Champange for One

Champagne For One by Rex Stout

Chapter 1

If it hadn’t been raining and blowing that raw Tuesday morning in March I would have been out, walking to the bank to deposit a couple of cheques, when Austin Byne phoned me, and he might have tried somebody else. But more likely not. He would probably have rung again later, so I can’t blame all this on the weather. As it was, I was there in the office, oiling the typewriter and the two Marley .38’s, for which we had permits, from the same can of oil, when the phone rang and I lifted it and spoke.

“Nero Wolfe’s office, Archie Goodwin speaking.”

“Hello there. This is Byne. Dinky Byne.”

There it is in print for you, but it wasn’t for me, and I didn’t get it. It sounded more like a dying bullfrog than a man.

“Clear your throat,” I suggested, “or sneeze or something, and try again.”

“That wouldn’t help. My tubes are all clogged. Tubes. Clogged. Understand? Dinky Byne—B-Y-N-E.”

“Oh, hallo. I won’t ask how you are, hearing how you sound. My sympathy.”

“I need it. I need more than sympathy, too.” It was coming through slightly better. “I need help. Will you do me a hell of a favour?”

I made a face. “I might. If I can do it sitting down and it doesn’t cost me any teeth.”

“It won’t cost you a thing. You know my Aunt Louise. Mrs Robert Robilotti.”

“Only professionally. Mr Wolfe did a job for her once, recovered some jewellery. That is, she hired him and I did the job—and she didn’t like me. She resented a remark I made.”

“That won’t matter. She forgets remarks. I suppose you know about the di

“Sure. Who doesn’t?”

“Well, that’s it. Today. Seven o’clock . And I’m to be one of the chevaliers, and listen to me, and I’ve got some fever. I can’t go. She’ll be sore as the devil if she has to scout around for a fill-in, and when I phone her I want to tell her she won’t have to, that I’ve already got one. Mr Archie Goodwin. You’re a better chevalier than me any day. She knows you, and she has forgotten the remark you made, and anyhow she has resented a hundred remarks I’ve made, and you’ll know exactly how to treat the lady guests. Black tie, seven o’clock , and you know the address. After I phone her, of course she’ll ring you to confirm it. And you can do it sitting down, and I’ll guarantee nothing will be served that will break your teeth. She has a good cook. My God, I didn’t think I could talk so long. How about it, Archie?”

“I’m chewing on it,” I told him.” You waited long enough.”

“Yeah, I know, but I kept thinking I might be able to make it, until I pried my eyes open this morning. I’ll do the same for you some day.”

“You can’t. I haven’t got a billionaire aunt. I doubt if she has forgotten the remark I made because it was fairly sharp. What if she vetoes me? You’d have to ring me again to call it off, and then ring someone else, and you shouldn’t talk that much, and besides, my feelings would be hurt.”

I was merely stalling, partly because I wanted to hear him talk some more. It sounded to me as if his croak had flaws in it. Clogged tubes have no effect on your eases, as in “seven” and “sitting”, but he was trying to produce one, and he turned “long” into “lawd” when it should have been more like “lawg”. So I was suspecting that the croak was a phoney. If I hadn’t had my full share of ego I might also have been curious as to why he had picked on me, since we were not chums, but of course that was no problem. If your ego is in good shape you will pretend you’re surprised if a National Chairman calls to tell you his party wants to nominate you for President of the United States , but you’re not really surprised.

I only stalled him long enough to be satisfied that the croak was a fake before I agreed to take it on. The fact was that the idea appealed to me. It would be a new experience and should increase my knowledge of human nature. It might also be a little ticklish, and even dismal, but it would be interesting to see how they handled it. Not to mention how I would handle it myself. So I told him I would stand by for a call from his Aunt Louise.

It came in less than half an hour. I had finished the oiling job and was putting the guns in their drawer in my desk when the phone rang. A voice I recognized said she was Mrs Robilotti’s secretary and Mrs Robilotti wished to speak with me, and I said, “Is it jewellery again, Miss Fromm?” and she said, “She will tell you what it is, Mr Goodwin.”

Then another voice, also recognized. “Mr Goodwin?”

“Speaking.”

“My nephew Austin Byne says he phoned you.”

“I guess he did.”

“You guess he did?”

“The voice said it was Byne, but it could have been a seal trying to bark.”

“He has laryngitis. He told you so. Apparently you haven’t changed any. He says that he asked you to take his place at di

I admitted it.

“He says that you are acquainted with the nature and significance of the affair.”

“Of course I am. So are fifty million other people—or more.”

“I know. I regret the publicity it has received in the past, but I refuse to abandon it. I owe it to my dear first husband’s memory. I am inviting you, Mr Goodwin.”

“Okay. I accept the invitation as a favour to your nephew. Thank you.”

“Very well.” A pause. “Of course it is not usual, on inviting a di

“Certainly.”

“Tact and discretion are necessary.”

“I’ll bring mine along,” I assured her.

“And of course refinement.”

“I’ll borrow some.” I decided she needed a little comfort. “Don’t worry, Mrs Robilotti, I understand the set-up and you can count on me clear through to the coffee and even after. Relax. I am fully briefed. Tact, discretion, refinement, black tie, seven o’clock .”

“Then I’ll expect you. Please hold the wire. My secretary will give you the names of those who will be present. It will simplify the introductions if you know them in advance.”

Miss Fromm got on again. “Mr Goodwin?”

“Still here.”

“You should have paper and pencil.”

“I always have. Shoot.”

“Stop me if I go too fast. There will be twelve at table. Mr and Mrs Robilotti. Miss Celia Grantham and Mr Cecil Grantham. They are Mrs Robilotti’s son and daughter by her first husband.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Miss Helen Yarmis. Miss Ethel Varr. Miss Faith Usher. Am I going too fast?”

I told her no.

“Miss Rose Turtle. Mr Paul Schuster. Mr Beverly Kent. Mr Edwin Laidlaw. Yourself. That makes twelve. Miss Varr will be on your right and Miss Turtle will be on your left.”

I thanked her and hung up. Now that I was booked, I wasn’t so sure I liked it. It would be interesting, but it might also be a strain on the nerves. However, I was booked, and I rang Byne at the number he had given me and told him he could stay home and gargle. Then I went to Wolfe’s desk and wrote on his calendar Mrs Robilotti’s name and phone number. He wants to know where to reach me when I’m out, even when we have nothing important on, in case someone yells for help and will pay for it. Then I went to the hall, turned left, and pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen. Fritz was at the big table, spreading anchovy butter on shad roes.

“Cross me off for di

He stopped spreading to look at me. “That’s too bad. Veal birds in casserole. You know, with mushrooms and white wine.”

“I’ll miss it. But there may be something edible where I’m going.”