Not Quite Dead Enough (The Rex Stout Library)

Wolfe had been correct in one respect. At least so far it had been a busy day-for me. After an early breakfast I had gone to his room and been told what to do-not why or what for, just what. Then I had gone to Duncan Street and followed the program, without much time to spare, for General Fife didn’t show up at his office until nearly ten o’clock. Returning home after I got through with him, I had arranged the props.

Not that they were elaborate or required much arranging; only three items, one on my desk and two on Wolfe’s. One of the latter was a large envelope that had arrived in the morning mail. The address, to Nero Wolfe, was typed, and also typed was a line at the lower left-hand corner To be opened at six p.m. Tuesday, August 10th, if no word has been received from me.

In the upper left-hand corner was the return:

Colonel Harold Ryder

633 Candlewood Street

New York City

The envelope, which, from the feel of it, contained several sheets of paper, was firmly sealed; hadn’t been opened. It was on top of Wolfe’s desk, a little to the right of the center, under a paperweight. The paperweight was the second item. It was the grenade, the twin of the one that killed Ryder.

And in the typing on the envelope the c was below the line, and the a was off to the left. It had been typed on the same machine as the poem Sergeant Bruce liked and the anonymous letter to Shattuck.

The item on my desk was a suitcase which belonged to me, my smallest one, a tan cowhide number that I used for short trips. The instructions had been to pack something in it-shirts, a few books, anything-and park it on my desk, and there it was.

Apparently that was the booby trap: the envelope, the grenade, and the suitcase. Whom it was supposed to catch, or how or when or why, I hadn’t the faintest idea. In view of the further instructions I had received, it struck me as about the feeblest and foolishest effort to bait a murderer that the mind of man had ever conceived. I relieved my emotions by making a few audible remarks that I could have picked up in barracks if I had ever been in barracks, left the scene and went up three flights to the roof, found Wolfe in the potting-room arranging sphagnum, and told him, “All set.”

He inquired without interrupting his labors, “The articles in the office?”

“Yep.”

“You asked them to be punctual?”

“I did. Lawson at 11:15, Tinkham at 11:30, Fife at 11:45. You invited Shattuck and Bruce yourself.”

“Fritz? The panel?”