The Missing Chapter

I climbed the flight of stairs to Wolfe’s bedroom and knocked on his door. No answer. I knocked again with the same result, and I could feel my heart trying to batter its way out of my chest cavity as I eased open the door.

He was in his chair by the window, eyes closed and as still as death, but for one exception: His lips pushed out and in, out and in, with a rhythm as regular as a fine Swiss watch. I stood frozen in the doorway, not moving, not making a sound. Noise wasn’t an issue, though; wherever Wolfe was at the moment, he could hear nothing anyway. The lip exercise continued for another fourteen minutes, by my watch. Then he stopped, opened his eyes, and dipped his chin in my direction. If he was surprised to see me standing in the doorway, he didn’t show it.

“I see the Childress manuscript arrived. Did you read it?” I asked. He made a motion with his head that I took to be a nod.

“And...?”

“Bah! I have been as blind as Lear himself and deserve a like fate. Get them all here.”

“By all, I assume you mean Vinson and the Unholy Six.” I thought I detected the corner of Wolfe’s mouth twitch slightly at my flippancy, but he managed to control himself.

“Your assumption is correct. We shall discuss this further at six o’clock.” He picked up the book from the small table next to his chair and opened it. I considered myself dismissed.

Twenty-One

When Nero Wolfe decides to hold one of his show-and-tell sessions — Inspector Cramer sneeringly refers to them as “charades” — he never bothers himself with the petty details. Such as, how do I, Archie, round up all these people and persuade them to come to the brownstone and sit patiently in the office while he, Wolfe, painstakingly, and some might say arrogantly, explains why one among them should be a permanent house guest of the State of New York?

And that’s the way it was Saturday at six when he came down from the plant rooms on foot and settled in behind his desk, ringing for beer.

I was filled with questions, as Wolfe knew I would be. He poured beer and patiently answered them, peeling back the layers of the onion. I saw where he was headed before he got to the end, but just barely.

“I suppose it’s unnecessary for me to state I would never have doped it out,” I told him. “One last question: Why were you doing your noodling in your room, rather than down here?”

He scowled. “I could not face the entire climb to the plant rooms at once.”

“So you broke the trek into two parts, eh? Very smart. Okay, when do you want to gather them?”

“I suppose tonight is out of the question?”

“You suppose right. I know it may shock you, but many New Yorkers actually leave the sanctuary of their homes, particularly on Saturday nights, to sample some diversion or another in this great metropolis.”

“Sarcasm does not become you, Archie. You wield a broadsword when a rapier is called for.” He sighed. “But I suppose that is but one of the many prices I must pay for having a man of action on the premises. Tomorrow night, then.”

“Any idea how I can lure Clarice Wingfield across the Hudson?”

Wolfe sniffed. “You will find a way.”

Easy for him to say. We agreed on nine o’clock Sunday, which gave me twenty-seven hours to assemble the entire cast. I tackled the easiest one first, calling Vinson at home.

“Wolfe knows the murderer?” the publisher said tensely. “Who is it?”

“Sorry, but this is like a raffle — you’ve got to be present to be a winner,” I told him. “It’s a long-standing house rule here.” Vinson muttered something about this being a fine way to treat a client, but not for long, and not with any real conviction. He asked who would be present, and I reeled off the guest list, not bothering to mention that none of them had yet been invited. “Well, it should make for a damned interesting evening,” he conceded. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

I also got Franklin Ott and Debra Mitchell at home on the first try, telling each of them only that Wolfe had some important information pertaining to the death of Childress. Both squawked a bit before agreeing to show up, and, like Vinson, both wanted to know who else was on the guest list, which I told them. “I don’t know why you would possibly want me there,” Ott sputtered. “But I admit to a morbid curiosity. Deal me in.”

Debra Mitchell kept asking if Wolfe was going to expose the murderer. “That’s how he usually does these things,” she insisted. “I do read the papers, you know.”

I refused to tell her in so many words that names were going to be named, but I did toss out some broad hints that Wolfe might get specific, which satisfied her to the point where she grudgingly said she’d join the party.

I got no answer from Keith Billings, Patricia Royce, or Wilbur Hobbs on Saturday night, but I nailed all of them on Sunday morning. For the sake of brevity, put it down that on a hostility scale with ten as the tops, Billings was a nine, Hobbs a seven-plus, and Ms. Royce a four. But they all said they would show after learning who else would be in attendance.