Plot It Yourself

“Who is it?”

“You don’t know me. My name’s Goodwin. Nothing to sell. I may want to buy something.”

“Bill Goodwin?”

“No. Archie Goodwin.”

“Archie? Not by any chance Nero Wolfe’s Archie Goodwin?”

“In person.”

“Well, well! I often wonder what detectives buy one-half so precious as the goods they sell. Come on up and tell mel Top floor.”

I hung up and turned, and when the buzz sounded opened the door and entered. More aluminum, framing the self-service elevator. I stepped in and pushed the “4” button and was lifted. When it stopped and the door opened he was there in the little hall, shirt sleeves rolled up and no tie, virile, muscular, handsome, looking younger than thirty-four. I took his offered hand and returned his manly grip and was ushered through a door and was in the nice big room. It was even nicer and bigger than the report had led me to expect. He had me take a nice big chair and asked, “Scotch, rye, bourbon, gin?”

I declined with thanks, and he sat on a nice big couch which probably doubled as a bed. “This is a pleasure,” he said, “unless you want my fingerprints to compare them with the ones you found on the dagger that was sticking in the back of the corpse. I swear I didn’t do it. I always stab people in front. I like that suit. Matthew Jonas?”

I told him no, Peter Darrell. “Fingerprints wouldn’t help,” I said. “There were none on the dagger. It was one of those old Arabian antiques with a fancy handle. What I told you was straight. I may want to buy something-or rather, a client of Nero Wolfe’s may. He’s a guy with money who wants more. He gets ideas. He has the idea that he might like to buy your claim against Mortimer Oshin and Al Friend for stealing your play outline, ‘A Bushel of Love,’ and turning it into A Barrel of Love. He might pay ten thousand cash for an assignment of the claim and your affidavit supporting it, and another ten thousand if and when Oshin and Friend pay up. Of course he would expect you to testify without a subpoena if it goes to trial.”

“Well, well.” He stretched a leg on the couch. “Who is this fairy godfather?”

“A client of Mr Wolfe’s. We handled a problem for him once, not this kind. If we agree on a deal you’ll meet him. The ten thousand is ready in bills.”

“What if they never pay up?”

“That’s his risk. He would be out ten grand.”

“Nuts. They’ll pay. They’ll pay ten times ten. At least.”

“Possibly,” I conceded. “Some day. If it goes to trial, there’ll be lawyers’ fees and other expenses.”