As I ate the stew I considered the situation. It was not only tough, it was probably impossible. What had happened was quite plain: Wolfe had simply put his brains away in a drawer for the duration. He wasn’t going to do any thinking, because that was just work, whereas dieting and going outdoors every day and walking fast, getting ready to shoot some Germans-that was heroic. And he had already gone so far with it, and he was so damn bullheaded, that it looked hopeless. After mulling it over, I would have crossed it off and got my bags and headed for Governor’s Island, but for two things: first, I had told the general I knew how to handle him; and second, it looked as if he was going to kill himself if I didn’t stop him. If even one cell of his brain had been working-but it wasn’t.
I thought of appealing for help, to Marko Vukcic or Raymond Plehn or Lewis Hewitt, or even Inspector Cramer, but of course that was no good. Any kind of appeal or argument would only make him stubborner, since he was refusing to think. The only thing that would turn the trick was to manage somehow to get his brain going. I knew from experience what a job that was, and he had never been in a condition to compare with the one he was in now. Furthermore I was handicapped by having been away for two months and not knowing who had called at the office or tried to, or whether there had been any current events.
That, I thought, was one possibility, so after I had paid my check I went to the phone booth and called Inspector Cramer. He said he thought I was in the Army, and I said I thought so too, and then I asked him: “You got any good crimes on hand? Murders or robberies or even missing persons?”
That didn’t get me anywhere. Either he had nothing promising or he wasn’t telling me. I went out to the sidewalk and stood there scowling at a taxi driver. It was cold, darned cold for the middle of March, and flurries of snow were scooting around, and I had no overcoat. As a forlorn hope, because there was nothing else to do, I climbed in the taxi and told the driver to take me to 316 Barnum Street. It wasn’t actually a hope at all, just a stab in the dark because there wasn’t any light.
There was nothing about the outside of the building to warn me of the goofy assortment of specimens inside, merely an ordinary-looking old brick structure of four stories, the kind that had once been a private house but somewhere around the time I was born had been made into flats, with the vestibule fitted up with mailboxes and bell buttons. The card in one of the slots said
“What do you want?”
I produced a smile. “I would like to see-”
She chopped me off. “She sent you! I know she did! I thought it was her. She plays that trick sometimes. Goes out and rings the bell, thinking I won’t suspect it’s her. She wants to tell me she thinks I killed her mother. I know what she wants! If she ever says that to me once, just once, I’ll have her arrested! You tell her that! Go up and tell her that now!”
She was drawing back and shutting the door. I got a foot on the sill. “Just a minute, lady. I’ll go up and tell her anything you want me to. You mean Miss Amory? Ann Amory?”
“Ann? My granddaughter?” The black eyes darted at me through the white latticework. “Certainly not! You’re not fooling me-”
“I know I’m not, Mrs. Chack, but you’ve got me wrong. I want to see your granddaughter, that’s all. I came to see Ann. Is she-”
“I don’t believe it!” she snapped, and banged the door shut. I could have stopped it with my foot, but it seemed doubtful if that was the proper course under the circumstances, and besides, I had heard noises upstairs. Immediately after the door banged there were footsteps coming down, and by the time I had moved to the foot of the stairs a young man was there at my level. Evidently he had intended to say something, but at sight of the uniform changed to something else.
“Oh,” he said in surprise, “the Army? I expected-”
He stopped, looking at me. As to clothes he was careless and maybe not even too clean in a bright light, but otherwise you might have expected to find his picture as a back on a football team. Except he was a little light for it.
“Not at present on duty,” I said. “Why, what did you expect, the Navy?”
He laughed. “I just meant I didn’t expect to see an Army officer. Not here. And I heard you asking to see Miss Amory, and I didn’t know she knew any Army officers.”
“Do you know Miss Amory?”
“Sure I know her. I live here. Two flights up.” He extended a hand. “My name’s Leon Furey.”
“Mine’s Archie Goodwin.” We shook hands. “Do you happen to know if Miss Amory is at home?”
“She’s up on the roof.” He was taking me in. “Not the Archie Goodwin that works for Nero Wolfe?”
“That used to. Before I changed clothes. What is Miss Amory doing-”
A voice cut in from up above:
“Who is it, Leon? Bring him up!”
It was a borderline husky voice, the kind that requires further evidence before deciding the question, man or woman. The young man’s head pivoted for a quick look up the stairs and then turned back to me, and his face broke into a grin. It seemed likely that he regarded it as an engaging grin, or maybe even charming. The vote for him in the Larchmont Women’s Club would have stood about 92 to 11. He came closer to me and lowered his voice.
“I suppose you know you’re in a bughouse? My advice is to beat it. I’ll take a message for Miss Amory-”
“Leon!” the voice came down. “Bring him up here!”
