The Missing Chapter

Now to backtrack briefly to Saturday night: Clarice Wingfield was a special case, and I handled it accordingly by phoning Saul Panzer. “You were so successful in locating our missing Hoosier lassie that we’ve got another project,” I told him.

“Fire away,” came the reply. Saul has never been big on lengthy phone conversations.

“Mr. Wolfe is hosting a love-in with all of the Childress murder suspects, and I’m going to have my hands full orchestrating it. Would it be asking too much to have you deliver Clarice Wingfield to the brownstone tomorrow at, say, eight-forty-five in the evening? Without using undue force, of course? And at your usual rates, of course?”

“Consider it done.”

When Saul says that, I don’t need to hear anything else.

Sundays in the brownstone are pretty much free-form. The rigid weekday schedule sails out the window, and Wolfe may or may not play with his orchids. He normally spends much of the day at his desk plowing through the Sunday papers before vanquishing the Times Magazine crossword puzzle.

He was working his way through the Times at eleven-forty-five in the morning when I hung up from verbally sparring with Keith Billings. “That’s it, they’re all coming,” I told him, swinging around in my chair. “What about Cramer?”

He filled in another word, set down the puzzle, and drew in air, expelling it slowly. “Get him.”

Heaven forbid that Wolfe should have to punch out a telephone number himself. I called Homicide and was told that the inspector would not be in at all that day, so I looked up his home number in my address book. Mrs. Cramer answered and sounded reluctant to put her husband on. She muffled the speaker, but I could hear her saying “It’s Nero Wolfe’s office. Do you want to take it?”

I nodded for Wolfe to pick up his instrument while I stayed on the line, and the next thing I heard was the familiar, gruff “Yeah?”

“This is Nero Wolfe, Mr. Cramer. I regret disturbing you at home, but I felt you should be aware that I will be divulging the identity of Charles Childress’s murderer tonight.”

That brought one of Cramer’s most frequently used epithets, one you will never read in these pages. He repeated it, presumably to make sure Wolfe knew precisely how he felt. “Is this on the level?” he then snorted.

“It is, sir. You would do well to be here at nine o’clock. Will you be bringing Sergeant Stebbins?”

Cramer spat a yes and the line went dead. “He never even bothered to say good-bye, that barbarian,” I commented.

Wolfe scowled. “You know how to reach those people who were here?”

“The members of PROBE? Yes, I have telephone numbers and addresses for all of them, as you instructed.”

“Call the woman, Wilma Race,” he said, proceeding to give me brief instructions that were so surprising I made him repeat them. “Why her?” I then asked.

“She is clearly the most intelligent and perceptive of the three,” was his reply, which was good enough for me.

Fritz and I got the office set up with extra chairs from the dining room, and we converted the small table in the corner into a bar, stocking it with scotch, rye, gin, vodka, mixers, and a carafe of a good French white wine. The doorbell rang at precisely eight-forty-five, and I bet myself it was Saul and Clarice Wingfield. I won the bet.

As I opened the front door, Clarice glared at me from the stoop, her expression an interesting blend of anger and terror. “This is a disgrace, an absolute disgrace,” she hissed as Saul ushered her into the hall.

“She’s not a happy camper, Arch,” he said. “A neighbor’s taking care of the baby, that wasn’t a problem. But she—”

Clarice wheeled on Saul, eyes afire. “I am quite capable of speaking for myself, thank you,” she snapped. Turning to me: “Mr. Goodwin, this stops just short of kidnapping. The only reason I finally consented to come is that Mr. Panzer here guaranteed that your great Nero Wolfe is going to tell us all who killed Charles. Why he insists on a group meeting is beyond me, however.”

“Well, your presence is most appreciated,” I responded, flashing a smile that failed to alter her dour expression. As per our plan, Saul steered her to the front room, where they both would stay until everyone else was seated. Clarice complained mildly and curtly declined my offer of liquid refreshments, but she went along with the program. I closed the front room door behind me and reentered the hall just as the bell rang again. It was Cramer and Sergeant Purley Stebbins.