Champange for One

“You suppose.” I crossed my legs. “It wouldn’t hurt you any, and would be good for my morale, if you let me take a trick now and then. Austin Byne had already occurred to me, and I asked for suggestions only to be polite. I already know what your powers of observation and memory are and you didn’t have to demonstrate them by remembering that I had mentioned his name on the fly and—Why the snort?”

“At the notion that your morale needs any encouragement. Do you know where to reach Mr Byne?”

I said I did and, before resuming at the typewriter, dialled his number. No answer. During the next hour and a half I interrupted my typing four times to dial the number, and still no answer. By then it was di

That trio, the three that Wolfe always called on when we needed more eyes and ears and legs, were as good as you could get in the metropolitan area. In fact, Saul Panzer, a little guy with a big nose who never wore a hat, compromising on a cap when the weather was rough, was better. With an office and a staff he could have cleaned up, but that wouldn’t have left him enough time for playing the piano or playing pinochle or keeping up with his reading, so he preferred to freelance at seventy bucks a day. Fred Durkin, bulky and bald-headed, had his weak points, but he was worth at least half as much as Saul, which was his price, if you gave him the right kind of errands. If Orrie Gather had been as smart as he was brave and handsome he would have been hiring people instead of being hired, and Wolfe would have had to find someone else, which wouldn’t have been easy because good operatives are scarce.

They were on yellow chairs in a row facing Wolfe’s desk. We hadn’t seen any of them for two months, and civilities had been exchanged, including handshakes. They are three of the nine or ten people to whom Wolfe willingly offers a hand. Saul and Orrie had accepted offers of coffee; Fred had preferred beer.

Wolfe sipped coffee, put his cup down, and surveyed them. “I have undertaken,” he said, “to find an explanation for something that can’t possibly be explained.”

Fred Durkin frowned, concentrating. He had decided long ago that there was a clue in every word Wolfe uttered, and he wasn’t going to miss one if he could help it. Orrie Gather smiled to show that he recognized a gag when he heard it, and finally appreciated—it. Saul Panzer said, “Then the job is to invent one.”

Wolfe nodded.” It may come to that, Saul. Either that or abandon it. Usually, as you know, I merely give you specific assignments, but in this case you will have to be told the situation and the background. We are dealing with the death of a woman named Faith Usher who drank poisoned champagne at the home of Mrs Robert Robilotti. I suppose you have heard of it.”

They all had.

Wolfe drank coffee. “But you should know all that I know, except the identity of my client. Yesterday morning Archie got a phone call from a man he knows, by name Austin Byne, the nephew of Mrs Robilotti. He asked Archie…”

Seeing that I could be spared for a while, and thinking it was time for another try at Byne, I got up, circled around the trio, went to the kitchen, and dialled the number on the extension there. After five rings I was thinking I was going to draw a blank again, but then I had a voice saying hallo.

“Byne?” I asked. “Dinky Byne?”

“Who is this?”

“Archie Goodwin.”

“Oh, hallo there. I’ve been thinking you might call. To give me hell for getting you into a mess. I don’t blame you. Go on and say it.”

“I could all right, but I’ve got another idea. You said you’d return the favour some day, and tomorrow is the day. I want to run up to Grantham House and have a talk with someone there, preferably the woman in charge, and they’re probably having too many visitors and won’t let me in. So I thought you might say a word for me—on the phone, or write a letter I can take, or maybe even go along. How about it?”

Silence. Then: “What makes you think a word from me would help?”

“You’re Mrs Robilotti’s nephew. And I heard somebody say, I forget who, that she has sent you there on errands.”

Another silence. “What are you after? What do you want to talk about?”

“I’m just curious about something. Some questions the cops have asked me because I was there last night, the mess you got me into, have made me curious.”

“What questions?”

“That’s a long story. Also complicated. Just say I’m nosy by nature, that’s why I’m in the detective business. Maybe I’m trying to scare up a client. Anyway, I’m not asking you to attend a death by poisoning, as you did me, though you didn’t know it. I just want you to make a phone call.”

“I can’t, Archie.”

“No? Why not?”

“Because I’m not in a position to. It wouldn’t be– It might look as if—I mean I just can’t do it.”

“Okay, forget it. I’ll have to feed some other curiosity—I’ve got plenty. For instance, my curiosity about why you asked me to fill in for you because you had such a cold you could hardly talk when you didn’t have a cold—at least not the kind you tried to fake, I haven’t told the cops about that, your faking the cold, so I guess I’d better do that and ask them to ask you why. I’m curious.”

“You’re crazy. I did have a cold. I wasn’t faking.”

“Nuts. Take care of yourself. I’ll be seeing you, or the cops will.”

Silence, a short one.” Don’t hang up, Archie.”

“Why not? Make an offer.”

“I want to talk this over. I want to see you, but I don’t want to leave here because I’m expecting a phone call. Maybe you could come here?”

“Where is here?”

“My apartment. Eighty-seven Bowdoin Street , in the Village. It’s two blocks south—”

“I know where it is. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Take some aspirin.”

When I had hung up, Fritz, who was at the sink, turned to say, “As I thought, Archie. I knew there would be a client, since you were there.”

I told him I’d have to think that over to decide how to take it, and went to the office to tell the conference it would have to manage without me for a while.

Chapter 7

There’s no telling what 87 Bowdoin Street had been like a few years back—or rather, there is, if you know the neighbourhood—but someone had spent some dough on it, and it wasn’t at all bad when you got inside. The tile floor was a nice dark green, the walls were a lighter green but the same tone, and the frame of the entrance for the do-it-yourself elevator was outlined with a plain wide strip of dull aluminium. Having been instructed over the intercom in the vestibule, I entered the elevator and pushed the button marked 5.

When I emerged on the fifth floor Byne was there to greet me and ushered me in. After taking my hat and coat he motioned me through a doorway, and I found myself in a room that I would have been perfectly willing to move to when the day came that Wolfe fired me or I quit, with perhaps a few minor changes. The rugs and chairs were the kind I like, and the lights were okay, and there was no fireplace. I hate fireplaces. When Byne had got me in a chair and asked if I would like a drink, and I had declined with thanks, he stood facing me. He was tall and lanky and loose-jointed, with not much covering for his face bones except skin.