Not Quite Dead Enough (The Rex Stout Library)

packed.”

“I saw it. Confound the blasted Germans. Don’t let it give that jerk when you start. I’m in no humor for pleasantries.”

We were in the lobby at 17 Duncan Street at 3:55, a few minutes ahead of time. Absent-mindedly, from force of habit, I said “ten” to the elevator man, and it wasn’t until after we had got out at the tenth that I woke up. Fife’s office was on the eleventh. Wolfe was starting the usual rigmarole with the corporal. I said, “Hey, our mistake. We’re on the-”

I never finished, because it came at that instant. The noise wasn’t loud, certainly it wasn’t deafening, but there was something about it that hit you in the spine. Or maybe it wasn’t the noise, but the shaking of the building. Everybody agreed later that the building shook. I doubt it. Maybe it was something that happened to the air. Anyhow, for a second everything inside of me stopped working, and, judging from the look on the corporal’s face, him ditto. Then we both stared in all directions. But Wolfe had already started for the door leading to the inner corridor, barking at me, “It’s that thing. Didn’t I tell you?”

I beat him to the door with a skip and a jump, and closed it when we were through. In the corridor people, mostly in uniform, were looking out of doors, and popping out. Some were headed for the far end of the corridor, a couple of them running. Voices came from up ahead, and a curtain of smoke or dust, or both, came drifting toward us, pushing a sour sharp smell in front of it. We went on into it, to the end, and turned right.

It was one swell mess. It looked exactly like a blurred radiophoto with the caption, Our Troops Taking an Enemy Machine-Gun Nest in a Sicilian Village. Debris, crumbled plaster, a door hanging by one hinge, most of a wall gone, men in uniform looking grim. Standing in what had been the doorway, facing out, was Colonel Tinkham. When two men tried to push past him into what had been Ryder’s room, he barred the way and bellowed, “Stand back! Back to that corner!” They backed up, but only about five paces, where they bumped into Wolfe and me. Others were behind us and around us.

From the commotion in the rear one voice was suddenly heard above the others: “General Fife!”

A lane opened up, and in a moment Fife came striding through. At sight of him Tinkham moved forward from the doorway, and behind Tinkham, from within, came Lieutenant Lawson. They both saluted, which may sound silly, but somehow didn’t look silly. Fife returned it and asked, “What’s in there?”

Lawson spoke. “Colonel Ryder, sir.”

“Dead?”

“Good God, yes. All blown apart.”

“Anyone else hurt?”

“No, sir. No sign of anybody.”

“I’ll take a look. Tinkham, clear this hall. Everybody back where they belong. No one is to leave the premises.”

Nero Wolfe rumbled in my ear, “This confounded dust. And smell. Come, Archie.”

That was the only occasion I remember when he willingly climbed a flight of stairs. Not knowing what orders had already been given to the corporal by the elevators, he probably wanted to avoid delay. Nobody interfered with us, since going to the eleventh floor was not leaving the premises. He marched straight through the anteroom to General Fife’s office, with me at his heels, straight to the big leather chair with its back to a window, sat down, got himself properly adjusted, and told me:

“Telephone that place, wherever it is, and tell them to send some beer.”

Chapter 3

Our old friend and foe, Inspector Cramer of the Homicide Squad, tilted his cigar up from the corner of his mouth and again ran his eye over the sheet of paper in his hand. I had typed the thing myself from General Fife’s dictation. It read:

Colonel Harold Ryder of the United States Army was accidentally killed at four o’clock this afternoon when a grenade exploded in his office at 17 Duncan Street. It is not known exactly how the accident occurred. The grenade was of a new type, with great explosive power, not yet issued to our forces, and was in Colonel Ryder’s possession officially, in the line of duty. Colonel Ryder was attached to the New York unit of Military Intelligence headed by Brigadier General Mortimer Fife.

“Even so,” Cramer growled, “it’s pretty skimpy.”

Wolfe was still in the big leather chair, with three empty beer bottles on the window sill behind him. Fife was seated behind his desk. I had stepped across to hand Cramer the paper and then propped myself against the wall at ease.

“You may elaborate it as you see fit,” Fife suggested without enthusiasm. He looked a little bedraggled.

“Sure.” Cramer removed his cigar. “Elaborate it with what?” He waved it away with the cigar. “You’re an Army man. I’m a policeman. I’m paid by the City of New York to investigate sudden or suspicious death. So I need facts. Such as, where did the grenade come from and how did it get into his desk drawer? How much carelessness would it take to make it go off accidentally? Such as, can I see one like it? Military security says nothing doing. What I don’t know won’t hurt me. But it does hurt me.”

Fife said, “I let you bring your men in and go over it.”

“Damn sweet of you.” Cramer was really upset. “This building is not United States property and it’s in my borough, and you talk about letting me!” He waggled the sheet of paper. “Look here, General. You know how it