Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 19

by Murder by the Book

  “I do not sell orchids,” he said gruffly and hung up. I got out the work book and figured the time and expenses of Saul and Fred and Orrie, who had been called off, and made out their checks.

  The first call came a little before six. I usually answer, “Nero Wolfe’s office, Archie Goodwin speaking,” but thought it advisable, temporarily, to make a cut, and said merely, “Archie Goodwin speaking.”

  A dry clipped voice, but still female, asked, “Is this Mr. Archie Goodwin?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Charlotte Adams. I have received a box of orchids with a note from you inside. Thank you very much.”

  “You’re welcome. They’re nice, aren’t they?”

  “They’re beautiful, only I don’t wear orchids. Are they from Mr. Nero Wolfe’s conservatory?”

  “Yes, but he doesn’t call it that. Go ahead and wear them, that’s what they’re for.”

  “I’m forty-eight years old, Mr. Goodwin, so the possible reasons for your sending me orchids are rather restricted. More so than with some of the other recipients. Why did you send them?”

  “I’ll be frank with you, Miss Adams. Miss Adams?”

  “No. Mrs. Adams.”

  “I’ll be frank anyway. Girls keep getting married and moving to Jackson Heights, and my list of phone numbers is getting pretty ragged. I asked myself what would girls like to see that I can offer, and the answer was ten thousand orchids. They’re not mine, but I have access. So you’re cordially invited to come tomorrow evening at six o’clock, nine-oh-two West Thirty-fifth Street, and look at the orchids, and then we’ll all have dinner together, and I see no reason why we shouldn’t have a good time. Have you got the address?”

  “Am I supposed to swallow this rigmarole, Mr. Goodwin?”

  “Don’t bother to swallow it. Do your swallowing tomorrow at dinner. I promise it will be fit to swallow. Will you come?”

  “I doubt it,” she said, and hung up.

  Wolfe had entered during the conversation and got established behind his desk. He was frowning at me and pulling at his lower lip with a finger and thumb.

  I addressed him. “A bum start. Nearly fifty, married, and a wise guy. She had checked the number somehow and knew it was yours. However, I intended to tell them that anyhow. We’ve got—”

  “Archie.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What was that flummery about dinner?”

  “No flummery. I haven’t told you, I’ve decided to ask them to stay to dinner. It will be much—”

  “Stay to dinner here?”

  “Certainly.”

  “No.” It was his flattest no.

  I flared. “That,” I said, as flat as him, “is childish. You have a low opinion of women and—now let me finish—anyhow, you don’t want them around. But because this case has completely dried up on you, you have dumped this in my lap, and I need all the play I can get, and besides, are you going to send a crowd of your fellow beings, regardless of sex, away from your house hungry at the dinner hour?”

  His lips were tight. He parted them to speak. “Very well. You can take them to dinner at Rusterman’s. I’ll phone Marko and he’ll give you a private room. When you know how many—”

  The phone rang, and I swiveled and got it and told the transmitter, “Archie Goodwin speaking.”

  A feminine voice said, “Say something else.”

  “It’s your turn,” I stated.

  “Was it you that brought the boxes?”

  It was the switchboard misanthrope. “Right,” I admitted. “Did they all get delivered?”

  “Yes, all but one. One was home sick. Brother, did you stir up some hell around there! Is it true that you’re the Archie Goodwin that works for Nero Wolfe?”

  “I am. This is his number.”

  “Well, well! The note said to call it and ask why. Why?”

  “I’m lonely and I’m giving a party. Tomorrow at six. Here at Nero Wolfe’s place. The address is in the book. You will be in no danger if enough of you come. Plenty of orchids, plenty of drinks, a chance to know me better, and a dinner fit for Miss America. May I ask your name?”

  “Sure, Blanche Duke. You say tomorrow at six?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Would you care to make a note of something?”

  “I love to make notes.”

  “Put down Blanche Duke. Isn’t that a hell of a name? Two jiggers of dry gin, one of dry vermouth, two dashes of grenadine, and two dashes of Pernod. Got it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I may come tomorrow, but if I don’t, try that yourself. I never know what I’m going to do tomorrow.”

  I told her she’d better come, swiveled, and spoke to Wolfe. “That’s better than Mrs. Adams, at least. Not so bad for the first hour after the office closed. About taking them to Rusterman’s, they’d probably like going to the best restaurant in New York, but—”

  “You won’t take them to Rusterman’s.”

  “No? You said?”

  “I’ve reconsidered. You will give them dinner here. I’ll arrange the menu with Fritz—perhaps Mondor patties, and duckling with cherries and grapes. For women, the Pasti Grey Riesling will be good enough; I’m glad to have a use for it.”

  “But you don’t care for it.”

  “I won’t be here. I shall leave at five minutes to six, dine with Marko, and spend the evening with him.”

  I have often stated, in these reports of Wolfe’s activities, that he never leaves the house on business, but I suppose now I’ll have to qualify it. Strictly speaking, I could say that his intention was not to leave the house on business, merely on account of business, but that would be quibbling.

  I protested. “You ought to be here to look them over. They’ll be expecting to see you. Mrs. Adams is forty-eight, about right for you, and she can’t have a happy home life or she wouldn’t be working. Besides, how do you—”

  The phone rang. I got it and said who I was. A high soprano made me hold the receiver away from my ear.

  “Mr. Goodwin, I simply had to call you! Of course it isn’t proper, since I’ve never met you, but if I don’t tell you my name and never see you I don’t think it will be such a terrible misstep, do you? Those are the loveliest orchids I have ever seen! I’m going to a little party this evening, just a few of us at a friend’s apartment, and I’m going to wear them, and can you imagine what they’ll say? And can you imagine what I’ll say when they ask me who gave them to me? I simply can’t imagine! Of course I can say they’re from an unknown admirer, but really I’m not the kind of girl who would dream of having unknown admirers, and I haven’t the faintest idea what I’ll say when they ask me, but I simply can’t resist wearing them because …”

  When I hung up, five minutes later, Wolfe muttered at me, “You didn’t invite her.”

  “No,” I assented. “She’s a virgin. And as far as I’m concerned she always will be.”

  Chapter 8

  That was the first time in history that a bunch of outsiders had been let into the plant rooms with Wolfe not there. The awful responsibility damn near got Theodore down. Not only did he regard it as up to him to see that none of them toppled a bench over or snitched a blossom from one of the rare hybrids, but also I had arranged a fancy assortment of liquids on a table in the potting room, which was being freely patronized by some of the guests, and he was afraid one of them would spill a glass of 80-proof into a pot that he had been nursing for ten years. I was sorry to give him that added anxiety, but I wanted them relaxed.

  I had done all right. I had got only seven phone calls, but apparently there had been talk at the office during Wednesday, for ten of them showed up, arriving in two groups. Also there had been two calls on Wednesday while I was out. My journey was necessary, a trip to the Bronx to call on Mrs. Abrams. She was anything but delighted to see me, but I wanted to ask her to do something and I rode it out. I finally talked her into it. I also had to sign up John R. Wellman, but that was comparatively
easy and all it took was a phone call to his hotel.

  From a purely personal standpoint they were above average as a job lot, and it would have been no ordeal to get acquainted and quench their thirst and tell them about orchids if I hadn’t been so busy sorting them out for future reference. I might as well save you the bother of doing likewise if you don’t want to take the trouble, for it won’t make much difference. I can tell you that now, but there was no one to tell me that then.

  But I was working like a dog getting their names and stations filed. By dinnertime I had them pretty well arranged. Charlotte Adams, 48, was the secretary of the senior partner, James A. Corrigan. She was bony and efficient and had not come for fun. The only other one her age was a stenographer, plump and pimply, with a name that made her giggle cheerfully when she told you: Helen Troy. Next, going down by ages, was Blanche Duke, the tri-shaded blonde. I had mixed a shaker of her formula. She had made two trips to the potting room for refills and then had decided to save steps and take the shaker around with her.

  One or two of the other seven may have been crowding thirty, but most of them still had some twenties to cover. One was a little more than I had counted on. Her name was Dolly Harriton, and she was a member of the bar. She wasn’t yet one of the firm, but judging from the set of her good-looking chin and the smooth quick take of her smart gray eyes, she soon would be or else. She had the air, as she moved along the aisles, of collecting points for cross-questioning an orchid-grower being sued by his wife for non-support.

  Nina Perlman, a stenographer, was tall and straight with big slow-moving dark eyes. Mabel Moore, a typist, was a skinny little specimen wearing red-rimmed glasses. Sue Dondero, Emmett Phelps’s secretary, with fine temples and no perceptible lipstick, came close from all angles to my idea of a girl to have around. Portia Liss, a filing clerk, should either have had something done to her teeth or quit laughing so much. Claire Burkhardt, a stenographer, was either just out of high school or was cheating. Eleanor Gruber, Louis Kustin’s secretary, was probably the one I would have invited if I had invited only one. She was the kind you look at and think she should take off just one or two pounds, and then you ask where from and end by voting for the status quo. Her eyes didn’t actually slant; it was the way the lids were drawn.

  By the time we went down to dinner I had picked up a few little scraps, mostly from Blanche Duke, Sue Dondero, and Eleanor Gruber. Tuesday at quitting time Corrigan, the senior partner, had called them into his room to tell them that PE 3–1212 was Nero Wolfe’s phone number, and Archie Goodwin was Wolfe’s confidential assistant, and that Wolfe might have been engaged by an opposing interest in one of the firm’s cases. He had suggested that it might be desirable to ignore the notes in the boxes of orchids, and had warned them to guard against any indiscretion. Today, Wednesday, when the idea of making a party of it had caught on (this from Blanche Duke after she had been toting the shaker around a while), Mabel Moore had spilled it to Mrs. Adams, and Mrs. Adams, presumably after consulting with Corrigan, had decided to come along. I got other scattered hints of personalities and quirks and frictions, but not enough to pay for the drinks.

  At 7:25 I herded them into the potting room to tell them that wine had been chilled for dinner, but that if any of them preferred to continue as started they were welcome. Blanche Duke raised her shaker on high and said she was a one-drink woman. There was a chorus of approval, and they all loaded themselves with bottles and accessories. I led the way. Going through the intermediate room, Helen Troy caught her heel between the slats of the walk, teetered, waved a bottle, and down came two pots of Oncidium varicosum. There were gasps and shrieks.

  I said grandly, “Good for her. She showed great presence of mind, she held onto the bottle. Follow me, walking on orchids.”

  When I had got them downstairs and into the dining room, which looked festive enough for anybody, with the gleaming white cloth and silver and glass and more orchids, and told them to leave the head of the table for me but otherwise sit as they chose, I excused myself, went to the kitchen, and asked Fritz, “Are they here?”

  He nodded. “Up in the south room. Quite agreeable and comfortable.”

  “Good. They know they may have to wait a long while?”

  “Yes, it’s understood. How are you succeeding?”

  “Not bad. Two of them don’t drink, but on the whole we are on our way to gaiety. All set?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Shoot.”

  Rejoining the party, I took the chair at the head, Wolfe’s place, the first time I had ever sat there. Most of them lifted their glasses to welcome me back after a long absence. I was touched and thought an acknowledgment was called for. As Fritz entered with the soup tureen, I pushed my chair back and stood. Portia Liss kept on chattering, and Dolly Harriton, the member of the bar, shushed her.

  “Oyez, oyez!” Helen Troy cried.

  I spoke. “Ladies and no gentlemen thank God, I have a lot of speeches to make, and I might as well get one done. Thank you for coming to my party. There is only one thing I would rather look at than orchids, and you are it. [Applause.] In the absence of Mr. Wolfe I shall follow his custom and introduce to you the most important member of this household, Mr. Fritz Brenner, now dishing soup. Fritz, a bow, please. [Applause.] I am going to ask you to help me with a little problem. Yesterday I received a phone call from a lady, doubtless fair, who refused to tell me her name. I beg you to supply it. I shall repeat some, by no means all, of what she said to me, hoping it will give you a hint. I am not a good mimic but shall do my best.

  “She said: ‘Mr. Goodwin, I simply had to call you! Of course it isn’t proper, since I’ve never met you, but if I don’t tell you my name and never see you I don’t think it will be such a terrible misstep, do you? Those are the loveliest orchids I have ever seen! I’m going to wear them to a little party this evening, and can you imagine what they’ll say? And can you imagine what I’ll say when they ask who gave them to me? I simply can’t imagine! Of course I can say they’re from an unknown admirer, but really—’”

  There was no use going on because the shrieks and hoots were drowning me out. Even Mrs. Adams loosened up enough to smile. Claire Burkhardt, the high school girl, choked on a bite of roll. I sat down and started on my soup, flushed with triumph. When it was a little quieter I demanded, “Her name?”

  So many shouted it together that I had to get it from Sue Dondero, on my right. It was Cora Barth. I did not file it.

  With Fritz having eleven places to serve, I had told him to leave the liquids to me. An advantage of that arrangement was that I knew what each one was drinking and could keep the refills coming without asking any questions, and another was that Sue Dondero offered to help me. Not only was it nice to have her help, but also it gave me a chance to make a suggestion to her, while we were together at the side table, which I had wanted to make to someone upstairs but hadn’t got around to. She said yes, and it was agreed that for a signal I would pull at my right ear.

  “I am pleased to see,” I told her, “that you are sticking to vermouth and soda. A girl with temples like yours has an obligation to society. Keep ’em smooth.”

  “Not to society,” she dissented. “To spelling. Whisky or gin gives me a hangover, and if I have a hangover I can’t spell. Once I spelled lien l-e-a-n.”

  “Good God. No, that’s for Nina Perlman.”

  Having done all right with the soup, they did even better with the Mondor patties, As for talk and associated noises, they kept it going without much help from me, except for filling in a few gaps. But I was glad Wolfe wasn’t there to see how they treated the duckling, all but Eleanor Gruber and Helen Troy. The trouble was, they were full. I watched them pecking at it, or not even pecking, with two exceptions, and decided that something drastic was called for if I didn’t want a letdown. I raised my voice to get attention.

  “Ladies, I need advice. This is—”

  “Speech, speech!” Claire Burkhardt squeaked.

>   “He’s making one, you idiot!” somebody told her.

  “Oyez, oyeth,” said Helen Troy.

  “This,” I said, “is a democracy. No one can shove anything down people’s throats, not even Fritz’s salad. As your host and by no means unknown admirer, I want you to have a good time and go away from here saying, ‘Archie Goodwin can be trusted. He had us at his mercy, but he gave us a chance to say yes or no.’”

  “Yes!” Blanche Duke called.

  “Thank you.” I inclined my head. “I was about to ask, how many feel like eating salad? If you want it, Fritz will enjoy serving it. But what if you don’t? Yes or no?”

  There were six or seven noes.

  “Do you still say yes, Miss Duke?”

  “My God, no. I didn’t know you meant salad.”

  “Then we’ll skip it. However, I won’t ask for a vote on the almond parfait. You should taste it, at least.” I turned to Fritz, at my elbow. “That’s how it is, Fritz.”

  “Yes, sir.” He started removing plates still loaded with his duckling, one of his best dishes. I wasted no sympathy on him because I had warned him. I have had much more opportunity than he has to learn the eating habits of American females. At an affair of the Society of Gourmets that duckling would have drawn cheers.

  Their reaction to the almond parfait made up for it some. In their relaxed condition they were more or less ignoring the code, and a couple of them took spoonfuls while Fritz was still serving. Portia Liss exclaimed, “Oh! It’s absolutely heavenly! Isn’t it, Mrs. Adams?”

  “I can’t say, Portia. I haven’t any.”

  But a few minutes later she conceded grudgingly, “It’s remarkable. Quite remarkable.”

  Others had extravagant comments. Helen Troy finished first. She arose and shoved her chair back and put her palms on the table to lean on. Her pimples were purple now instead of pink.

  “Oyeth, oyeth,” she said.

  “Who’s making a speech?” someone demanded.

  “I am. This is my maiden effort.”

  Someone tittered.

  “My maiden effort,” she insisted, “at my age. I’ve been thinking what we can do for Mr. Goodwin and I’m standing up to put it in the form of a motion. I move that one of us goes and puts her arms around Mr. Goodwin’s neck and kisses him and calls him Archie.”