Before Midnight

By the time I got home it was after six and Wolfe should'have been down from the plant rooms, but he wasn't. I went to the kitchen, where Fritz was arranging two plump ducklings on the rack of a roasting pan, asked what was up, and was told that Wolfe had descended from the roof but had left the elevator one flight up and gone to his room. That was unusual but not alarming, and I proceeded with another step of the preparations for the meeting. When I got through the table at the end of the couch in the office was ready for business: eight brands of whisky, two of gin, two of cognac, a decanter of port, cream sherry, armagnac, four fruit brandies, and a wide assortment of cordials and liqueurs. The dry sherry was in the refrigerator, as were the cherries, olives, onions, and lemon peel, where they would remain until after dinner. As I was arranging the bottles I caught myself wondering which one the murderer would fancy, but corrected it hastily to wallet thief, since we weren't interested in the murder.

At six-thirty I thought I'd better find out if Wolfe had busted a shoestring or what, and, mounting a flight and tapping on his door and hearing him grunt, entered. I stopped and stared. Fully dressed, with his shoes on, he was lying on the bed, on top of the black silk coverlet. Absolutely unheard of.

"What have you got?" I demanded.

"Nothing," he growled.

"Shall I get Doc Vollmer?"

"No."

I approached for a close-up. He looked sour, but he had never died of that. "Miss Frazee is coming," I told him. "She was holding a press conference. Do you want to hear about it?"

"No."

"Excuse me for disturbing you," I said icily, and turned to go, but in three steps he called my name and I halted. He raised himself to his elbows, swung his legs over the edge, got upright, and took a deep breath.

"I've made a bad mistake," he said.

I waited.

He took another breath. "What time is it?"

I told him twenty-five to seven.