Fritz looked at me in confusion and finally chose one of the yellow chairs that faced Wolfe’s desk. He was not about to park himself in the red leather chair that was reserved for clients or for Inspector Cramer of the Homicide Squad.
“You know more about Theodore and his private life than either Archie or I do,” Wolfe said. “I would—”
“How is he, Mr. Wolfe?” he interrupted.
“I should have started with that, Fritz; my apologies. Theodore is comatose, but his condition appears to be stable. As to when he may emerge from the coma, that remains uncertain. We would like to learn what you know about his life away from here. All of my conversations with him have invariably been about orchids. And as you are no doubt aware, Archie has not had any substantive conversations whatever with him.”
Fritz licked his lips and frowned. “I do not know what I can say to you.”
“Very well,” Wolfe said. “I will assume the role of interrogator. What can you tell us about Theodore’s place of residence?”
“I have not been there, but from what he has told me, he finds it to be comfortable. It has one bedroom, he says, and it is on the fourth floor of an apartment building on Tenth Avenue up in the Fifties. He can walk down here in less than a half hour.”
“We have the address, of course,” Wolfe said, “so any mail that comes to us is forwarded. Has he said anything to you about his activities away from the brownstone?”
Fritz nodded. “Oh yes, he tells me he has found a new hobby — bridge.”
“Indeed.”
“Actually, he told me he had learned to play years ago, but only since he moved had he started to take up the game again. He seems to enjoy it, and he said he plays two or three nights a week.”
“With whom does the play? And where?”
“Other men of about his age. He told me they are divorced or have never married. They have their games in a back room of a bar on Tenth Avenue, which is called McCready’s. It is just across the street from where he now lives.”
Wolfe threw a questioning look in my direction. “I know of the saloon,” I said. “It’s a fixture in that neighborhood, and it’s been there as long as I can remember. I stopped in once a while back because of a case we were working on, although the lead I was chasing turned out to be a dead end. Because it is not far from the North River piers on the Hudson, it’s a hangout for a lot of longshoremen.”
“That’s right,” Fritz put it. “Theodore told me that dockworkers like the place, both for drinking and for playing pocket billiards — or pool, as it is called. He also said that they seemed to be a pretty rough bunch. And they shoot pool in the same room where the bridge games are.”
“Longshoremen can be tough, all right,” I agreed. “Seems like an odd combination of customers that McCready’s draws — dockworkers and middle-aged card players.”
Fritz continued to look uncomfortable, which was not lost on Wolfe. “Is there anything else you can tell us about Theodore?”
“Only that he asked his bridge-playing friends, and he referred to them as friends, to call him ‘Ted.’”
“Did he tell you if any of those men knew what he does for a living?” I posed.
“I did ask him that, Archie, but he said he only told them he worked as a gardener.”
“Didn’t they think it strange that somebody living in the middle of Manhattan would be a gardener?”
“I guess they would,” Fritz said with a shrug, “although Theodore never mentioned their reactions to me.”
“Did he ever suggest anyone in that bar who might have had animus toward him?” Wolfe asked.
“No, sir. I got the impression Theodore thought the dockworkers were rather crude and that they felt the card players were not overly... I don’t know how to express it.”
“Manly?” Wolfe supplied.
“Yes, that is it, manly. But according to Theodore, he and his new friends ignored the others in the bar and those around the pocket billiard table in the back room.”
“Being ignored probably bothered the dockworkers,” I put in.
“No doubt,” Wolfe concurred. “Nothing riles the swaggerer more than to be disregarded. Thank you, Fritz; we will take no more of your time.”
What Wolfe really was saying was that it was necessary for Fritz to get back to his meal preparations. We were faced with an upsetting and potentially tragic situation, but that did not mean the meticulous schedule by which the brownstone operated was about to go out the window.
Chapter 2
The next morning just after eleven, Wolfe came down from his two-hour session with the orchids up on the roof, got settled behind his desk, rang for beer, and said to me, “Get Mr. Hewitt on the telephone.”
For those of you who are new to these narratives, Lewis Hewitt is a wealthy man-about-town and also an orchid fancier whose collection rivals Wolfe’s. The two have engaged in an essentially civil but spirited competition over the years and dine at each other’s home once a year. I dialed the number of Hewitt’s estate on Long Island and got a frosty, British-sounding male voice that informed me I had reached “the Hewitt residence.”
“Lewis Hewitt, please, Nero Wolfe is calling.”
“Just one moment, please,” Frosty sniffed as I nodded to Wolfe to pick up his instrument. I stayed on the line, which is standard procedure unless I am told otherwise.
“Ah, Mr. Wolfe, it is so nice to hear from you,” said the baritone Lewis Hewitt. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Theodore Horstmann is indisposed at present, a condition likely to continue. I am seeking a replacement for the foreseeable future.”
“Oh, dear, I do hope his situation is not serious.”
“As do I, sir. But for now, I need an assistant in the plant rooms, one whom, if not as skilled as Mr. Horstmann, is competent to work with me on a regular basis, at least four hours a day.”
“Of course. Off hand, I can think of two or maybe three possibilities. Would you care to interview them or have me send you their references?”
“I would prefer to meet each of them, unless you have a candidate you see as clearly superior to the others.”
“Actually, I do,” Hewitt said. “It is a man about Mr. Horstmann’s age named Carl Willis. He has served well as an adequate replacement when my regular gardener was on vacation, and he also has worked on occasion for several of my neighbors out here on the island. They all have told me they found him satisfactory and would be happy to have him fill in for them again when the need arises.”
“Does he have some form of regular employment?”
“Yes and no,” Hewitt replied. “That is, he works part-time at a large garden center near where I live, but his hours there are extremely flexible, and the center is happy to have him whenever he is available. Would you like to meet him?”
“I would,” Wolfe said. “Please have him call Mr. Goodwin to set up an appointment. Three o’clock would be an ideal time.” Hewitt said he would follow through, and the call was ended.
I swiveled to face Wolfe and started to say something when the doorbell rang. I went down the hall and saw a thick and familiar silhouette through the one-way glass. “Well, it has been a long time,” I said to Inspector Lionel T. Cramer, head of the Homicide Squad. “Have you been avoiding us?”
“As much as possible,” Cramer growled. “Wolfe should be down from playing with his posies, right?” Before I could respond, he barreled down the hall to the office and made a beeline to his usual landing place, the red leather chair.
Wolfe considered him with raised eyebrows. “Mr. Cramer?”
“Don’t tell me you’re wondering why I’m here,” the burly cop said, pulling a cigar out of his pocket and jamming it unlit into his mouth.