'It's not poppycock, Mr. Kimball. Barstow was killed by a poisoned needle shot out of the handle of a golf driver. That's wrapped up. Now come with me a minute. Here you are at the first tee, ready to shoot. All four of you with your caddies.-No, don't wander off somewhere, stay with me, this is serious. Here you are. Larry Barstow drives. Your son Manuel drives. Peter Oliver Barstow is ready to drive; you are standing near him; remember? His ball rolls off its tee and your caddy fixes it because his caddy is off hunting a ball. Remember? He is ready to drive but hasn't got his driver because his caddy is off with his bag. You say, 'Use mine,' and your caddy straightens up from fixing his ball and hands him your driver. Remember? He drives with your driver, and then jumps and begins rubbing his belly because a wasp stung him. It was that wasp that came out of your driver that killed him. Twenty minutes later he was dead.'
Kimball was listening to me with a frown, with the worry and amusement both gone. He went on frowning. When he finally spoke all he said was, 'Poppycock.'
'No,' I said. 'You can't make it poppycock just by pronouncing it. Anyway, poppycock or not, it was your driver Barstow used on the first tee. You remember that?'
He nodded. 'I do. I hadn't thought of it, but now that you remind me I recall the scene perfectly. It was just as you-'
'Mr. Kimball!' The secretary was secretarying. 'It would be better perhaps if you-that is, upon reflection-'
'Better if I what?-Oh. No, Blaine. I knew this would be a nuisance, I knew it very well. Certainly Barstow used my driver. Why shouldn't I say so? I barely knew Barstow. Of course the poisoned needle story is a lot of poppycock, but that won't keep it from being a nuisance.'
'It'll be worse than a nuisance, Mr. Kimball.' I hitched my chair toward him. 'Look here. The police don't know yet that Barstow used your driver. The District Attorney doesn't know it. I'm not suggesting that you hide anything from them, they'll find it out anyway. But whether you think the poisoned needle is poppycock or not, they don't. They know that Barstow was killed by a needle that came out of his driver on the first tee, and when they find out that it was your driver he used, what are they going to do? They won't arrest you for murder just like that, but they'll have you looking in the dictionary for a better word than nuisance. My advice is, see Nero Wolfe. Take your lawyer along if you want to, but see him quick.'
Kimball was pulling at his lip. He let his hand fall. At length he said, 'Goodness gracious.'
'Yes, sir, all of that.'
He looked at his secretary. 'You know, Blaine, I have no respect for lawyers.'
'No, sir.'
Kimball got up. 'This is a fine to-do. I have told you before, Blaine, that there is just one thing in the
