“Don't you believe your own ads? It says that Mr Wolfe will not hereafter be available. I had the door swung to a narrow gap. “I never saw you before, but
Lon Cohen is an old friend of mine. He gets to work at noon, doesn't he?
“Yes, but-
“Tell him not to bother to phone about this. Mr Wolfe is not available, and I'm reserved for clients, as the ad says. Watch your foot, here comes the door.
I shut it and put the chain bolt on. As I went back down the hall Fritz emerged from the kitchen and demanded, “Who was that?
I eyed him. “You know damn' well, I said, “that when Mr Wolfe was here you would never have dreamed of asking who was that, either of him or of me. Don't dream of it now, anyway not when I'm in the humour I'm in at present.
“I only wanted-
“Skip it. I advise you to steer clear of me until I've had a chance to think.
I went to the office and this time took my own chair. At least I had got some instructions from Wolfe, though his method of sending them was certainly roundabout. The ad meant, of course, that I wasn't to try to cover his absence; on the contrary. More important, it told me to lay off of the Rackham thing. I was to handle inquiries from clients on unfinished matters, but only from clients; and since Mrs Rackham, being dead, couldn't inquire, that settled that.
Another thing-apparently I still had my job, unlike Fritz and Theodore. But I couldn't sign cheques, I couldn't-suddenly I remembered something. The fact that
I hadn't thought of it before indicates the state I was in. I have told, in my account of another case of Wolfe's, how, in anticipation of the possibility that some day a collision with Arnold Zeck would drive him into a foxhole, he had instructed me to put fifty thousand dollars in cash in a safe deposit box over in Jersey, and how I obeyed instructions. The idea was to have a source of supply for the foxhole; but anyway, there it was, fifty grand, in the box rented by me under the name I had selected for the purpose. I was sitting thinking how upset I must have been not to have thought of that before when the phone rang and I reached for it.
“Nero Wolfe's office, Archie Goodwin speaking.
I thought it proper to use that, the familiar routine, since according to
Wolfe's ad he wouldn't retire until the next day.
“Archie? A voice I knew sounded surprised. “Is that you, Archie?
“Right. Hallo, Marko. So early on Sunday?
“But I thought you were away! I was going to give Fritz a message for you. From
Nero.
Marko Vukcic, owner and operator of Rusterman's Restaurant, the only place where
Wolfe really liked to eat except at home, was the only man in New York who called Wolfe by his first name. I told him I would be glad to take a message for myself.
“Not from Nero actually, he said. “From me. I must see you as soon as possible.
Could you come here?
I said I could. There was no need to ask where, since the only place he could ever be found was the restaurant premises, either on one of the two floors for the public, in the kitchen, or up in his private quarters.
I told Fritz I was going out and would be back when he saw me.
As I drove crosstown and up to Fifty-fourth Street, I was around eighty per cent sure that within a few minutes I would be talking with Wolfe. For him it would be hard to beat that for a foxhole-the place that cooked and served the best food in America, with the living quarters of his best and oldest friend above it. Even after I had entered at the side door, as arranged, ascended the two flights of stairs, seen the look on Marko's face as he welcomed me, felt the tight clasp of his fingers as he took my hands in his, and heard his murmured
“My friend, my poor young friend!-even then I thought he was only preparing dramatically to lead me to Wolfe in an inner room.
But he wasn't. All he led me to was a chair by a window. He took another one, facing me, and sat with his palms on his knees, his head cocked a little to one side as usual.
“My friend Archie, he said sympathetically. “It is my part to tell you exactly certain things. But before I do that I wish to tell you a thing of my own. I wish to remind you that I have known Nero a much longer time than you have. We knew each other as boys in another country-much younger than you were that day many years ago when you first saw him and went to work for him. He is my old and dear friend, and I am his. So it was natural that he should come to me last night.
“Sure, I agreed. “Why not?
“You must feel no pique. No courroux?
“Okay. I'll fight it down. What time did he come?
“At two o'clock in the night. He was here an hour, and then left. That I am to tell you, and these things. Do you want to write them down?
“I can remember them if you can. Shoot.
Marko nodded. “I know of your great memory. Nero has often spoken of it. He shut his eyes and in a moment opened them again. “There are these five things.
