He opened a drawer and pulled out his date book. “Let’s see, on Tuesday, I was at my barber’s at ten-thirty, meaning I probably left him at eleven or a little past. You can check with him. Wallace Berkeley on Forty-sixth Street. Then let’s see, I took a cab down to Gramercy Park, where I was having lunch with one of my writers at that club I mentioned. I got there early and walked around the park, which always makes me think of London. It relaxes me.”
“How long did you walk?”
“Probably half an hour or more. Not much of an alibi, is it?”
“Certainly not if nobody can vouch for you. As you said yourself, Gramercy Park isn’t all that far from Childress’s place.”
“You’re nothing if not direct, Mr. Goodwin.” Ott wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t frowning, either.
“Direct is my middle name. One more question,” I said, reaching into my pocket. “Any idea what this key opens?”
Ott took it between his thumb and forefinger and frowned. “You know, it looks like it might be to my apartment.” He pulled out his key ring and took one off, holding it up next to the key I had produced.
“Nope, not the same, see?” he said, giving me an up-close look at both of them.
I nodded as he handed me the key. “I’ve taken a lot of your time,” I told him, getting up.
“Wait,” he said, looking stern and holding up a hand like a traffic cop. “Do you keep a bottle of rye in your lower right-hand desk drawer?”
That stopped me. “No. But I always know where to find some.”
“Not the same thing. No rye in your desk, no hard-boiled tag. Sorry to be the one to break it to you, Mr. Goodwin, but you are terminally urbane.”
“A bitter pill,” I admitted, donning my most somber expression. “I suppose I can’t change your mind with my Bogart impression and my British trench coat?”
Ott actually cracked a smile. “It’s far too late for that. You are what you are.”
I tried to think of something hard-boiled to say, other than “Same to you, fella.” Nothing came to mind, so I gave him my most urbane smile and sauntered out.
Seven
When I got back to the brownstone, it was eight minutes after six, which meant Wolfe was down from the plant rooms. I was not surprised to find him seated behind his desk with beer and book.
“Home is the hunter, home from the sea,” I said as I dropped into my desk chair.
He set the book down and sighed — not softly. “Archie, if you must quote Stevenson, make at least a minimal effort to get it correct: It is ‘Home is the sailor, home from the sea, and the hunter, home from the hill.’“
“I’ll work on it, thanks. Ready for a report on my meeting with Mr. Ott?”
“I sense that I am not going to be offered an alternative.” Wolfe leaned back with his eyes closed as I gave him the conversation verbatim, ending with Ott’s comment about me being urbane. “Indeed?” he said, raising his eyebrows and coming forward in his chair. “My dictionary defines urbane as, among other things, ‘evincing the suavity and polish characteristic of social life in large cities.’ That same definition also includes the words ‘courteous’ and ‘polite.’ Mr. Ott must have been distracted during your visit.”
“I guess that’s sarcasm, huh? Well, you know Lily Rowan, and you’ve even admitted that you approve of her, which makes her a rarity among human females. Ask her about my suavity and polish and see what, she says. Any other reflections?”
He sniffed. “We are having roast quail for dinner.” Then he picked up his book. He wasn’t just changing the subject to get me off his back, although that was part of it. He also was aware that, since it was Thursday, which means the weekly poker game at Saul Panzer’s, I wouldn’t be eating dinner in the brownstone. And he was rubbing it in because he knows very well that roast quail ranks near the top on my list of entrées.
I did not by any means spend the evening moping, however — far from it. First, Saul dished up a mulligan stew Fritz would have been proud to serve. And second, through a combination of reasonably good play and incredibly good luck, I lightened the wallets of all five of my comrades-in-cards.
The next morning, I settled in at my desk in the office after breakfast and put in a call to Charles Childress’s former editor, Keith Billings, at his current publishing house. I got his “voice mail,” which ranks with wristwatch buzzers and beepers as elements guaranteed to bring the ultimate collapse of western civilization as we know it. I left a message and was at the personal computer entering Wolfe’s dictation from the previous day when the doorbell chirped at ten-seventeen. Fritz was out gathering provisions, so I did the honors.
As seen through the one-way glass, he was a specimen worth marveling at — for a moment, at least. His vested suit was pearl gray, with pinstripes, and it fit like it had been woven on him as he stood. His tie was a darker shade of gray, with thin yellow stripes spaced discreetly. He looked to be somewhere between forty-five and fifty-five; an angular face tapered from wide cheekbones to a pointed chin. Above his mouth was a well-tended little mustache that a British colonel would be proud to have nurtured. And atop his noggin, cocked at precisely the right angle, sat a bowler, which — you guessed it — also was gray. And damned if he didn’t carry a walking stick. The only thing missing was spats.
As I swung the door open, I half-expected an English accent. I got New England instead. “Is Mr. Wolfe in?” our dapper visitor demanded in a clipped tone.
“Affirmative, although he’s not available at the moment. Is he expecting you?” I asked, knowing that Wolfe wasn’t expecting anyone.
“No, but I believe he wishes to see me. My name is Wilbur Hobbs.” His pronunciation left no doubt that I was expected to kneel and kiss the green jade ring on his left pinkie. “And you, I presume, are Mr. Goodwin.”
“Correct. Nero Wolfe is occupied until eleven. Would you care to come in and wait?”
“I would indeed,” Hobbs answered, unsmiling. He stepped into the hall, placed his bowler on one of the wooden pegs after checking with an index finger to see if it was dusty, and carefully leaned his stick against the wall.
“You can wait in the front room — there are magazines — or you can come to the office, although I’m afraid I won’t be terribly good company,” I told him. “I’m in the middle of a project that may take the next hour or more.”
“I prefer the office,” Hobbs said haughtily. “Your friend and my colleague, Mr. Cohen, has led me to believe that Mr. Wolfe has a superb library, one of the finest private collections in New York City. I should like very much to browse it. With your permission, needless to say.”
“Of course. Please come this way.” I led Hobbs to the office and pointed him at the red leather chair while I went back to the letter I had almost finished. Within thirty seconds, he was up and over at the bookcases, making clucking sounds. My plan when I let Hobbs in had been to spring him on Wolfe when His Hugeness came down from the plant rooms, but as I typed, I revised the program. I have seen Wolfe march out of the office a few times when I’ve surprised him, and I didn’t want to mess things up.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I told the critic. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Nothing, thank you.” He didn’t bother to turn from the bookshelves where his aristocratic nose was deep in a volume.
When I went to the kitchen, I came upon Fritz frowning and shaking his head over a pot on the stove. “I know that whatever you have in there will turn out all right,” I assured him. “It always does. I have to run up and talk to Mr. Wolfe. There is a man in the office, waiting to see him. He’s probably harmless, but I don’t want him dashing out the front door with a first edition tucked under his well-tailored arm. Keep an eye on him through the peephole. If he starts to leave, buzz the plant rooms.”