If Death Ever Slept

“Where you belong, damn it!” He gestured, a hand out. “You’ll have to make allowances for me, Goodwin. I’ve had a jolt, certainly I have. If you’re not here and if I account for the absence of my new secretary, they’ll never get to you or Wolfe either. Tell Wolfe I’m still his client and I’ll get in touch with him. He said he was discreet. Tell him there’s no limit to what his discretion may be worth to me.”

He left the chair. “As for you, no limit with you too. I’m a tough operator, but I pay for what I get. Go on, get your necktie on. Leave your stuff here, that won’t matter, you can get it later. We understand each other, don’t we?”

“If we don’t we will.”

“I like you, Goodwin. Get going.”

I moved. He stood and watched me while I got my tie and jacket on, gathered a few items and put them in the small bag, and closed the bag. When I glanced back as I turned the corner at the end of the hall, he was standing in front of the door of my room. I was disappointed not to see Steck in the corridor or reception hall; he must have had morning duties somewhere. Outside, I crossed the avenue, flagged a taxi headed downtown, and at a quarter past nine was mounting the stoop of the old brownstone. Wolfe would be up in the plant rooms for his morning session, from nine to eleven, with the orchids.

The chain bolt was on, so I had to ring, and it was Orrie Cather who opened up. He extended a hand. “Take your bag, sir?”

I let him take it, strode down the hall to the kitchen, and pushed the door.

Fritz, at the sink, turned. “Archie! A pleasure! You’re back?”

“I’m back for breakfast, anyhow. My God, I’m empty! No orange juice even. One dozen pancakes, please.”

I did eat seven.

Chapter 7

I WAS IN THE OFFICE, refreshed and refueled, in time to get the ten o’clock news. It didn’t add much to what Jarrell had heard two hours earlier, and nothing that I didn’t already know.

Orrie, at ease on the couch, inquired, “Did it help any? I’m ignorant, so I have to ask. What’s hot, the budget?”

“Yeah, I’m underwriting it. I’m also writing a book on criminology and researching it. Excuse me, I’m busy.”

I dialed a number I didn’t have to look up, the Gazette, asked for Lon Cohen’s extension, and in a minute had him.

“Lon? Archie. I’m col-”

“I’m busy.”

“So am I. I’m collecting data for a book. What did you shoot James L. Eber with, an arquebus?”

“No, my arquebus is in hock. I used a flintlock. What is it to you?”