picture in the envelope, sealed it and put a stamp on it, and left the house. In my frame of mind I thought a little air wouldn't hurt me any, so I walked to the Times Square Station.
I expected nothing more from Wolfe that evening, and that was what I got. We went to bed fairly early. Up in my room undressing, I was still trying to map it, having been unable to sketch one I would settle for. The main stratagem was now plain enough, but what was the follow up? Were we going to start sitting and waiting again? In that case, how was William Reynolds going to be given another name, and when and why and by whom? Under the sheet, I chased it out of my mind in order to get some sleep.
The next day, Tuesday, until noon and a little after, it looked like more sitting and waiting. It wasn't too dull, on account of the phone. The third article was in that morning's Gazette, and they were wild for more. My instructions were to stall. Lon called twice before ten o'clock, and after that it was practically chain phoning: city editor, managing editor, executive editor, publisher, everybody. They wanted it so bad that I had a notion to write one myself and peddle it for fifteen thousand bucks flat. By noon there would have been nothing to it.
When the phone rang again a little before lunchtime I took it for granted it was one of them, so instead of using my formula I merely said, “Yep?” “Is this Nero Wolfe's office?” It was a voice I had never heard, a sort of an artificial squeak.
“Yes. Archie Goodwin speaking.” “Is Mr Wolfe there?” “Yes. He's engaged. Who is it, please?” “Just tell him rectangle.” “Spell it, please?” “R-e-e-t-a-n-g-1-e, rectangle. Tell him immediately. He'll want to know.” The connection went. I hung ut and turned to Wolfe.
“Rectangle.” “What?” “That's what he said, or rather squeaked. Just to tell you rectangle.” “Ah.” Wolfe sat up and his eyes came clear open. “Get the national office of the Communist Party, Algonquin four two two one five. I want Mr Harvey or Mr Stevens. Either one.” I swivelled and dialled. In a moment a pleasant feminine voice was in my ear.
Its being pleasant was a shock, and also I was a little self-conscious, conversing for the first time with a female Commie, so I said, “My name's Goodwin, comrade. Is Mr Harvey there? Mr Nero Wolfe would like to speak to him.”
“You say Nero Wolfe?” “Yes. A detective.” “I've heard the name. I'll see. Hold the wire.” I waited. Accustomed to holding the wire while a switchboard girl or secretary saw, I leaned back and got comfortable, but it wasn't long before a man told me he was Harvey. I signalled to Wolfe and stayed on myself.
“How do you do, sir,” Wolfe said politely. “I'm in a hole and you can help me if you want to. Will you call at my office at six o'clock today with one of your associates? Perhaps Mr Stevens or Mr Enright, if one of them is available.” “What makes you think we can help you out of a hole?” Harvey asked, not rudely.
He had a middle bass, a little gruff.
“I'm pretty sure you can. At least I would like to ask your advice. It concerns a man whom you know by the name of William Reynolds. He is involved in a case I'm working on, and the matter has become urgent. That's why I would like to see you as soon as possible. There isn't much time.” “What makes you think I know a man named William Reynolds?” “Oh, come, Mr Harvey. After you hear what I have to say you may of course deny that you know him if that's the way you want it. This can't be done on the telephone, or shouldn't be.” “Hold the wire.” That wait was longer. Wolfe sat patiently with the receiver at his ear, and I did likewise. In three or four minutes he started to frown, and by the time Harvey's voice came again he was tapping the arm of his chair with a forefinger.
“If we come,” Harvey asked, “who will be there?” “You will, of course, and I will. And Mr Goodwin, my assistant.” “Nobody else?” “No, sir.” “All right. We'll be there at six o'clock.” I hung up and asked Wolfe, “Does Mr Jones always talk with that funny squeak?
And did ‘rectangle’ mean merely that the letter from a friend had been received?
Or something more, such as which commissars had read it?”
CHAPTER Twenty-One
I never got to see the Albert Enright I had typed a letter to, because the associate that Mr Harvey brought along was Mr Stevens.
Having seen one or two high-ranking Commies in the flesh, and many published pictures of more than a dozen of them, I didn't expect our callers to look like wart hogs or puff adders, but even so they surprised me a little, especially Stevens. He was middle-aged, skinny, and pale, with thin brown hair that should have been trimmed a week ago, and he wore rimless spectacles. If I had had a daughter in high school, Stevens was the guy I would have wanted her to ask for directions in a strange neighbourhood after dark. I wouldn't have gone so far with Harvey, who was younger and much huskier, with sharp greenish-brown eyes and a well-assembled face, but I certainly wouldn't have singled him out as the Menace of the Month.
They didn't want cocktails or any other liquid, and they didn't sit back in their chairs and get comfortable. Harvey announced in his gruff bass, but still not rude, that they had an engagement for a quarter to seven.
“I'll make it as brief as I can,” Wolfe assured them. He reached in the drawer and got one of the pictures and extended his hand. “Will you glance at this?” They arose, and Harvey took the picture, and they looked at it. I thought that was carrying things a little too far. What was I, a worm? So when Harvey dropped it on the desk I stepped over and got an eye on it, and then handed it to Wolfe.
Some day he'll get so damn frolicsome that I'll cramp his style sure as hell. I was now caught up.
Harvey and Stevens sat down again, without exchanging a glance. That struck me as being overcautious, but I suppose Commies, especially on the upper levels, get the habit early and it becomes automatic.
Wolfe asked pleasantly, “It's an interesting face, isn't it?” Stevens stayed deadpan and didn't speak.
