“Yes.” She pulled the collar of her coat, not the sable, something else, closer.
“Okay. Now your getting us if you have to, for something not to be spilled. Go to a phone booth and ring Mr. Wolfe’s number and tell whoever answers that Fido is sick, just that, and hang up. Wait two hours and go to the Churchill and William Coffey. Of course this is just for something they are not to know. For anything they have done or already know about, just ring us. Fido is sick.”
She was still frowning. “But they’ll know about William Coffey after the first time if I go to him openly.”
“We may use him only once. Leave that to us. Actually, Mrs. Bruner, you’re more or less out of it now, the operation. We’ll be working for you, but not on you or about you. We probably won’t need to make contact with you at all. All this is just a precaution in case. But there’s something we ought to know now. You said you came to Mr. Wolfe and gave him that six-figure check merely because you’re being annoyed. Of course you’re a very wealthy woman, but that’s hard to believe. It’s a good guess that there’s something buried somewhere — about you or yours — that you don’t want dug up, and you’re afraid they will. If that’s so we ought to know it — not what it is, but how urgent it is. Are they getting close?”
A gust of wind slapped her and she bent her head and hunched a shoulder. “No,” she said, but the wind swept it away and she said it louder. “No.”
“But of course they might.”
Her eyes were focused on me, but the wind made it a squint. “We won’t discuss that, Mr. Goodwin,” she said. “I suppose every family has its... something. Perhaps I didn’t consider that risk enough when I sent those books, but I did it, and I don’t regret it. They’re not ‘getting close’ to anything, as far as I know. Not yet.”
“That’s all you want to say about it?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. If and when you want to say more you know what to do. What is sour?”
“The pizza.”
“Who is sick?”
“Fido.”
“What’s his name?”
“William Coffey. At the Churchill.”
“Good enough. You’d better get back in, your ears are red. I’ll probably see you again some day, but God knows when.”
She touched my arm. “What are you going to do?”
“Look around. Buzz. Pry.”
She was going to say something, decided not to, and turned and went. I stood until she reached her door and went in, then headed west. There was no point in casing areaways or windows, but I gave the parked cars a glance as I passed, and a little this side of Madison Avenue there was one with two men in the front seat. I stopped. They weren’t looking at me, the way they are trained not to look in Washington. I backed up a couple of steps, got my notebook out, and jotted down the license number. If they wanted it open, why not? They still not-looked, and I went on.
Turning down Madison, I didn’t bother about spotting a tail, since I had made arrangements on the phone, from a booth the night before, with a hackie I knew, Al Goller. My watch said 11:35, so I had plenty of time and stopped here and there on the way to look in shop windows. At the corner of Sixty-fifth Street I entered a drugstore with a lunch counter, mounted a stool near the front, and ordered a corned-beef sandwich on rye and a glass of milk. There is never any corned beef or rye bread at Wolfe’s table. When that was down I requested a piece of apple pie and coffee. At 12:27 I finished the second cup and twisted around on the stool to look through the window. At 12:31 a brown and yellow taxi rolled to a stop out in front, and I moved, fast — almost not fast enough because a woman was making for the door. I beat her to it and climbed in, and Al pushed the OFF DUTY sign up, and the flag, and we were off.
“Not the cops, I hope,” Al said over his shoulder.
“Nope,” I said. “Arabs on camels. Turn corners awhile. A very slim chance, but I need to be loose. Excuse my back.” I turned around on the seat to watch the rear. Six turns and ten minutes later there was no question about being clear and I told him First Avenue and Thirty-sixth Street. There I gave him a sawbuck and told him to sit twenty minutes and then shove off if I didn’t show. A finif would have been enough, but the client could afford it, and we would probably need Al again. Again and again. I walked a block and a half south, entered a building that hadn’t been there three years back, consulted the directory on the wall of the lobby, learned that Evers Electronics, Inc., was on the eighth floor, and took the elevator.
They had the whole floor; the receptionist’s desk was right there when I left the elevator, and at it was not the regulation female but a broad-shouldered husky with a square chin and unfriendly eyes. I crossed to him and said, “Mr. Adrian Evers, please. My name is Archie Goodwin.”
He didn’t believe it. He wouldn’t have believed it if I had said today is January sixth. He asked, “You have an appointment?”
“No. I work for Nero Wolfe, the private investigator. I have some information for Mr. Evers.”
He didn’t believe that either. “You say Nero Wolfe?”
“I do. Got a Bible?”
Not bothering to resent it, he got at a phone and did some talking and listening, hung up, told me, “Wait here,” and cocked his head at me. He was probably deciding how much of a job it would be to take me. To show him I wasn’t fazed I turned my back and went to inspect a picture on the wall, a photograph of a sprawling two-story building with the inscription EVERS ELECTRONICS DAYTON PLANT. I had about finished counting the windows when a door opened to admit a woman who pronounced my name and told me to come, and I followed her down a hall and around a corner to a door that had MR. EVERS on it. She opened it and I entered, but she didn’t.
He was at a desk between two windows, taking a bite from a sandwich. Two steps in I stopped and said, “But I don’t want to butt in on your lunch.”
He chewed the bite, sizing me up through his rimless cheaters. His neat little face was the kind that doesn’t register unless you make a point of it. When the bite was down he took a sip of coffee from a paper cup and said, “Someone always butts in. What’s this about Nero Wolfe and information? What kind of information?” He took a bite of the sandwich, lox on white toast.
I went to a chair near the end of his desk and sat. “You may already have it,” I said. “It’s in connection with a government contract.”
He chewed and swallowed and asked, “Is Nero Wolfe working for the government?”
“No. He’s working for a private client. The client is interested in the fact that after a security check of an officer of your company the government has canceled a contract, or is about to. That’s a matter of public interest, and—”
“Who is the client?”
“I can’t name him. It’s confidential, and—”
“Is it anyone connected with this company?”
“No. Not in any way. As I was saying, Mr. Evers, the public interest is involved, you realize that. If the right to make security checks is being abused so that the personal or property rights of citizens are being violated, that isn’t just a private matter. Mr. Wolfe’s client is concerned with that aspect of it. Anything you tell me will be strictly confidential and will be used only with your permission. Naturally you don’t want to lose your contract, we understand it’s a big one, but also as a citizen you don’t want to see any injustice done. From the standpoint of Mr. Wolfe’s client, that’s the issue.”
He had put the sandwich down, what was left of it, and was eying me. “You said you had information. What?”
“Well, we thought it possible that you didn’t know that the contract is going to be canceled.”
“A hundred people know that. What else?”