Too Many Cooks

When he phoned at ten-twenty that morning and I answered “Nero Wolfe’s office, Archie Goodwin speaking,” Cortland had cleared his throat twice, paused, and said, “Ah, yes, Mr. Archie Goodwin. You’re really the one with whom I wish to converse. I’ve read about your employer, Nero Wolfe, and how he devotes four hours every day, nine to eleven before lunch and four to six in the afternoon, to the sumptuous blooms on the roof of your brownstone. That’s why I chose this time to call. I also know how difficult it is to galvanize Mr. Wolfe to undertake a case, but that you have a reputation for being a bit more, er … open-minded.”

“If you’re saying I’m easy, forget it,” I said. “Somebody has to screen Mr. Wolfe’s calls, or who knows what he’d be having to turn down himself—requests to find missing wives, missing parakeets, and even missing gerbils. And believe me when I tell you that Mr. Wolfe hates gerbils.”

Cortland let loose with a tinny chuckle that probably was supposed to show he appreciated my wry brand of humor, then cleared his throat, which probably was supposed to show that now he was all business. “Oh, no, no, I didn’t mean that you were … uh, to use your term, easy,” he stumbled, trying valiantly to recover.

“No, I, uh …” He seemed to lose his way and cleared his throat several times before his mental processes kicked in again. “It’s just that from what I’ve heard and read, anybody who has any, uh, hope of enticing Nero Wolfe to undertake a case has to approach you first. And that I am most willing to do. Most willing, Mr., er … Goodwin. I braced for another throat-clearing interlude, and sure enough, it arrived on schedule. If this was his average conversational speed, the phone company must love the guy.

“It’s just that from what I’ve heard and read, anybody who has any hope of enticing Nero Wolfe to take a case has to approach you first. And that I am most willing to do. Most willing, Mr. Goodwin.”

He treated me once again to the sound of him clearing his throat. “I will lay my jeremiad before you and you alone, and trust you to relay it accurately to Mr. Wolfe. You have a reputation, if I am not mistaken, for reporting verbatim conversations of considerable duration.”

Okay, so he was working on me. I knew it—after all, he had the subtlety of a jackhammer, but maybe that was part of his charm, if you could use that term on such a guy. And I was curious as to just what “information” he had about the late Hale Markham’s death. Also, the word “jeremiad” always gets my attention.

“All right,” I told him, “I’ll see you tomorrow. What about ten in the morning?” He said that was fine, and I gave him the address of Wolfe’s brown-stone on West Thirty-fifth Street near the Hudson.

The next day he rang our doorbell at precisely ten by my watch, which was one point in his favor. I’ve already described his appearance, which didn’t surprise me at all when I saw him through the one-way . glass in our front door. His looks matched his phone voice, which at least gave him another point for consistency. I let him in, shook a small but moderately firm paw, and ushered him to the red leather chair at the end of Wolfe’s desk. So now you’re up to speed, and we can go on.

“Okay, Mr. Cortland,” I said, seated at my desk and turning to face him, “you’ve told me twice, on the phone and just now, that your colleague Hale Markham did not accidentally stumble down that ravine. Tell me more.” I flipped open my notebook and poised a pen.

Cortland gave a tug at the knot of his blue wool tie and nudged his glasses up on his nose by pushing on one lens with his thumb, which probably explained why the glass was so smeared. “Yes. Well, perhaps I should discourse in commencement about Hale, although I’m sure you know something of him.”

When I’d translated that, I nodded. “A little. I know, for instance, that he was a political conservative, to put it mildly, that he once had a newspaper column that ran all over the country, that he had written some books, and that he was more than a tad controversial.”

“Succinct though superficial,” Cortland said, sounding like a teacher grading his pupil. He studied the ceiling as if seeking divine guidance in choosing his next words—or else trying to reboard his train of thought. “Mr. Goodwin, Hale Markham was one of the few, uh, truly profound political thinkers in contemporary America. And like so many of the brilliant and visioned, he was constantly besieged and challenged, not just from the left, but from specious conservatives as well.” He paused for breath, giving me the opportunity to cut in, but because it looked like he was on a roll I let him keep going, lest he lose his way.