Before Midnight

Eighteen-twenty-six was about halfway down a long corridor. There was no one in sight anywhere except a chambermaid with towels, and I concluded that the city employees hadn't invaded the hotel itself for surveillance. My first knock on the door of eighteen-twenty-six got me an invitation to come in, not too audible, and I opened the door and entered, and saw that LBA had done well by their guests. It was the fifteen-dollar size, with the twin beds headed against the wall at the left. On one of them, under the covers, was Old King Cole with a hangover, his mop of white hair tousled and his eyes sick.

I approached. "My name's Archie Goodwin," I told him. "From Nero Wolfe, on behalf of Lippert, Buff and Assa." There was a chair there, and I sat. "We need to clear up a few little points about the contest." "Crap," he said.

"That won't do it," I stated. "Not just that one word. Is the contest crap, or am I, or what?"

He shut his eyes. "I'm sick." He opened them. "I'll be all right tomorrow."

"Are you too sick to talk? I don't want to make you worse. I don't know how serious a heart flutter is."

"I haven't got a heart flutter. I've got paroxysmal tachycardia, and it is never serious. I'd be up and around right now if it wasn't for one thing--there are too many fools. The discomfort of paroxysmal tachycardia is increased by fear and anxiety and apprehension and nervousness, and I've got all of 'em on account of fools."

He raised himself on an elbow, reached to the bedstand for a glass of water, drank about a spoonful, and put the glass back. He bounced around and settled on his side, facing me.

"What kind of fools?" I asked politely.

"You're one of 'em. Didn't you come to ask me where I got the gun I shot that man Dahlmann with?"

"No, sir. Speaking for Nero Wolfe, we're not interested in the death of Dahlmann except as it affects the contest and raises points that have to be dealt with."