match, and now he’s impersonating James Neville Vance, who owns-or owned-various gobs of real estate, and it is my duty as a citizen and a licensed private detective to expose and denounce-”
“Pfui. Some floundering numskull.”
“Okay. I’ll go out back to burn it. It’ll smell.”
He grunted. “It may not be blood.”
I nodded. “Sure. But if it’s ketchup and tobacco juice I can tell him how to get it out and charge him two bucks. That will be a bigger fee than any you’ve collected for nearly a month.”
Another grunt. “Where is Horn Street?”
“In the Village. Thirty-minute walk. I’ve had no walk.”
“Very well.” He opened the book.
2
MOST OF THE HOUSES on Horn Street, which is only three blocks long, could stand a coat of paint, but Number 219, a four-story brick, was all dressed up-the brick cream-colored and the trim dark brown; and the Venetian blinds at the windows matched the bricks. Since Vance was in clover I supposed it was just for him, but in the vestibule there were three names in a panel on the wall with buttons. The bottom one was Fougere, the middle one was Kirk, and the top one was James Neville Vance. I pushed the top one, and after a wait a voice came from a grill. “Who is it?”
I stooped a little to put my mouth on a level with the lower grill and said, “My name is Archie Goodwin. I’d like to see Mr. Vance.”
“This is Vance. What do you want?”
It was a baritone, no trace of a squeak. I told the grill, “I have something that belongs to you and I want to return it.”
“You have something that belongs to me?”
“Right.”
“What is it and where did you get it?”
“Correction. I
“Who are you and where did you get it?”
I got impatient. “Here’s a suggestion,” I said. “Install closed-circuit television so you can see the vestibule from up there, and phone me at the office of Nero Wolfe, where I work, and I’ll come back. It will take a week or so and set you back ten grand, but it’ll be worth it to see the tie without letting me in. After you’ve identified it I’ll tell you where I got it. If you don’t-”
“Did you say Nero Wolfe? The detective?”
“Yes.”
“But what- This is ridiculous.”
“I agree. Completely. Give me a ring when you’re ready.”
“But I- All right. Use the elevator. I’m in the studio, the top floor-four.”
There was a click at the door, and on the third click I pushed it open and entered. To my surprise the small hall was not more cream and brown but a deep rich red with black panel-borders, and the door of the do- it-yourself elevator was stainless steel. When I pushed the button and the door opened, and, inside, pushed the 4 button and was lifted, there was practically no noise or vibration-very different from the one in the old brownstone which Wolfe always used and I never did.
Stepping out when the door opened, I got another surprise. Since he had called it the studio I was expecting to smell turpentine and see a clutter of vintage Vances, but at first glance it was a piano warehouse. There were three of them in the big room, which was the length and width of the house.
The man standing there waited to speak until my glance got to him. Undersized, with too much chin for his neat smooth face, no wrinkles, he wasn’t as impressive as his stationery, but his clothes were-cream- colored silk shirt and brown made-to-fit slacks. He cocked his head, nodded, and said, “I recognize you. I’ve seen you at the Flamingo.” He came a step. “What’s this about a tie? Let me see it.”
“It’s the one you sent me,” I said.
He frowned. “The one I sent you?”
“There seems to be a gap,” I said. “Are you James Neville Vance?”
“I am. Certainly.”
I got the envelope and letterhead from my breast pocket and showed them for inspection. “Then that’s your stationery?” He was going to take them, but I held on. He examined the address on the envelope and the message on the letterhead, frowning, lifted the frown to me, and demanded, “What kind of a game is this?”
“I’ve walked two miles to find out.” I got the tie from my side pocket. “This was in the envelope. Is it
