Fortunately, I had a good reason to leave the brownstone that night, thereby possibly saving Wolfe from being brained with a blunt object and me from being booked on a murder charge. It was Thursday, meaning I had the above-mentioned engagement with cards and chips — both the poker and potato variety — at Saul’s place over on Thirty-eighth just east of Lexington. And this time, I was the big winner, while Lon — who never once mentioned Barnabas Bay — went home with empty pockets.
The next morning, while Wolfe was up communing with the orchids, I called Lloyd Morgan from my desk in the office. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” I told him, “but Mr. Wolfe does not feel he can accept your problem.”
I could hear an intake of air. “I was afraid of that,” Morgan groaned. “I gather that decision is irreversible?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Another deep breath. “Is there... anyone else you could recommend? Perhaps another investigator?”
For those of you who are new to these precincts, when the need arises, as it frequently does, Wolfe employs two free-lances — Saul Panzer and Fred Durkin. Saul doesn’t look like much: barely five-seven, skinny, stoop-shouldered, usually in need of a shave, and with a face that’s two-thirds nose. But he’s got a sharper pair of eyes than Willie Mays in his prime, and when assigned to follow someone, he sticks to him — or her — like epoxy. He’s also in constant demand, and has more work than he can handle, although he’ll almost always drop whatever he’s doing for Wolfe.
Fred Durkin is another story. He’s big — make that thick — somewhat on the slow side, and a long way from brilliant. Loyalty and honesty are two of his strong suits, though. And while he’s no Saul, he’s tenacious and damn good as a tail. Through the years, Wolfe has used him almost as much as Saul, but of late, business has been slow, which Fred has complained to me about more than once. Maybe this was one part of the reason I was leaning Fred’s way when Morgan posed his question. The other part was that the job didn’t seem all that complicated on the surface.
Maybe you’d have done it differently. If so, I wish you’d been around that Friday morning to stop me before I gave Fred’s telephone number to Lloyd Morgan. Then you wouldn’t be reading this.
Three
For the next eleven days, I barely gave a thought to the Tabernacle of the Silver Spire or to Lloyd Morgan or Fred Durkin. Part of the reason was that I had nudged Wolfe into accepting an honest-to-goodness case — although not a very exciting one — involving a small supermarket chain whose largest store, up in Westchester County, was coming up short on its receipts almost every day. The culprit, as Wolfe suspected early on based on my nosing around the store for two days, was a debt-laden assistant manager who had two accomplices — a pair of rosy-cheeked checkout girls, both teenagers, with the most innocent faces this side of a convent. Our fee wasn’t breathtaking, but given that the whole business took less than a week, we had no reason to complain.
Another distraction — a pleasant one — was that La Rowan got more fired up by the day about our trip to Merrie Olde, and that enthusiasm started to rub off on yours truly, to the point that I was digesting guidebooks about places like the Lake Country and the Cotswolds and Loch Lomond. Oh, I did hear from Fred once, the very day I’d recommended him to Morgan. He called to find out what I knew about the church, as well as to ask why Wolfe had shied away from accepting the case.
“Mr. Wolfe avoids most things having to do with formal religion,” I told him. I also gave him my impressions of Morgan, along with Lon’s comments about Bay as a preacher and spiritual leader. I signed off by saying, “Good luck, and give a holler if you need anything,” and I sent the threatening notes back to Morgan in a sealed envelope — at my expense — via Herb Aronson, for my money the most dependable cabbie in New York.
The holler, when I got it, came from another quarter. It was a Tuesday morning about nine, and I was in the office typing up letters Wolfe had dictated the day before, when the phone rang.
“Okay, Archie, better catch me up, and fast!” It was Lon Cohen, and the exclamation mark I put on the end of his sentence doesn’t do justice to the urgency in his voice.
“Catch you up on what?”
“You know damn well what,” he blurted. “The Silver Spire business, and Durkin.”
“What about Durkin?” Now I was almost shouting myself, and my throat suddenly got as dry as Death Valley.
“As if you didn’t know. He’s been tossed in the slammer — for murder.”
“Wha-a-a-t? How did—”
“Dammit, Archie, stop jerking me around. We’re coming up on deadline, and I’ve got to have something fast. The boss knows Durkin’s practically an employee of Wolfe’s, and he’s all over me to come up with an exclusive on this.”
My brain was racing to keep pace with my mouth. “Bay’s dead?”
“Not Bay,” Lon snapped irritably. “An assistant of his. Are you going to help me, or not?”
“Time out,” I said. “First, Mr. Wolfe — through me — was approached by one of the Silver Spire staff because of a problem they were having; that’s when I called you to find out about Bay. But Mr. Wolfe wasn’t excited at the idea of having a church on his client list, so we recommended Fred.”
Lon snorted. “I think I’ve been around you long enough to know you wouldn’t throw Durkin to the dogs just to save your hide and Wolfe’s. So you’re giving it to me straight?”
“As straight as William Tell’s arrow. Who got killed, and when?”
“Guy named Royal Meade, the senior associate pastor, and Bay’s Number-Two person on the staff. Durkin shot him sometime last night in one of the church offices.”
“Bull. Did Fred confess?”
“All right, allegedly shot him. Anyway, he’s downtown in the lockup. I’m surprised you hadn’t heard about it. Now, just what kind of problem was the church having?”
“That’s going to have to wait until I’ve spoken to my employer.”
“Come on, Archie. We need—”
“Look, I’ve got to talk to Wolfe, and then I’ll get back to you — I promise. Has a bond been set?”
“Oh, sure, you want information, but you’re not willing to cough any up yourself,” he snapped. “As far as bond, I don’t know.”
I vowed to Lon that he’d hear from me before the morning was over, and I signed off, taking the stairs two at a time to the plant rooms. In the cool room, which is the first one you enter, I tried not to be dazzled by the reds and whites and yellows of the Odontoglossums, but as often as I’ve been up on the roof, I never get used to the breathtaking sight of those and the other show-offs that make up the ten thousand orchids Wolfe refers to as his “concubines.” I passed on through the moderate and tropical rooms, steeling myself against the charms of the cattleyas and miltonias.
Wolfe, wearing a yellow smock, was in the potting room, planted on his stool at the bench. He was glumly considering a panicle of Oncidium altissimum, while Theodore Horstmann, Wolfe’s full-time orchid nurse, was at the sink washing out pots.
Wolfe’s expression didn’t improve when he spotted me in the doorway. “Yes?” he grunted.
“We’ve got a problem, or you know damn well I wouldn’t be up here,” I said as old Horstmann threw a glare my way. He glares at me even when I’m not trespassing in his sanctuary, though. He doesn’t like me, but that’s okay, because the feeling is mutual and has been for years. I returned the glare, which sent him back to washing his pots.