The Missing Chapter

“As for the Royce person, that’s a mare of a different color. She’s more than a little squirrelly, but possibly that’s what comes from sitting in front of a computer screen all day dreaming up stories about Scotland and England in the eighteenth century.”

“You seem obsessed with animal imagery today. By squirrelly, may I assume you mean eccentric?”

“I guess that’s what I mean. I got the feeling talking to her that part of her was someplace else. Maybe that’s the way it is with fiction writers.”

Wolfe drained his glass and dabbed his lips with a handkerchief. “Did you sense she had a romantic attachment to Mr. Childress?”

“It’s close to fifty-fifty, with maybe a slight tilt toward the platonic side. But even if Patty Royce did have a thing for the guy, I can’t picture her as a killer. She’s the type who would get revenge some other way than through physical violence. Like maybe in her writing.”

“Have you made arrangements to visit Messrs. Ott and Billings?”

“Nope, but it’s on the agenda to set up this afternoon. I assume you want me to chat with the Gazette’s very own Wilbur Hobbs, too, right?”

He made a face and poured more beer. “Yes, as abhorrent a task as that may be.”

“Well, he’s got to be talked to, right? And it might as well be by yours truly. Lon called earlier. I’ll set it up with him.”

Wolfe went back to his book as I punched out a familiar combination of numbers on my telephone. He answered after the first ring with his usual no-frills “Cohen.”

“Archie.”

“I recognize the name. You took enough time getting back to me. What’s happening?”

“Let’s see... the Mets won their third straight last night in Philly; Newark Airport was shut down for more than two hours because of the pea-soup fog — or maybe it’s.smog; the mayor has announced that—”

“Very funny, very bloody funny. You come to me and get information, I come to you and what do I get? Your version of snappy patter. Jay Leno you’re not. Let’s start over: What have you dug up about Childress’s death?”

“Interesting you should ask. Mr. Wolfe suggested I talk to Wilbur Hobbs. Can you set it up for me?”

“Who’s Wolfe’s client?”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve heard that question before.”

“And I’m still waiting for an answer,” Lon fired back sourly.

“Patience is a virtue. All I can say is, you’ll get an answer to that, and a lot more, too, before anybody else in the media does. It’s always worked out that way.”

Lon snorted. “I can’t make Hobbs talk to you, but I’ll tell him you’d like to see him.”

“Should I call him?”

“No, dammit. I think he’s in today; I’ll wander by his office and ask him to call you.” The line went dead before I could either thank Lon or send another zinger his way.

Next I located Franklin Ott in the white pages under the listing of “Ott Literary Agency,” on East Fifty-fourth. “I’m off to the wonderful world of books,” I told Wolfe as I rose and pointed myself at the door. He didn’t bother looking up from his own book.

Ott’s office was on the fourth floor of a narrow, drab building between Park and Lexington that had a Hungarian restaurant at street level. When I stepped off the automatic elevator, which was not much bigger than Wolfe’s and almost as noisy, I found myself facing a door, the top half of which had frosted glass with OTT LITERARY AGENCY LTD. painted on it in no-nonsense black capitals.

I opened the door into a small, yellow-walled reception room with three chairs and a low table that was strewn with magazines. “Yes, may I help you?” The voice came from the pleasant-looking, well-nourished face of somebody’s favorite aunt, who was peering through an opening that had a sliding plastic panel.

“Is Mr. Ott in?”

“He is on the phone, sir,” the aunt chirped. “May I ask your name?”

“Archie Goodwin. I work for Nero Wolfe.”

“Oh, yes — the famous detective.” She favored me with a benign smile. “Will Mr. Ott know why you are here?”

“Tell him it’s about Charles Childress.”

The smile dissolved, replaced by an expression of earnest concern. “Oh. Oh, yes, I see, yes. Just a moment, Mr. Goodwin. Please be seated.” She left her post and disappeared. Opting to remain on my feet after my experience with Patricia Royce’s chair, I pawed through dog-eared copies of The New Yorker, Sports Illustrated, and something called The Writer. I was about to thumb the most recent SI, which had a picture of a blond golfer from Australia on the cover, when Aunt Sincere pulled open a door that led to the inner sanctum.

“Mr. Ott will see you now, Mr. Goodwin. This way, please.” Her smile had returned, which comforted me. I followed as she shuffled down a short corridor, past a doorway through which I saw an underfed young guy wearing green suspenders, black-rimmed glasses, and a frown, who was hunched over a battered desk staring bleakly at some sheets of paper spread on his blotter. The next doorway led to the corner office, which of course had to be Ott’s.