with Mandelbaum and a dick I knew one thing, that the several hundred city and county employees working on the case had got exactly as far as I had at Jamaica and Belmont. After another thirty minutes I knew another thing, that the police commissioner and the district attorney had decided it had become necessary to find out what I was doing at Jarrell’s under an assumed name, no matter how Jarrell felt about it. I said I wanted to phone Mr. Wolfe and was told that all the phones were busy. At noon I was taken in to the DA himself and had forty minutes with him that did neither of us any good. At one o’clock I was allowed to take my pick of ham or turkey in a sandwich; no corned beef. I insisted on milk and got it. At two-thirty I decided it had gone far enough and was walking out, but was stopped. Held as a material witness. Then, of course, they had to let me make a phone call, and within ten minutes there was a call for Mandelbaum from Nathaniel Parker, who is Wolfe’s lawyer when Wolfe is driven to the extremity of using one.
I didn’t get locked up at all. The DA had another try at me and then sent me into another room with a dick named O’Leary, and in two hours I won $3.12 from him at gin. I was perfectly willing to give him a chance to get it back, but someone came and took me to Mandelbaum’s room, and Nathaniel Parker was there. As I shook hands with him Mandelbaum warned me not to leave the jurisdiction, and I said I wanted it in writing, and he said to go to hell, and I said I didn’t know that was in the jurisdiction, and Parker steered me out.
Down on the sidewalk I asked him, “How high am I priced this time?”
“No bail, Archie. No warrant. I persuaded Mandelbaum that the circumstances didn’t call for it, and promised that you will be available when needed.”
I was a little disappointed because being out on bail is good for the ego. It gives you a sense of importance, of being wanted; it makes you feel that people care. However, I didn’t reproach Parker; he had acted for the best. We took a taxi together uptown, but he said he had a dinner appointment and didn’t get out when we reached the old brownstone on West 35th Street. So I thanked him for the rescue and the lift. As I crossed the sidewalk to the stoop my wrist watch said 6:23.
Wolfe, at his desk reading a book, lifted his eyes to grunt a greeting and returned them to the book. I went to my desk to see if there were any memos for me, found none, sat, and inquired, “Anything happen?”
He said no, without looking up.
“Parker said to give you his regards. I am not under bail. He talked Mandelbaum out of it.”
He grunted.
“They’ve decided that Jarrell’s private affairs are no longer private. They’ll be after you any time, in the morning at the latest. Do you want a report?”
He said no, without looking up.
“Any instructions?”
He lifted his eyes, said, “I’m reading, Archie,” and lowered them back to the book.
The best thing to throw at him would have been the typewriter, but I didn’t own it. Next best would have been the telephone, but I didn’t own that, either, and the cord wasn’t long enough. I got up and left, mounted the two flights to my room, showered, decided not to shave, put on a clean shirt and a lighter suit, and was sewing buttons on pajamas when Fritz called up that dinner was ready.
It was at the table that I caught on that something was up. Wolfe wasn’t being crusty because the outlook was dark; he was being smug because he had tasted blood, or was expecting to. He always enjoyed his food, whether in spite of circumstances or in harmony with them, and after ten thousand meals with him I knew all the shades. The way he spread pate on a cracker, the way he picked up the knife to slice the filet of beef in aspic, the way he used his fork on the salad, the way he made his choice from the cheese platter-no question about it, he had something or somebody by the tail, or at least the tail was in sight.
I was thinking that when we were back in the office with coffee he might think it was time to let me have a taste too, but no. After taking three sips he picked up his book. That was a little too much, and I was deciding whether to go after him head on or take him from the flank, when the doorbell rang and I went to answer it. In view of Wolfe’s behavior I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been the whole gang, all seven of them, with a joint confession in triplicate signed and ready to deliver, but it was merely a middle-aged man in a light brown suit and no hat whom I had never seen before.
When I opened the door he spoke before I did. “Is this Nero Wolfe’s house?”
“Right.”
“Are you Archie Goodwin?”
“Right again.”
“Okay.” He extended a hand with a little package. “This is for Nero Wolfe.”
I took it and he turned and was going. I told him to wait, but he called over his shoulder, “No receipt,” and kept going. I looked at the package. It was the size of a box of kitchen matches, wrapped in brown paper, fastened with Scotch tape, and if it bore any name or address it was in invisible ink.
I shut the door and returned to the office and told Wolfe, “The man who handed me this said it was for you, but I don’t know how he knew. There’s no name on it. It doesn’t tick. Shall I open it under water?”
“As you please. It’s hardly large enough to be dangerous.”
That seemed optimistic, remembering the size of the capsule that had once exploded in that office inside a metal percolator, blowing the percolator lid at the wall, missing Wolfe’s head by an inch. However, I could stand it if he could. I got out my knife to cut the tape, removed the paper wrapping, and disclosed a cardboard box with no label. Putting it on the desk midway between us, which was only fair, I eased the lid off. Cotton. I lifted the cotton, and there was more cotton, with an object resting in its center. Bending over for a close-up, I straightened and announced, “A thirty-eight bullet. Isn’t that interesting?”
“Extremely.” He reached for the box and gave it a look. “Very interesting. You’re sure it’s a thirty- eight?”
“Yes, sir. Quite a coincidence.”
