Anyhow Wolfe had taken the job and there I was. I pulled a slip of paper from my pocket, typed on by me from notes taken of the talk with Harry Koven, and gave it a look.
MARCELLE KOVEN, Wife
Adrian getz, friend or camp follower, maybe both patricia lowell, agent (manager?), promoter pete Jordan, artist, draws Dazzle Dan byram hildebrand, artist, also draws D.D.
One of those five, according to Harry Koven, had stolen his gun, a Marley .32, and he wanted to know which one. As he had told it, that was all there was to it, but it was a cinch that if the missing object had been an electric shaver or a pair of cufflinks it would not have called for all that lip-chew122
not to mention other signs of strain. He had gone out of , way, not once but twice, to declare that he had no reason i suspect any of the five of wanting to do any shooting. The and time he had made it so emphatic that Wolfe had ited and I had lifted a brow.
Since a Marley .32 is by no means a collector's item, it was great coincidence that there was one in our arsenal and fthat therefore we were equipped to furnish Koven with the I prop he wanted for his performance. As for the performance itself, the judicious thing to do was wait and see, but there was no point in being judicious about something I didn't like, so I had already checked it off as a dud.
I dismissed the taxi at the address on Seventy-sixth Street,
east of Lexington Avenue. The house had had its front done
over for the current century, unlike Nero Wolfe's old brown ' stone on West Thirty-fifth Street, which still sported the same
; front stoop it had started with. To enter this one you went
down four steps instead of up seven, and I did so, after
noting the pink shutters at the windows of all four floors and
the tubs of evergreens flanking the entrance.
I was let in by a maid in uniform, with a pug nose and lipstick about as thick as Wolfe spreads Camembert on a wafer. I told her I had an appointment with Mr. Koven. She said Mr. Koven was not yet available and seemed to think that settled it, making me no offer for my hat and coat.
I said, "Our old brownstone, run by men only, is run better. When Fritz or I admit someone with an appointment we take his things."
"What's your name?" she demanded in a tone indicating that she doubted if I had one.
A loud male voice came from somewhere within. "Is that the man from Furnari's?"
A loud female voice came from up above. "Cora, is that my dress?"
I called out, "It's Archie Goodwin, expected by Mr. Koven at noon! It is now two minutes past twelve!"
That got action. The female voice, not quite so loud, told me to come up. The maid, looking frustrated, beat it. I took
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off my coat and put it on a chair, and my hat. A man came through a doorway at the rear of the hall and approached, speaking.
"More noise. Noisiest goddam place. Up this way." He started up the stairs. "When you have an appointment with Sir Harry, always add an hour."
I followed him. At the top of the flight there was a large square hall with wide archways to rooms at right and left. He led me through the one at the left.
There are few rooms I can't take in at a glance, but that was one of them. Two huge TV cabinets, a monkey in a cage in a corner, chairs of all sizes and colors, rugs overlapping, a fireplace blazing away, the temperature around eighty--I gave it up and focused on the inhabitant. That was not only simpler but pleasanter. She was smaller than I would specify by choice, but otherwise acceptable, especially the wide smooth brow above the serious gray eyes, and the cheekbones. She must have been part salamander, to look so cool and silky in that oven.
"Dearest Pete," she said, "you are going to stop calling my husband Sir Harry."
I admired that as a time-saver. Instead of the usual pronouncement of names, she let me know that she was Marcelle, Mrs. Harry Koven, and that the young man was Pete Jordan, and at the same time told him something.
Pete Jordan walked across to her as for a purpose. He might have been going to take her in his arms or slap her or anything in between. But a pace short of her he stopped.
"You're wrong," he told her in his aggressive baritone. "It's according to plan. It's the only way I can prove I'm not a louse. No one but a louse would stick at this, doing this crap month after month, and here look at me just because I like to eat. I haven't got the guts to quit and starve a while, so I call him Sir Harry to make you sore, working myself up to calling him something that will make him sore, and eventually I'll come to a boil and figure out a way to make Getz sore, and then I'll get bounced and I can start starving and be an artist. It's a plan." 124
He turned and glared at me. "I'm more apt to go through with it if I Announce it in front of a witness. You're the witness. My name's Jordan, Pete Jordan."
He shouldn't have tried glaring because he wasn't built for it. He wasn't much bigger than Mrs. Koven, and he had narrow shoulders and broad hips. An aggressive baritone and a defiant glare coming from that make-up just couldn't have the effect he was after. He needed coaching.
"You have already made me sore," she told his back in a nice low voice, but not a weak one. "You act like a brat and you're too old to be a brat. Why not grow up?"
He wheeled and snapped at her, "I look on you as a mother!"
That was a foul. They were both younger than me, and she couldn't have had more than three or four years on him.
I spoke. "Excuse me," I said, "but I am not a professional witness. I came to see Mr. Koven at his request. Shall I go hunt for him?"
A thin squeak came from behind me. "Good morning, Mrs. Koven. Am I early?"
As she answered I turned for a look at the owner of the squeak, who was advancing from the archway. He should have traded voices with Pete Jordan. He had both the size and presence for a deep baritone, with a well-made head topped by a healthy mat of gray hair nearly white. Everything about him was impressive and masterful, including the way he carried himself, but the squeak spoiled it completely. It continued as he joined us.
"I heard Mr. Goodwin, and Pete left, so I thought�"
Mrs. Koven and Pete were both talking too, and it didn't seem worth the effort to sort it out, especially when the monkey decided to join in and started chattering. Also I could feel sweat coming on my forehead and neck, overdressed as I was with a coat and vest, since Pete and the newcomer were in shirt sleeves. I couldn't follow their example without displaying my holster. They kept it up, including the monkey, ignoring me completely but informing me incidentally that the squeaker was not Adrian Getz as I had first supposed,
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but Byram Hildebrand, Pete's co-worker in the grind of drawing Dazzle Dan.
It was all very informal and homey, but I was starting to sizzle and I crossed to the far side of the room and opened a window wide. I expected an immediate reaction but got none. Disappointed at that but relieved by the rush of fresh air, I filled my chest, used my handkerchief on the brow and neck, and, turning, saw that we had company. Coming through the archway was a pink-cheeked creature in a mink coat with a dark green slab of cork or something perched on her brown hair at a cocky slant. With no one bothering to glance at her except me, she moved across toward the fireplace, slid the coat off onto a couch, displaying a tricky plaid suit with an assortment of restrained colors, and said in a throaty voice that carried without being raised, "Rookaloo will be dead in an hour."