The Missing Chapter

“Archie, I am glad you are back.” His tone suggested I had been gone for decades rather than thirty-two hours. “The elevator business — quelle horreur! The workers arrived yesterday morning, about an hour after you left, and they have been so noisy. This is probably necessary, and it doesn’t bother me, but I know it is very difficult for him.” He cocked his head in the direction of the office as I set my bag down and hung my raincoat in the front hall.

“He’ll get used to it,” I answered without sympathy as I heard the shrill whine of an electric saw or a drill or some other power tool coming from the elevator shaft. “Has he been going up to the plant rooms on schedule?”

Fritz nodded grimly. “Always at the usual times.”

“I read someplace that a crisis often brings out the best in us,” I told him. “I’ll go in and supply moral support before I unpack.”

In the office, Wolfe was doing what he does most often at his desk — reading and drinking beer. He didn’t look to be suffering from the rigors of the last two days.

“Don’t worry, I’m not about to quote Robert Louis Stevenson this time,” I said as I slid into my chair. “Fritz informs me the workmen have made their presence felt. If the racket right now is indicative, I imagine the last two days haven’t exactly been a picnic.”

He scowled his answer, then set down the book. “Are you well? Have you eaten?”

“Yes and sort of. Breakfast today was fine, no complaints. As for lunch, I know you haven’t been on a plane in years, but my guess is that you still remember what airline food was like. I passed on it.”

He nodded and made a face. “Indeed. We are having breast of veal with sausage-and-Swiss-chard stuffing for dinner.”

“I find nothing to object to in that. Are you ready for a debriefing?”

He drained half the beer in his glass, then leaned back and closed his eyes, which is one of his ways of telling me to proceed without having to exercise his vocal cords. I went on, and for the next half-hour, I filled him in on my activities in the heartland, including my meetings with Melva and Belinda Meeker, Chet Southworth, Gina Marks, and Louise Wingfield. He sat through my recitation, much of which was verbatim, without stirring; when I finished, he came forward in his chair, placing his hands palms down on his blotter.

“After you have unpacked, we will begin the quest to locate Miss Wingfield,” he said, returning to his book.

“I can start in on that right now,” I told him. “I’ll just—”

“No.” He held up a hand. “You have been under stress. Tend to your ablutions first.”

I could have pointed out what Wolfe already knows: That I find travel both stimulating and energizing, but rarely stressful. The effort would have been wasted, however. As I said earlier, he views any venture beyond the sanctuary of the brownstone to be extremely perilous, and one involving aircraft borders on the unthinkable. So lest you think he was being solicitous, forget it. He simply didn’t want me working in what he viewed to be a weakened condition.

After unpacking, changing, and indulging in ablutions to the extent of splashing cold water on my face, I went down to the office and set about trying to find Clarice Wingfield. In the cabinets beneath the bookshelves, we keep the most recent month’s copies of the Times and the Gazette, and also the current telephone directories for the five boroughs of New York City, as well as Westchester, Nassau, and Suffolk counties and the nearby areas of New Jersey and Connecticut.

Even though Belinda Meeker had said her Aunt Louise made a bunch of calls to directory assistance in the New York area, I started from scratch. First, I hunted for any listings in the books for a Clarice (or C.) Wingfield — or Avery. I read someplace once that women who disappear frequently go back to using their maiden name, and Belinda Meeker affirmed this about her cousin. In Clarice’s case, though, I thought it was possible that when she made the move East, she went in the opposite direction and returned to the married name she had shunned. No dice. Ditto when I punched up directory assistance for each of the local area codes. I didn’t even get a “This is a nonpublished number, withheld at the request of the customer” response from any of those automaton-voiced men and women at the other end of the line.

“A trio of possibilities,” I said to Wolfe, whose book was between me and his face. “One, Clarice Wingfield is not in the New York area; two, she has changed her name; or three, she is somehow managing to survive without a telephone, inconceivable as that seems.”

Wolfe, who himself would rather do without Mr. Bell’s invention most of the time, lowered his book and glared at me. “Get Saul,” he rumbled.

“Your wish, et cetera,” I said lightly, wheeling around in my chair and punching one of the dozen-odd numbers I know from memory.

“Panzer,” the familiar hoarse voice responded. Wolfe picked up his instrument and I stayed on the line.