Free Nero Wolfe 16 - Even in the Best Families by Rex Stout Page B

Mr. Goodwin and perhaps two others.” Okay. There was no argument about the mortal encounter or about the move. But I was the Mr. Goodwin referred to, and here I was staring at it—“Don’t look for me.” Where did that leave me? Certainly the two others he had had in mind were Saul Panzer and Marko Vukcic, and I didn’t even dare to phone Saul and ask a couple ofdiscreet questions; and besides, if he had let Saul in and left me out, to hell with him. And what was I supposed to say to people—for instance, people like the District Attorney of Westchester County?
    That particular question got answered, partly at least, from an unexpected quarter. When I had finished with the griddle cakes, ham, eggs, thyme honey, and coffee, I went back to the office to see if I was ready to quit feeling and settle down to thinking, and was working at it when I became aware that I was sitting in Wolfe’s chair behind his desk. That brought me up with a jerk. No one else, including me, ever sat in that chair, but there I was. I didn’t approve of it. It seemed to imply that Wolfe was through with that chair for good, and that was a hell of an attitude to take, no matter how sore I was. I opened a drawer of his desk to check its contents, pretending that was what I had sat there for, and was starting a careful survey when the doorbell rang.
    Going to answer it, I took my time because I had done no thinking yet and therefore didn’t know my lines. Seeing through the one-way glass panel in the front door that the man on the stoop was a civilian stranger, my first impulse was to let him ring until he got tired, but curiosity chased it away and I opened the door. He was just a citizen with big ears and an old topcoat, and he asked to see Mr. Nero Wolfe. I told him Mr. Wolfe wasn’t available on Sundays, and I was his confidential assistant, and could I help. He thought maybe I could, took an envelope from a pocket, extracted a sheet of paper, and unfolded it.
    “I’m from the
Gazette”
he stated. “This copy foran ad we got in the mail this morning—we want to be sure it’s authentic.”
    I took the paper and gave it a look. It was one of our large-sized letterheads, and the writing and printing on it were Wolfe’s. At the top was written:
    Display advertisement for Monday’s
Gazette
, first section, two columns wide, depth as required. In thin type, not blatant. Send bill to above address.
    Below the copy was printed by hand:
    MR. NERO WOLFE
ANNOUNCES HIS RETIREMENT
FROM THE DETECTIVE BUSINESS
TODAY, APRIL 10, 1950
    Mr. Wolfe will not hereafter be available. Inquiries from clients on unfinished matters may be made of Mr. Archie Goodwin. Inquiries from others than clients will not receive attention.
    Beneath that was Wolfe’s signature. It was authentic all right.
    Having learned it by heart, I handed it back. “Yeah, that’s okay. Sure. Give it a good spot.”
    “It’s authentic?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “Listen, I want to see him. Give me a break! Good spot hell; it’s page one if I can get a story on it.”
    “Don’t you believe your own ads? It says that Mr. Wolfe will not hereafter be available.” I had the door swung to a narrow gap. “I never saw you before, butLon Cohen is an old friend of mine. He gets to work at noon, doesn’t he?”
    “Yes, but—”
    “Tell him not to bother to phone about this. Mr. Wolfe is not available, and I’m reserved for clients, as the ad says. Watch your foot, here comes the door.”
    I shut it and put the chain bolt on. As I went back down the hall Fritz emerged from the kitchen and demanded, “Who was that?”
    I eyed him. “You know damn well,” I said, “that when Mr. Wolfe was here you would never have dreamed of asking who was that, either of him or of me. Don’t dream of it now, anyway not when I’m in the humor I’m in at present.”
    “I only wanted—”
    “Skip it. I advise you to steer clear of me until I’ve had a chance to think.”
    I went to the office