Plot It Yourself

When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at six o’clock he started for his desk, saw the clutter on mine, stopped, and demanded, “What have you got there?”

I swiveled. “Very interesting. I’ve done the first nine pages of this manuscript, ‘Opportunity Knocks,’ by Alice Porter, and there’s no sign of a print, let alone an identifiable one, except Amy Wynn’s and Miss Frey’s and Imhof s. That justifies the assumption that it was either carefully wiped or was only handled with gloves on. In that case-”

“Where did you get it?” He was at my elbow, surveying the clutter.

I told him, including the dialogue. When I got to where Imhof had said there were thirty-two people in the executive and editorial departments of Victory Press, he went to his desk and sat. At the end I said, “If you want to make any changes in the advice I gave her, I have her home phone number. As I told her, it was off the cuff and subject to your approval.”

He grunted. “Satisfactory. You realize, of course, that this may be merely an added complication, not an advance.”

“Sure. Some person unknown somehow got a key to that office and sneaked in after hours and put it in Amy Wynn’s folder. As before, possibly, in Ellen Sturdevant’s bureau drawer and Marjorie Lippin’s trunk. The only difference is that this is hot-as Imhof said.”

“It’s recent,” he conceded. “Give me the nine pages you have finished with.”

I took them to him and returned to my desk and started on page ten. Fritz, responding to a summons, brought beer, and Wolfe opened the bottle and poured. Page ten had nothing. Page eleven had only two useless smudges, one on the front and one on the back, near a corner. Page twelve had a fair right thumb and a poor right index finger of Reuben Imhof. I was on page thirteen when Wolfe’s voice came. “Give me the rest of it.”

“I’ve only done three more pages. I want-”

“I want all of it. I’ll take care.”

I took it to him, taking care, and then went to the kitchen to see how Fritz was getting on with the braised duckling stuffed with crabmeat, because I didn’t want to sit and watch Wolfe smearing up the last fifteen pages. It isn’t that he doesn’t believe in fingerprints; it’s just that they are only routine and therefore a genius can’t be expected to bother about them. However, by going to the kitchen I merely transferred from one genius to another. When I offered to spread the paste on the cheesecloth which was to be wrapped around the ducklings, Fritz gave me exactly the kind of look Wolfe has given me on various and numerous occasions. I was perched on a stool, making pointed comments to Fritz about the superiority of teamwork, when there was a bellow from the office.

“Archie!”

I went. Wolfe was leaning back with his palms on the chair arms. “Yes, sir?”

“This is a complication. It was written by Alice Porter.”

“Sure. It says so at the top.”

“Don’t be flippant. You fully expected, and so did I, to find that it had been written by the same person as the other three. It wasn’t. Pfui!”

“Well, well, as Kenneth Rennert would say. Of course you’re sure?”

“Certainly.”

“And also sure that Alice Porter did write it?”

“Yes.”

I went to my chair and sat. “Then she decided to do one on her own, that’s all. Obviously. That doesn’t help any, but it doesn’t hinder either. Does it?”

“It may. It makes it extremely likely that the one we’re after, the one we must find and expose, had no hand in this, and therefore we should waste no time or effort on it. Miss Wynn is not our client, and neither is Mr Imhof. They are merely members of that committee. Of immediate concern is the fact that they were under a misapprehension when they agreed to contribute ten thousand dollars to the bait for Simon Jacobs. They assumed that this is another operation by the same person, and it isn’t. We must tell them so, and when we do they will probably decline to make the contribution.”

“Yeah.” I scratched my nose. I scratched my cheek. “Yeah. So they will. You work too hard. You read too much. I don’t suppose you could forget you read the damn thing? Just forget it for twenty-four hours, say?”

“No, and neither could you. You’ll have to phone them at once. Is it out of the question to offer Simon Jacobs as little as ten thousand?”

I shook my head. “No, not out of the question. I’d start at ten anyhow, but I’d like it better if I knew I could boost it. He might even take five. I could start at five.”

“Very well. Call Miss Wynn. I’ll speak with her.”

I swiveled, but as I reached for the phone it rang. It was Philip Harvey. He asked for Wolfe, and Wolfe took his receiver. I stayed on.

“Yes, Mr Harvey? This is Nero Wolfe.”

“I have good news, Mr Wolfe. Thanks to Cora Ballard. She has it all fixed with Richard Echols. She saw Paul Norris, his agent, and she saw him, and I’ve just had a talk with Echols, and it’s all set. Dexter’s lawyer will draw the necessary papers in the morning, one for Echols to sign and one for Title House, and they’ll be ready by noon. I’ve spoken with Mortimer Oshin, and he wants to know whether you want the ten thousand in cash or a certified check.”

“Cash would be better, I think.”