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Some people have learned how to take no for an answer. Jerry Wycombe had not.
Lily Rowan has learned, one reason I spend as much time with her as I do. Another good reason she remains my favorite dancing partner is because she's as clever as she is playful, even if her brain does cheat by taking shortcuts.
We were recovering from a pleasant, if placid, evening back at her penthouse apartment when she suddenly levered herself up for a closer look at me in the light from her bedside lamp, a genuine Tiffany once owned by her mother. I was almost distracted by Lily's cascading hair, along with her other scenic features, until I noticed the dawning grin.
I hoisted an eyebrow, already knowing I'd been careless. "Better view from that angle?"
"Archie! You wore him down!"
Goddamn it, she had gotten me again. I had cleaned up everything except for the "Archie Goodwin" inked in plain block letters across my stomach, but Lily could pull off these magic tricks using nothing but black threads and mirrors.
She looked good as she tugged the sheet away from us. At least, she looked good until she tapped me right above the navel with an elegant forefinger. "Don't sulk, my hero. Of course it was Nero Wolfe. Otherwise you would have scrubbed it all off. And used something to cover up the emphasis. Prude."
"I like to call it polite, considering we've had this evening scheduled for a week."
"Fine. Polite prude. I think I'm jealous. He has even more flare than I knew. I shouldn't have settled for orchids as the fee for our emergency necking session. Perhaps I'll try again."
For a second I was tempted to let her go ahead and make the attempt, but I had lasted through eight months of working for Wolfe without being fired or quitting that summer of 1951, and I wanted to see if I could break my record. Also, even without my feelings about the matter, there was a problem.
"Nuts. He told you back when you first met he never likes a woman."
Her eye-roll let me know what she thought of that. "He likes me."
"Sure. You got Houri de Perse on him twice, once at point-blank range. Expensive perfume is a fine way to win his affection."
I shook my head. "Most times I would let you strike a match and then clean up selling tickets to the resulting fireworks display. But the two of you have known each other for a while now, including in tight quarters. Enough friction has built up for accidental sparks. There's a one in fifty chance you might set off the high explosives, one chance too many. From what he's let slip lately, he has a better reason to parade around that keep-away attitude toward females than his fondness for contrary opinions."
I sat up so she could see my face clearly enough to tell I was serious. "I had to double-check the word 'frangible' in the big Webster's we keep in the office, the first time Wolfe used it while discussing women." It was my turn to tap the teeth marks on my belly with a finger while I gave her a meaningful look. They may not have broken the skin, but that was my point.
As I wrote, Lily is smart. She considered before shrugging. "Too bad. Even in the case of your employer the elephant, civilized behavior should be encouraged." Her gaze turned speculative, and she reached down to dig in gently with a thumb and forefinger to one side of the bite, right below the "Goodwin." "Speaking of which, what will you give me for being so upright and chaste?"
"The going fee for services rendered is now up to a dollar fifty an hour. Did we ever get you a social security card?"
Never losing the lazy smile, she slowly tightened her grip. Our evening ended on a lively note after all.
My last evening with Jerry Wycombe didn't end as well. Sad, given how promising our first meeting had been.
I spot a lot of opportunities for my social life when I round up witnesses during Wolfe's investigations, but interested men are rarer than promising women, and I'm quicker to take those chances. During a high-society fraud case that Wolfe solved, I perked right up when I noticed Jerry had a certain air about him. He also had glossy, Arrow-Collar Man good looks along with a casual way of surveying me that promised no entanglements. I decided to ignore his well-stuffed wallet and accept his invitation to go boating.
Our weekend was pleasant enough without being anything I would call remarkable. Jerry did turn out to share my fondness for certain flourishes added to most men's favorite hobby. Too bad that he was also full of what Wolfe calls "the fortitude with which millionaires tolerate the disadvantages of their wealth." Jerry liked showing off this stamina as pointedly as he could. By Sunday, I was done.
I refused the invitations that followed. Jerry persisted, but I know how to scrape off annoyances no matter what type of clothing they wear or where they get them tailored. So much for him. At least, that's what I thought. About four months after my evening with Lily Rowan, I would learn that the brief encounter between Jerry and I hadn't been so much for him, it'd been not enough for him.
Although I've written that Wolfe never leaves the brownstone, I didn't count the maintenance he can't duck. After all, he votes. He has to get his hair cut, and I can't see him buying a hat or a tie without trying it on first. Maybe I want to forget all these tasks because any one of them provides as much pointless commotion as most people can squeeze out of the entire family vacation to the Grand Canyon. Wolfe's twice yearly trip to Murger's Bookstore, to run down good books that escaped being reviewed in the Times or Gazette, isn't even the worst of his errands. But this particular trip would be a doozy.
We had scheduled our expedition for an early afternoon on a Tuesday in September, when Murger's should've been quiet. Once we arrived, after a journey in Wolfe's sedan that I'll ignore for the sake of everyone's dignity, Wolfe searched the store for worthy books to fill his game bag. I kept from disturbing the mighty hunter by chatting with George Ballard, the guy who really runs Murger's.
Since Ballard had set me to autographing copies of my recently published case report, I couldn't just ease out a side door when the next customer who jangled the entrance bells turned out to be Jerry Wycombe. Besides, that would have left Wolfe stranded in Politics, and I never would've heard the end of it. So I kept my gaze on the tough job of signing my name and assessed the scene from the corners of my eyes.
To my surprise, Jerry wasn't after me. He was after Wolfe.
I thought about moving in, taking Jerry's arm, and swiveling him for another round of scraping off. Then I canceled the notion. If Jerry was dumb enough to try confusing Wolfe with my private affairs, Wolfe could cut him off at the knees and have fun doing it. If Jerry only wanted to glad-hand an acquaintance, I would still see him get squashed.
Wolfe believes bookstores and libraries are sacred enough to keep his voice down even when provoked. I was too far away and watching from the wrong angle to make out all the tiny twitches that might tell me more than Wolfe's deadpan did. However their chat went on for a while before Wolfe clapped shut the book he was holding with both hands and turned to face Jerry full on. That got me moving.
I entered earshot in time to hear Wolfe say, "You mistake our situation. Mr. Goodwin does not reject your continued social overtures because of some blanket prohibition on my part. I would hazard he does so because of this sort of action on your part." He grunted. "Comprehensible, and even intelligent, but also not my business. Stop seeking my permission."
As I reached his elbow, Wolfe's head swiveled before he shook it at me, very slightly. It was working hours, so I pulled up short. I still let my stance make clear my own opinion of Jerry's latest social overture.
Jerry stepped back, held up his hands, and laughed. "All right, all right. I can tell when I've wasted my time. Back out into the cold I go. For now." With a unnecessary flourish of his Burberry coat, he turned around and was through the door before Ballard could finish deciding to join the conversation.
"Histrionics," Wolfe murmured. "Fanfaronade. That man is trouble."
"So I've learned. I'll talk to him, again. Using single-syllable words, this time. Punchy ones."
"I wish you wouldn't. We both know quantity eventually swamps quality, and I'd imagine he would have no compunctions about hiring temporary employees to deliver his retort. I'll need you intact to drive me out to Lewis's estate for dinner next Saturday." His dark eyes shifted and he wrapped his big hands around the book he was holding as if someone was going to yank it away from him. "Nonetheless, the decision about attempting such a discussion is yours."
It gnawed at me to say it out loud, but, "Much obliged. However, I admit he dragged you into this, so you might as well add your opinions to the discussion."
"Right now, my opinion is that bumptious patricians shouldn't interrupt me while I'm browsing," Wolfe said testily.
I clucked my tongue. "Buy another copy of Das Kapital. That'll show him."
He glared. I think he bought Walden Two only to spite me.
All seemed quiet for the next several days, but I'd asked around in the meantime and discovered that Jerry had employed a detective agency to dig up information about Wolfe and me, one from far enough out of town that they didn't know any better. A few telephone calls fixed the problem, but there was nothing to stop Jerry from going farther afield. I started putting together plans. As it turned out, I wasn't the only one plotting.
Lewis Hewitt is a millionaire and an orchid fancier, as well as being someone who shares a lot of other views and tastes with Nero Wolfe. He's also one of the double handful of cronies with whom Wolfe swaps favors. For over a decade now, Wolfe has had me drive him out to Hewitt's estate on Long Island once or twice each year so they can sit down together for a meal and all the latest gossip about Phalaenopsis.
Most times, I'm invited. Sometimes I even accept. Lewis Hewitt might be another patrician like Jerry, but at least Hewitt thinks he should play nice with democracy, so I've learned to put up with the altitude and enjoy the fancy scenery.
On our way up the Long Island Expressway that afternoon, Wolfe was clutching the hand strap above the backseat in his Heron sedan, as usual, while trying to watch for looming dangers in every direction, also as usual. What was unusual was his suddenly clearing his throat and saying something that wasn't either a pointless warning or pure funk.
He opened with, "I need to request a favor of you."
"Excuse me?" I asked without taking my eyes off the road. This was a unique enough event that I didn't want to panic him by using the rear view mirror, which might make him skip the explanation.
"Will you refrain from resigning, even given ample provocation, until after this evening's visit?"
I'm not an idiot, and that was an open-ended request. I let my eyes and hands drive the car for the next mile or so while I thought it over. In the end, I said, "You're asking for a blank check already signed."
"I am, but one drawn against an account containing a limited amount of funds."
"You're also hoping my curiosity will sell this."
"Indeed. Has it?"
I scowled, knowing he could read the expression even from the back of my head. "Yes, sir. But I'd wager this is something to do with Jerry Wycombe. Two to one. And your usual delusions about my failure to hide anything I'm thinking. Three to two."
"Yes, and a qualified yes. Given my so-called delusions, you'll understand why I haven't elaborated until now. Although there is a report in the back seat with me that I want you to read before dinner this evening."
"Sure." I was bitter. "Always happy to be of assistance when work as a private investigator isn't taking up all my time." After a short pause, I asked him, "Did you notice the chicken truck in front of us? Either we pass it in the opposing lane or it sheds feathers on us. Plenty of feathers that will obscure the windshield. Golly, what a choice."
Since Wolfe couldn't tell me to shut up under those circumstances, the noise he made fell neatly between a grunt, a gurgle, and a growl. Another day, I would have been impressed.
Instead I was impressed when I went through the folder Wolfe silently handed me once we had parked on the cobblestone drive that arced past Hewitt's front door. Someone -- and I would bet his first name rhymed with gall -- had done a first-rate job of collecting information in a lot of dicey places.
It turned out that Jerry had been a busy boy recently, and not merely with yours, truly. He'd visited the professionals, and they remembered him, as did several amateur playmates. Lots of these memories weren't fond. Although he hadn't crossed that final, murky border lying well past the limits of legal antics, he was getting much too close.
When I was done reading about Jerry's bedtime stories, I sat there sorting out my opinions. We had time. Wolfe always gave himself a break before he exited an automobile after a long trip to be social. I could hear him, almost feel him, in the seat behind me, waiting for my decision. I don't think I imagined his strain.
"Give me the plan," is what I settled on saying.
He gathered in a deep breath, which took about a gallon of air. He let it all out again, not in a sigh. Then he told me what he had in mind.
I'd say he was lucky to have already gotten my promise not to quit if I didn't know it was his genius at work blocking off a dead end. The fat sonofabitch. I'd rather have taken to the dance floor at the Flamingo Club with no trousers on than walk into Hewitt's manor after I'd been briefed for this.
Still, what with the drama Jerry obviously preferred, Wolfe's theatricals might get through to him when straightforward talking wouldn't. Which didn't mean I had to like the script. If I hadn't known Wolfe liked the script even less than I did, I would have been tempted to jump ship and swim back to Manhattan, promise or no promise.
As it was, I just said, "Swell," when he was done and got out of the driver's seat to pry him loose from the back.
Once we were shown into one of Hewitt's parlors and swapped greetings with everyone there, Wolfe marched off into a corner with Hewitt for a private chat, leaving me alone with the remaining guest. That might have been good manners or it might have been good tactical sense, letting me say my piece before the trouble began. I wouldn't handicap it either way.
Lily Rowan looked up at me from where she decorated the Phyfe sofa and smiled, twirling the rim of a martini glass between her fingers. Her smile was wry. "So here we are."
"I shouldn't be surprised."
"Don't expect me to argue," she said. "It's not an unknown combination."
"You'll never tell me which of you called the other after Saul Panzer made his rounds, will you? In either case, I bet you're footing the bills now."
"Trust you to bring up the one detail that would let you bare your teeth in a manly snarl. No, I won't tell you." She tilted her head to one side. "Not that it matters. You've made it clear business comes first, and I already said civilized behavior needs to be encouraged. I'm willing to put my money where my mouth has been."
I nodded. "You always are. And you never miss an opening night when you have a share in the show."
"It won't be the first time I've watched you two perform." Abruptly, she was serious. It suited her. "When this evening is over, the slate will be wiped clean. Pffft. All gone. I won't remember a thing except how to sign a check." This new smile was airy. "It's a well-known hazard when consuming Manhattans of high quality."
"I'd better get a look at the label on that bottle of vermouth," I told her. "Sounds useful."
"See how he plans for the future," she said admiringly.
Wolfe came over to the couch and bobbed his head minutely in what he considered a bow. "Miss Rowan."
Now her smile was demure. "Mr. Wolfe."
"Thank you for your help this evening." He didn't even choke on the words, which told me he was taking the case seriously. So much for swimming home.
Lily put down the glass to wave a negligent hand. "Some jobs need doing, and Lewis does set a wonderful table. Will we have time to eat before Jerry struts in?"
Wolfe's look at me was inquiring.
I told him, "He's prompt, at least."
"No," Wolfe said to Lily. "Mr. Wycombe should be here at six."
"Oh, well," she said. "Then he won't interrupt dinner and disturb our digestions."
Son of a gun if Wolfe's grunt of agreement wasn't faintly approving.
Lewis Hewitt had joined us while they talked. For once, there was nothing democratic about the smile on his patrician face as he said, "I believe the various names I cited when I telephoned him yesterday should be enough to make sure he'll arrive promptly." He checked his wristwatch. "Almost half an hour. Archie, a drink?"
"A shot of the usual, thanks."
Hewitt got my bourbon and branch himself and gave me the glass with a practiced flourish. Wolfe had occupied the newest and widest armchair in the room, at right angles to the sofa, without asking if it was already taken. Then the three of them managed to find things to say to each other about modern poetry while I sipped my drink and reminded myself of all the reasons not to solve the problem of Jerry using primitive methods.
The butler who showed in Jerry had broad shoulders and the muscles to go with them, something he usually underplayed but had made obvious this evening. Jerry didn't care. He handed over his coat and hat, turned to survey the occupants of the parlor, put his hands on his hips, and found a smile with some sneer in its family tree.
"Wycombe," Hewitt said after unveiling his own, toothy smile. "I'm glad you could join us. Glad for your sake. I believe you already know everyone here."
"Well, I thought I did," Jerry said. "But it seems those rumors about Miss Rowan weren't slander after all." The look he gave Lily might have started trouble with someone more frangible, but she only narrowed her eyes as lazily as a tigress who's seen prey right after dessert.
For his part, Hewitt ignored the diversion. "Good. Mr. Wolfe will speak for us all." With that, Hewitt took the Hepplewhite armchair across from Lily's couch and leaned back, crossing his legs and steepling his fingers. This left Jerry standing in a U of seated bigwigs, very star chamber.
"Am I here for another lecture?" Jerry asked Wolfe. He was trying not to show his nerves, but he had telltales. "I've already heard everything you'll have to say, many times before."
"Perhaps," Wolfe told him. "However I have my doubts, given that I reject your style, not your tastes."
As Wolfe spoke, I had strolled toward the armchair where he sat. Now I knelt right next to him, my hands clasped behind me, my head up, my shoulders back. I made the posture look graceful, which was easy, and as if I did this all the time, which was hard. Then I settled to studying Jerry, still contemplating primitive methods.
Without bothering to look away from Jerry, Wolfe reached out and wrapped one large hand around the back of my neck.
He told Jerry, "By this time it should be evident I am not merely Mr. Goodwin's employer or even his homosexual mentor. I'm one who inclines toward some of your favored recreations, as is everyone else in this room."
For a second, Jerry's surprise leaked out before he firmed up his attitude. "That's good to know."
"Only abstractly. Practically, the knowledge is useless. Until today, you have had the advantages of your caste and your resources to support whatever accounts of your exploits you chose to offer. This time you are slightly outranked and certainly outnumbered."
"Threats--"
"I rarely bother with them. If forced outside of society's boundaries, I act. Otherwise, I prefer to let the usual vehicles of justice run their set courses. In your case, that would mean removing the impediments you have placed in their paths until now, a simple enough task for those assembled here."
As he spoke, Wolfe was tightening his grasp, which made me want to lean into him. His hand couldn't really be as warm as it seemed. My eyelids felt heavy, and I think my lips may have parted a little. Worse, airing it out in public like this was already getting to me where it counted. I was grateful I wore a suit coat long enough for discretion.
Pleasure and mortification mixed in me until I was ready to take on Jerry using nothing but my teeth for no better purpose than breaking this spell. My attitude must have showed. Almost imperceptibly, fingertips stroked the side of my neck.
Wolfe's voice, as he continued, had stayed flat but dropped down in its range. "I wouldn't fancy your chances in a fair fight. You're earning too many enemies."
"Why do you even care?" Jerry seemed as confused as he was annoyed. Maybe I could have guessed the reason if I hadn't been distracted. "That isn't what happens in the Marq--" he started. Then he stopped and scowled.
"Oh?" Wolfe's one word was emotionless, but Hewitt's lips twitched and Lily flat-out grinned. "Did you truly expect us to be the libertines of de Sade? Please don't take seriously any fairytale written by that idealistic and infantile monster. Real life is filled with unforeseen consequences and unexpected perils even for the powerful, one reason among many we prefer moderation."
Wolfe paused to grunt. "I doubt much of this will get through, but my ego demanded the attempt before I move on to other persuasions."
With that, Wolfe settled back some in his armchair. Now the slow caress of his fingertips would be visible to anyone paying attention. "Mr. Goodwin works for me. He serves me. He would kill, has killed, for me. This part of our alliance is not something either of us chooses to cultivate deliberately although its intimate aspects would be both potent and heady.
"Instead we share a belief that when want yields ground, it can save its kingdom. Although my instinct is to subdue, I am best served by someone who carps, hectors, and defies. On his side, Mr. Goodwin prefers an easily challenged mastery exercised at arm's length to bowing before an utter dominance that would take more than he should give. But those choices don't negate our visceral tie.
"You missed that. As many others have, you ignored deeds in favor of a flurry of words. I ask you this. If you can't even recognize what you are seeing, how will you know when you're in over your head?" Without a pause or change of tone, Wolfe said, "Archie, your pistol please."
Wolfe hadn't warned me beforehand. He'd known without asking that Jerry worried me enough I 'd left the brownstone armed. But in spite of what this hinted, even with that fat paw of his still branding my neck with his grip, the Marley was out when he was done talking.
Jerry sure did have telltales. He flinched.
"You see." It wasn't a question. "Thank you." That was addressed to me.
I holstered. Most times I would've aimed a speaking look at Wolfe afterward, but now I just tidied up my posture and went back to watching.
For once it was obvious when Wolfe shook his head. "Caution aids survival, and there are better indulgences than working through another man's daydreams. I've found this to be true even for the pleasures of the boudoir. Please think about my words. Remember, your peers both agree with my judgment and have pledged to enforce it."
Wolfe's voice was a scourge when he said, "Stop pressing your luck, Mr. Wycombe. Now."
Hewitt tilted his head in agreement, the Emperor of Long Island. Lily nodded, not a fragment of her usual lazy amusement visible in her expression.
Jerry looked them over, each in turn. I could see the struggle behind his face as he did it, but I guess he was smarter than I'd thought. Either that, or he'd finally seen something that made him wary.
All at once he jerked his chin in a nod and then turned away without the usual dramatic flourish. Then he headed straight out into the entrance hall, where the butler would be waiting for him along with a couple of husky characters dressed as servants. They'd escort Jerry off of Hewitt's grounds.
This seemed to be happening about a thousand miles away. Even Hewitt, even Lily, wasn't much closer than Staten Island. Only Wolfe's hand and voice were here with me, and those had stilled.
"Well," Lily said, as she stretched out an arm along the sofa back. "I could certainly use another drink."
"Permit me," Hewitt told her and was on his feet with the eager speed I'd always suspected was a better sign of his bedroom inclinations than his phone calls and Phalaenopsis rarities. I'm sure Jerry missed that.
Wolfe leaned toward me in his armchair, shifting his grip to turn my head. He got my gaze.
"Archie," he murmured, "it's over." As he let go, languidly sliding his strong, fat fingers away through my hair, we gave each other a good look. After long seconds he said, "Satisfactory," his usual word of praise as real and raw as I'd ever heard it.
Slowly, reluctantly, I closed my eyes. After a while, I opened them again and said, "Glad to hear it, but I'm getting a cramp." Then I climbed onto my feet and went to study one of Hewitt's nautical paintings until I felt like opening my storefront to the public. Wolfe had shielded part of what was between us by stripping naked another part. I needed some time.
Dinner was first rate, and I managed a few rounds of bright chatter with Lily while our supposed peers discussed the joys of hybridization. But it was another cost of the job we had done that Wolfe left early that evening without the usual extended tour of the latest results in Hewitt's greenhouses. Instead the two of them talked for a while in low voices before Wolfe said goodbye to Hewitt by shaking hands, rare as a pearl in an oysterhouse special.
I did the same with Lily, even if it had been a while since we favored that form of farewell.
"Good luck getting the circus wagon back to Manhattan," she said.
"I'll need it. Are you too lit to drive?"
"Lewis is shipping me home via chauffeur. Some fun."
I was firm. "Better than rural ditches. And so to bed?"
"No." With the kind of considering look that means her brain has found another shortcut, Lily told me, "I thought I'd join some friends at the Troubadour Room. Likely I'll be bored as the devil again, but it passes the time. There might be dancing."
"I may wander by later and amuse you. The prospect will shorten my trip. Maybe I won't have to try strangulation."
"Civilized behavior should be encouraged," Lily agreed. Public or not, she briefly touched my cheek, which told me she knew what she was seeing in my eyes. It's a sign of the state I was in that I didn't pull away. "I do love a rumba," she said, managing to make it sound wistful. "Good exercise and so very fiery with the right partner."
"Fine. Keep a space open on your card. If I'm available, we'll double-check if that partner's me."
One last time, Wolfe came to join us. "Archie, is there a moon this evening?"
"Yes, sir. Waxing gibbous to full. Or is that waning? Now, let me see."
He ignored me. "We should leave before losing the additional light." Shifting his attention to Lily, he said, "Good night, Miss Rowan." There was maybe one second of hesitation when I thought he might offer her a hand to shake.
Of course she caught it. "Thank you for a fascinating time, Mr. Wolfe. At least, fascinating from what little I can remember." She tilted her head back to look up at him, and her voice managed to combine innuendo and doubt when she said, "I hope you have a good evening."
She only earned a grunt for that first-rate performance. I would have rated it as worthy of a scowl at least, if not a "Pfui." I wasn't the only one off my game.
For once, the drive back to Thirty-fifth Street was quiet. There was a moon, and the scenery was as striking as it was poorly lit. I thought about pointing out a few of the more shadowed details just to hear Wolfe's reactions, but somehow I couldn't get the words past my lips. And he wasn't sounding the alarm about passing turnip trucks. The silence in the sedan slowly grew more noticeable than the noises of travel.
It wasn't until we were almost back to Manhattan that I managed to say, "I have a rendezvous penciled in later for dancing."
"Good." His delivery was gruff, not petty.
"Although I could stay home. Fritz will have left for his Sunday off."
"No. Your offer is generous. And attractive. It's also unwise, at least this particular night." His sigh was barely audible over the engine. "Some fires die down more reluctantly than they flare. It would be foolish to ignore my own words about caution."
He was right, but I didn't have to like it. Not here in the darkness, not when I still felt this scorched, as if we'd been sitting all evening next to one of the open fireplaces he hates.
"Someday…" I heard myself say, sounding ragged.
"Someday," he agreed. The silence stretched out again until it seemed to ache and burn.
Usually the word "someday" precedes threats between us, if nothing serious. Right now the word still warned of what could happen. It was also a demand and a promise. And serious.
But we weren't discussing anything that would happen that night. I've learned how to take no for an answer. So I snapped the tension by asking, "Well, if the rest of your evening is going to waste, how about reading a good book? Did you think to pick up A Woman Called Fancy when you were at Murger's last week?"
"Do you seriously expect me to elucidate all that is obnoxious about those questions while trapped in the back of this rampaging machinery?"
Grinning at the windshield, I signaled to change lanes before I said, "Sure. It'll be a purgative for your nerves."
He almost sputtered before he started his tirade. Working hours or not, I still live to serve.