AT TWO O’CLOCK the next day, Wednesday, I was feeling pretty screwy and dissatisfied with life, but in one way completely at home. Getting to bed too late, or having my sleep disturbed unduly, poisons my system, and I had had both to contend with. Having neglected to hang up a notice, a damn fool servant had got me to the door of our suite at nine o’clock to ask if we wanted baths drawn or any other little service, and I had told him to return at sundown. At ten-thirty the phone woke me; my friend Barry Tolman wanted to speak to Wolfe. I explained that Wolfe’s first exposure to the light of day would have to be on his own initiative, and told the operator no more calls until further notice. In spite of that, an hour later the phone rang again and kept on ringing. It was Tolman, and he just had to speak to Wolfe. I told him absolutely nothing doing, without a search and seizure warrant, until Wolfe had announced himself as conscious. But that time I was roused enough to become aware of other necessities besides sleep, so I bathed and shaved and dressed and phoned Room Service for some breakfast, since I couldn’t go and get it under the circumstances. I had finished the third cup of coffee when I heard Wolfe yelling for me. He was certainly getting demoralized. At home in New York, I hadn’t heard him yell more than three times in ten years.
He gave me his breakfast order, which I phoned, and then issued the instructions which made me feel at home. It was his intention to confine his social contacts for that afternoon exclusively to me. Business and professional contacts were out. The door was to be kept locked, and any caller, unless it should happen to be Marko Vukcic, was to be told that Wolfe was immersed in something, no matter what. Telephone calls were to be handled by me, since he knew nothing that I didn’t know. (This jarred my aplomb, since it was the first time he had ever admitted it.) Should I feel the need of more fresh air than was obtainable through open windows, which was idiotic but probable, the DO NOT DISTURB card was to be hung on the door and the key kept in my pocket.
I phoned for whatever morning papers were available, and when they came passed a couple to Wolfe and made myself comfortable on a couch with the remainder. Those from New York and Pittsburgh and Washington, being early train editions, had no mention of the Laszio murder, but there were big headlines and a short piece in the Charleston
But before the day was out Wolfe’s arrangements for peaceful privacy got shot full of holes. The first and least important of the upsets came before he had finished with the newspapers when, around two o’clock, there were sounds at the outer door and I went and opened it a discreet twelve inches to find myself confronted by two gentlemen who did not look local and whom I had never seen before. One was shorter than me and somewhat older, dark-skinned, wiry and compact, in a neat gray herringbone with padded shoulders and cut-in waist; the other, medium both in age and size, wore his hairline well above his temples and had small gray eyes that looked as if nobody would ever have to irritate him again because he was already irritated for good. But he spoke and listened politely as he asked me if that was Mr. Nero Wolfe’s suite and I informed him it was, and announced that he was Mr. Liggett and the padded specimen was Mr. Malfi, and he would like to see Wolfe. I explained that Wolfe was immersed, and he looked impatient and dug an envelope from his pocket and handed it to me. I apologized for shutting them in the hall before I did so, and returned to the pigpen.
“Two male strangers, vanilla and caramel. To see you.”
Wolfe’s eyes didn’t leave his newspapers. “If either of them was Mr. Vukcic, I presume you would have recognized him.”
“Not Vukcic, no, but you didn’t prohibit letters, and he handed me one.”
“Read it.”
I took it from the envelope, saw that it was on engraved stationery, and wired it for sound:
New York
April 7, 1937
This will introduce my friend Mr. Raymond Liggett, manager and part owner of the Hotel Churchill. He wants to ask your advice or assistance, and has requested this note from me.
I hope you’re enjoying yourself down there. Don’t eat too much, and don’t forget to come back to make life in New York pleasanter for us.
Yours BURKE WILLIAMSON
Wolfe grunted. “You said April 7th? That’s today.”
“Yeah, they must have flown. Formerly a figure of speech, now listed under common carriers. Do we let them in?”
“Confound it.” Wolfe let the paper down. “Courtesy is One’s own affair, but decency is a debt to life. You remember that Mr. Williamson was kind enough to let us use the grounds of his estate for the ambush and robbery of Miss Anna Fiore.” He sighed. “Show them in.”
I went and got them, pronounced names around, and placed chairs. Wolfe greeted them, made his customary statement regarding his tendency to stay seated, and then glanced a second time at the padded one.
“Did I catch your name, sir? Malfi? Perhaps, Albert Malfi?”
The wiry one’s black eyes darted at him. “That’s right. I don’t know how you knew the Albert.”
Wolfe nodded. “Formerly Alberto. I met Mr. Berin on the train coming down here, and he told me about you. He says you are an excellent entree man, and it is always a pleasure to meet an artist and a sound workman.”
Liggett put in, “Oh, you were with Berin on the train?”
“I was.” Wolfe grimaced. “We shared that ordeal. Mr. Williamson says you wish to ask me something.”
