Stout Stories: “A Social Call” and “Truffles To Die For”

A Social Call
“I’m afraid that would be impossible.”

“I agree entirely. And it’s been my experience that when things are impossible, they don’t happen. Which means that we should just forget about this.”

She laughed.

“But that would be impossible as well.”

“I assure you it wouldn’t, Ms. Harris—nor, in fact, is it. If you understood what you are asking of me, you’d understand.”

I couldn’t help laughing myself. The notion of me getting Wolfe’s 4,000 ounces on an airplane—a device that actually left the ground and flew through the air like a bird—well, the idea was unimaginable and irresistible at the same time.

“You think well of yourself, don’t you, Mr. Goodwin?”

I laughed again. I was a riot, and so was she.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Harris. I’m enjoying this conversation for many reasons. But I couldn’t get my boss to hear Mr. Zauberberg out if he came to this office himself. Mr. Wolfe made so much money last year he’s taking this one off to translate Montaigne’s Essays into Serbian and Hungarian. As a result, he’s even less interested in running errands for twenty-something billionaires than usual.”

“Mr. Zauberberg is 32, and he is not requesting an errand. He is seeking the assistance of a man known for his devotion to the cause of freedom of speech.”

“Those are kind words, and Mr. Wolfe will appreciate them when I convey them to him. But the deal is still off. Mr. Wolfe is not working for Mr. Zauberberg or any one else, and he is certainly not getting on a plane. Now, I’m sure your boss isn’t used to taking ‘no’ for an answer. If you like, tell him that you found me irascible and unpleasant.”

There was silence for a beat. Then she came back at me.

“Mr. Zauberberg only speaks with principals.”

“Of course he does. I’m sorry, Ms. Harris, I don’t like to be rude, but sometimes that’s my job. I think you can understand that pretty well.”

There was another pause.

“I’ll get back to you, Mr. Goodwin,” she said. “Thank you for your time.”

“Thank you as well.”

I wished I could have done more for Ms. Harris—or Joan, as I could have called her—because I was looking at her FacetoFace page. She was three years out of Stanford, and, judging from her picture as the co-captain of the varsity tennis team, she had the best legs of any applied statistician I’d ever seen. The entire time we had been talking I’d been trying to figure out a way to suggest to her that if she and Mark could make their way to the brownstone and confront Wolfe in person things might go better, but there was just no way I could square that circle, because Wolfe really wasn’t working any more

Eight years ago, back in 2009, the SEC sued half the banks on Wall Street on charges of money laundering for the Russian mob. That’s not what the SEC called it, but that’s how the Gazette reported it. After three years, the government brought a proposed settlement before the judge with no criminal charges and no admission of wrong doing. She threw it back in their faces and said they’d been wasting her time and that of the people of the United States. A week later, a couple of government lawyers showed up at Wolfe’s door at one in the morning with 10,000 pages of transcripts and documents. Wolfe spent two months reading them and two weeks dictating a list of 250 questions for the SEC to ask. Once the SEC started asking those questions the banks put together a new settlement proposal, acknowledging what they called “serious errors in judgment and a pattern of culpable behavior,” and coughing up a billion each to prove they were sorry. Naturally, the award in the case was batted up to the Supreme Court and down again, twice, but when the dust finally cleared Wolfe’s share of the take was on the upside of $17 million. Wolfe threw a little party to celebrate, to which the SEC was not invited. Fritz hired three assistants and gave us a meal that he said duplicated the coronation dinner for Edward VII in 1901, which I appreciated, since I’d missed the first one.

At the dinner Wolfe told us that he’d be taking a leave of absence from the detecting business.

“I have profited from the excesses of Mammon, and now I must address the madness it has provoked. I may not prove more efficacious than Diogenes, but I shall be more industrious. And Montaigne shall be my barrel.”

It took me a week to unravel that one, but fortunately a professor I met at one of Lily Rowan’s parties explained it all to me. Diogenes was a philosopher living in ancient Athens, who it appears took an even dimmer view of society than Wolfe. But when Athens was threatened with invasion, Diogenes felt he had to do something, so he rolled around the streets in a barrel. As it turned out, Wolfe wanted to discourage what he called “feral recrudescence” by translating Montaigne into as many languages as he could. Serbian and Hungarian he could handle himself, and he wanted to hire someone to handle Arabic and Farsi.

“You would have been proud of me,” I told him, when he arrived at six on the dot, waiting until he had settled in the one chair that suits him and rung for beer.

“Indeed.”

“Yes. I informed Mark Zauberberg’s personal assistant that you would not be flying to San Francisco tomorrow morning to promote the cause of freedom of speech.”

Wolfe chuckled.

“If his billions cannot save him then no one can. Have you prepared my revisions?”

I handed him the pages and watched him open one of the half dozen dictionaries he had on his desk. I wanted to needle him, as I had in the old days, but there was nothing doing. In his own mind, he was working harder than he ever had, and who was I to disagree with him? I turned back to my computer—I could catch the second half of a double header between the Yanks and the Red Sox with my headphones until dinner.

Fritz started us off with celery consommé while Wolfe filled me in on the what he called the radical incongruities of spoken and written Hungarian. I tried to change the subject to Zauberberg, and the congressional hearing he was facing in two weeks, but Wolfe refused to be goaded. When Fritz brought in the shad roe with cream sauce and roasted vegetables, he slowed down a little until he had finished his third helping, but then he started in again and didn’t slow down much at all through the broiled grapefruit halves basted with wild thyme honey and cognac that Fritz gave us for dessert.

When we finished our grapefruit we adjourned to the office for some brandy and coffee, Wolfe still lecturing me on Hungarian lingo—the more he talked the further back in time he went—when the doorbell rang. I got erect and walked down the hall. I squinted through the peephole and walked back to the office.

“It’s him,” I said. “Shall I let him in?”

“Confound it,” he said. “Yes. A man without curiosity is no longer alive. I desire to look on his billions.”

The way Zauberberg bounded inside when I opened the door, if I hadn’t known he was in his early thirties, I would have guessed seventeen. He seemed that much of a kid. Fortunately for me, Joan was along for a ride as well, looking tall and fresh and outdoorsy and making me wish I had been working on my tan.

“I thought you were in San Francisco,” I said.

“I was,” she said.

Zauberberg made a bee-line for the big red chair in front of Wolfe’s desk like an Irish setter heading for a beefsteak, although naturally he went first to Wolfe’s desk to shake Wolfe’s hand.

“Nero Wolfe! You’re not easy to get a hold of!”

“You certainly have had no difficulty,” snapped Wolfe. “Please have a seat. I prefer eyes at a level. And your assistant as well, although I see Mr. Goodwin is attending to her.”

It was a cheap shot, of course, but I had to take it. I positioned one of the yellow chairs for Joan, so I could keep an eye on all three of them at once.

“Thank you,” Wolfe said, once Zauberberg had taken his seat. “Mr. Zauberberg, I bow before your wealth, but I warn you in advance that I am not available for hire, under any circumstances.”

I could gauge just how much Zauberberg wanted Wolfe’s services that he let Wolfe get the first word, sitting there in the big red chair and gripping the armrests like a little kid trying to wait for Christmas.

“But it’s crazy!” he exploded at last. “Congress! They make IBM look good! Those questions would have been dumb five years ago!”

“I am sure,” said Wolfe. “I pity anyone who must face a congressional committee. A pack of ululating jackals would display more courtesy, and more intelligence.”

“Yeah, well, jackals don’t really hunt in packs,” Zauberberg said. “I mean, opportunistic predation is an optimal strategy in a lot of cases.”

“If you view the world in Darwinist terms, then perhaps you should neither be surprised nor offended when these creatures seek to feed on you.”

“Okay, fine, I have a problem. And you make problems go away.”

“Indeed, I do not. I deal exclusively with those problems that do not go away. And, as I believe you have already been informed, my services are unavailable for at least one year.”

“Yeah. About that.”

As he spoke, Joan opened the leather briefcase she had with her and took out a sheaf of paper, which she passed to Zauberberg.

“Montaigne’s last two essays,” he said, handing them to Wolfe, “in damned good Hungarian.”

“I shall be the judge of that, of course,” said Wolfe.

Wolfe held open the old, leather-bound volume of Montaigne that he consulted and I watched his eyes jump back and forth between the French and the pages Zauberberg had given him.

“This is passable,” he allowed, “even competent. But it lacks élan.”

“Which you can supply,” said Joan, speaking for the first time.

“Ah, you are in charge of manners, I see. And your name, Miss?”

“Harris. Joan Harris.”

“Very good. And now, Mr. Zauberberg, explain your gift. There is no translation program that works at this level.”

Zauberberg was starting to get excited.

“Those assholes!” he exclaimed. ”Ogle is so full of shit. I mean, it’s Bayes meets Chomsky and you’re home. Well, pretty much. And you need a 250 K array.”

“Mr. Zauberberg is referring to an array of 250,000 linked high-speed parallel processors,” Joan explained, something I gather she did a lot. “We’ve been developing that array to replace our current system.”

“And we need to break it in,” Zauberberg interrupted. “I chose Hungarian because it’s tough, but we can do anything. We’ve got the data.”

“Really?” said Wolfe, raising his eyebrows. “How about Arabic and Farsi?”

“Sure. I mean, Arabic’s easier, except you have all those dialects. But sure. Sure. You help me, I help you. And this could be ongoing. We’ll always have downtime. Make a list. The sky’s the limit.”

Wolfe’s eyebrows stayed up. He was ready to bring Montaigne to the whole planet.

“So you say. Until you have a crisis, which you undoubtedly will. With all your billions, your soul is not your own, but rather your shareholders.”

“I believe,” said Joan, with surprising authority, “that when you are in full understanding of the matter, you will see that Mr. Zauberberg will have every reason to maintain his end of the bargain for the foreseeable future.”

Wolfe allowed himself a slight smile.

“Then are you going to apprise me of them without insisting on my prior commitment?” he asked.

“We rely on your discretion, of course,” said Joan, which amazed me. Zauberberg not only trusted her to do the talking, he could actually make himself shut up. So he must have really wanted it.

“I suppose with this bait I could offer it,” Wolfe said. “I try to value other’s privacy as I value my own. Whether you, Mr. Zauberberg are similarly generous I can reserve my opinion. But please give me no reason to regret my generosity.”

“Yeah, well,” Zauberberg began, “this isn’t really that big a deal,” though the way he said it didn’t convince me.

He hesitated again, and looked at Joan, but she kept a straight face, so he had to begin all on his own.

“Again, as I say, it’s not a big deal, but it’s the sort of thing that people would make into a big deal. Well, I’m married now, but I wasn’t, ten years ago, so I was in San Francisco. Well, I met this chick who did porno. I guess, anyway, well, I guess people are going to say that was wrong.”

“This is not confession, Mr. Zauberberg. Unless this youthful interlude can have real world consequences I desire to hear nothing more, and regret the little I have.”

“There’s no video,” said Zauberberg, “well, not of me. Just some photographs. You know, we were on a boat. People like to take pictures on a boat. It’s an interesting thing. People get out on the water and they lose all sense ….”

He pulled himself in.

“Anyway, what’s important is the Russian connection. See, that’s the big deal with Congress, the whole Russian thing, and that’s got the Democrats breathing down my neck. And the thing is, I’ve never had any dealing with the Russians, ever! I mean, there was that thing five years ago, some Canadian outfit was fronting for them, and there was real money involved, I admit that, but as soon as the link was publicized, nothing! It vanished like that!”

He snapped his fingers.

“And after that, nothing again. And I’ve always had great relations with the Democrats. But now, you know, they need a target, and they think I’m it. And now she’s, she’s resurfaced.”

“You never heard from her until now?”

“No.”

“And what does she want? I assume that mere money could be no object.”

“That’s the thing. I’m not sure what she wants. I’m not sure she’s sure what she wants. She says she wants what’s coming to her, but she goes back and forth. Sometimes it’s cash, sometimes she says she just wants to tell her story, that she doesn’t need me, that if she tells her story she’ll have all the cash she needs.”

“And what is her story? That you two had an affair ten years ago? Embarrassing, to be sure, but did you fly across the country to be here merely on this issue?”

“No. No. The thing is, like I said, the Russian connection. She had an affair, another affair, a longer affair, with this guy Dimitry Voroshilov, the one who set up most of the fake sites that ran on FacetoFace. So it’s going to look like, like I knew what was going on, that I was partying with the Russians, that I was taking money from them, like a lot of things.”

“And do you know him? Did you know him? Or anyone connected to him?”

“No! I’ve never met him! That’s solid!”

“What about this Canadian affair you alluded to. Some one was attempting to take control of FacetoFace?”

“Well, they were juicing the Van Winkles like nobody’s business. They never had a handle on that kind of cash. I mean, they were spending more than they were suing me for. So you explain that one. It was well coordinated, I’ll say that much. But there was no Dimitry involved. Really, it was very well hidden, in Cyprus, the Caymans, that sort of thing. And, of course, it just vanished overnight. Nothing, and nothing since.”

“Were there any Russians on this boat?”

“No! She—well, anyway, there is nothing, nothing that can connect me with this Dimitry guy. Except her. Well, the deal is, she wants to meet me. She wants to have it out, that’s what she keeps saying. What does that even mean?”

“Indeed. Perhaps she intends to assess your vulnerability.”

“Well, I’m plenty vulnerable. I can write a check bigger than she could cash, but she’s so vague. I’ve talked to her twice, and she just goes back and forth, like she says she could go on all the talk shows and then have her own talk show. She seems to like that idea.”

“Indeed.”

“But she says she has to see me. Which I think would be a terrible idea.”

“It is a terrible idea,” said Joan.

“No doubt,” said Wolfe. “So you wish me to intercede, to determine her price.”

“Determine it and pay it! I give you carte blanche.”

“The real thing is, Mr. Wolfe,” Joan interjected, “is to reach an agreement that will ensure she’ll stick to it.”

“That is the rub. She is in San Francisco?”

“No. New York. That was one reason why I wanted you to come to me.”

“A reasonable precaution. Mr. Zauberberg. Is there anything in particular I need to know about Miss, Miss …?

“She goes by the name of Sexy Caboose.”

“Of course she does. As if my digestion had not already endured sufficient distress. What is her real name?”

“That is her legal name, unfortunately,” said Joan.

“I see.”

“Her given name was Mary Hopkins.”

“That is helpful to know. Very well. It would be possible, no doubt, Mr. Goodwin will contact this woman and, if at all feasible, I shall determine her true motivation and contrive an arrangement to gratify it on terms congruent with your interests.”

“Terrific!” exclaimed Zauberberg, leaping out of his chair as though the whole thing were settled.

Wolfe raised a hand.

“I say it would be possible, not that it will happen. Even if the issues and circumstances at hand were vastly different, Mr. Zauberberg, I would be reluctant to enter into a contractual relation with you. Many men sell their souls. You have contrived to sell those of others.”

“We’re not selling! We’re, we’re bringing people together!”

At this point he was half out of his chair, waving his arms.

“Indeed,” said Wolfe. “Please restrain yourself. You did not garner your billions through altruism. My point is, if you will allow me to make it, that in order for us to reach an agreement you must first convince me that you will honor that agreement with exceptional fidelity. I often do business with men of limited virtue, as long as I have assurance that the balance is largely in my favor.”

“We need this,” said Zauberberg earnestly, gesturing with his hand. “I can’t let this, this, this …”

He gave up, in mid speech and mid gesture, not daring to put a label on whatever “this” was, as if that would make it too real.

“Your apprehension of your plight is real enough,” grunted Wolfe.

“We can license the software,” said Zauberberg abruptly, almost shouting. “We can make a contract for the availability of the hardware. Isn’t that enough?”

“You do business quickly. We must allow lawyers into the matter, and I must warn you I cannot guarantee the future beyond a certain point.”

“A year, certainly,” said Joan. “That’s at a minimum. In any event, you’ll be paid by then.”

“True,” said Wolfe. “If I am skeptical of your bona fides, you should surely return the favor. Very well. Do we need this in writing?”

“No,” said Joan, immediately. “I mean, regarding what we have discussed here. The contractual arrangements will of course make no mention of any of this.”

“Of course. Mr. Goodwin will supply you with the name of my attorney and perhaps you shall do the same.”

Joan and I swapped lawyers’ business cards. Zauberberg looked like he missed his keyboard while Wolfe was clearly thinking of beer, and Archie was wondering if Joan liked to dance.

“I’ll have Mr. Parker give them a call,” I said, once I had entered the information into my computer. “He doesn’t object to late hours when there’s money on the table. I guess we want this done quickly?”

I might have been jumping the gun with Wolfe on this, but I hadn’t gotten any sign that he wanted to stall, and I was right. A machine that could speak Hungarian had hit his sweet spot.

“Lawyers enjoy late hours, or at least enjoy talking about them,” Wolfe said. “I believe Mr. Parker will find the task engaging.”

“Then it’s done?” exclaimed Zauberberg, jumping entirely out of his chair this time.

“Indeed it is, Mr. Zauberberg. Congratulate yourself on a coup.”

Joan rose as well, and took a folder from her briefcase.

“This is everything we have on our common problem,” she said, handing it to me. “You should be able to reach her, one way or another. We haven’t told her anything.”

I was expecting Zauberberg to make a try for shaking Wolfe’s hand, but he didn’t. In fact, he didn’t seem to be thinking about anything but getting off the East Coast and get back to the real world. I’ve never even been to Silicon Valley, but you could tell that these two belonged there.

I accompanied them to the door, of course. You never know what people might do when left alone. Even a multi-billionaire might want to take a souvenir, just because he was paying the bills. When I got back to the office. I expected to see Wolfe flipping through what Joan had left but instead he was writing something down on a pad.

“Montaigne alone will not suffice,” he said, looking up at me. “There is a price to be paid even for the possibility of sitting in the same room as a woman named Sexy Caboose.”

“You think it will come to that.”

“You shall handle this matter exclusively if at all possible, but so often the worst eventuality is the most likely. I shall be prepared.”

“This may be a first for me, but do you really want to be working for this guy?”

“You mean why should I choose between Mr. Zauberberg and the jackals who pursue him? I confess I cannot establish a precedency between the blind greed of billionaires and the blind opportunism of politicians. But to give the world Montaigne is no small matter. And there will be additions.”

“Of course.”

“The Federalist Papers, certainly. The Wealth of Nations. Orwell’s essays. Often, the prettiest of truths are the most provincial. Furet’s Passing of an Illusion. And Camus, of course. The Rebel, certainly. And the essays. That shall do for a beginning. Inform Mr. Parker that I want the contract for this matter to be stringent and heavily in my favor.”

“You expect Zauberberg to be generous.”

“If I tame Miss Caboose he shall have every reason to be. You will contact her in the morning.”

I got on the phone to Nate who, though he sounded a little sleepy, perked up considerably when he learned the identity of Wolfe’s new client. While I was talking Wolfe went back to his dictionaries. However, when I hung up he caught my eye.

“Your skepticism provokes me, Archie,” he said. “Your thoughts on Mr. Zauberberg.”

“He is cute. But you don’t get that rich that fast by being cute.”

“Indeed. Gibbon remarked that it was two metals, iron and gold, that chiefly allow men to increase their desires beyond their mere bodily wants. To these two our age has added the silicon wafer. These young men see the entire world as their oyster and would swallow it whole.”

I was about to speak when the telephone rang. I answered it.

“Hello Mr. Goodwin,” a voice said, before I could speak.

I looked at Wolfe.

“To whom am I speaking?” I asked.

“Well, you know very well, don’t you, Mr. Goodwin? Can I call you Archie?”

“No.”

I cupped the phone.

“It’s her.”

“Confound it. This shall cost Mr. Zauberberg the Decline and Fall, in toto.”

“Archie, are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Archie, I know you’ve been talking with a friend of mine. I know all sorts of things. Would you like to hear about some of them? Say at twelve o’clock?”

“She’ll be here in two hours,” I told Wolfe.

He gave a wave of his hand, as futile a gesture as I’ve ever seen him make. Then he rang for beer.

“Confound it!” he said again.

When Fritz arrived Wolfe opened the bottle with the gold-plated opener and poured the beer until there was a quarter-inch of foam at the top of the glass. He drank from the glass and licked the foam from his upper lip. Then he looked at me.

‘We shall address this woman as Miss Hopkins,” he said, glaring hard enough so that I knew he meant it.

“Of course.”

Then he picked up, not the dossier that Joan had given me but the translation of Montaigne that Zauberberg had brought. He read through it, making notes as he went, but not a lot, which surprised me. Since he wasn’t bothering to prepare for Sexy, I thought I should, so I took the dossier from his desk and started looking through it. FacetoFace had hired some outfit in San Francisco that I knew of only by reputation to run a background check on Miss Caboose, and for a porn star she was pretty sedate—only two busts for possession and a D and D she picked up two years ago when she got in a shouting match with some guy in the lobby of the St. Francis in San Francisco at three in the morning, which at least showed some class. Anyway, how do you blackmail a porn star? She had been working in Vegas in some sort of porn star review for the past year. A month ago she took a leave of absence, which is exactly when she started pestering Zauberberg, so it was obvious the two were connected.

There was also a thumb drive in the folder so I loaded it into the computer and had a look. There were dozens of photographs from the little boat trip, with Zauberberg looking like he was about twelve. As for “Miss Hopkins”, well, she was definitely a porn star, but, very fortunately for Zauberberg, she managed to keep her top on the whole time, at least when people were taking pictures. There were five men and five women on the boat, and Zauberberg’s people had identified them all, and run a background check on all of them as well, and even interviews. None of them seemed very happy about reliving that little party, but with Zauberberg leaning on them, they’d all talked.

Once Sexy had started putting the bite on Zauberberg, his people had hired Bill Henderson’s outfit to keep an eye on her in New York. Henderson has fifty people working for him, so it wasn’t likely that they’d lose track of her. Sexy was holed up in a small, expensive hotel on the Upper East Side and walked her poodle in Central Park when the weather was nice. She hadn’t met anyone or gone anywhere since she arrived from Vegas.

At quarter after eleven Wolfe looked up from his manuscript.

“What have you learned?” he asked.

“Zauberberg’s story seems pretty straight, unless they’re hiding something from us.”

“If they are they deserve their fate. Tell me what struck you as in the least bit piquant.”

I gave him all the piquancies I had on hand until the doorbell rang, at five to eleven.

“I guess she couldn’t wait,” I said to Wolfe.

He grunted in reply and picked up his manuscript for one last look at Montaigne while I walked down the hallway to open the door.

I checked Sexy out through the peephole, just to be sure she didn’t have any company, but she was clean.

“I can call you Archie, can’t I?” she asked as she stepped inside.

“Not around my boss, Miss Hopkins,” I said.

She laughed.

“I haven’t heard that in a while.”

I wouldn’t say that Sexy was subdued, but, again, for a porn star I wouldn’t call her flashy. Wolfe wasn’t going to like the look of her hair, which was ash-blonde and swept well over her eyes, but her skirt wasn’t—well, it wasn’t the shortest skirt I’d seen in that hallway—and she was wearing a mink jacket that was almost respectable. Glamourous, yes, but she didn’t look like she was selling it. On the other hand, if she’d unbuttoned the one button on that jacket she’d be giving it away, because she had a lot to hide upstairs, and the little black dress she was wearing wasn’t even trying. I was tempted to tell her to keep that jacket buttoned if she wanted Wolfe to like her, but I didn’t want to be giving her ideas in case she didn’t want Wolfe to like her, so I kept my mouth shut.

“Well, Nero Wolfe!” she laughed as we came in the office. “I guess you’re not too happy to see me.”

“Whether I am or not is irrelevant,” said Wolfe. “I have a job to do and to do it I must suffer your presence.”

“Suffer my presence. Well, well. Such a pretty room! I’d like to live here!”

She took the big red chair. Wolfe hadn’t brought up the subject of refreshments, so I wasn’t sure what to say, but he saved me the trouble.

“The hour is late, Miss Hopkins, by my standards if not yours. However, if you desire or require alcohol my assistant Mr. Goodwin will be glad to oblige.”

She laughed again, a good way to get on Wolfe’s nerves.

“Well, yes, I will have a little something—white wine. Just a small glass. Nothing sweet.”

I joined her, to be polite. Wolfe had finished his beer long before and wasn’t in the mood for anything more.

“Now, Miss Hopkins,” Wolfe began, after I’d poured the wine, “what precisely is your purpose, and indeed your price, in this matter?”

“I don’t believe I have a price, Mr. Wolfe,” she replied. “I think I need a career change, I guess that’s my purpose. I think I’d make a good talk show host, Mr. Wolfe. I like to talk, and I like to hear other people talk. It would be a lot of fun to be on one of those shows, you know, like Conan O’Brien. They don’t let women do those shows, have you noticed that? And they should! They definitely should!”

“No doubt. Miss Hopkins, when did you make the acquaintance of Dimitry Voroshilov?”

“Dear Dimitry! He was so sweet! Well, he was on the boat, of course.”

“He was not,” snapped Wolfe. “There is no evidence to connect him with that boat, and much to deny his presence. To tell palpable lies in this matter is dangerous, no matter how many secrets you believe you possess. I assume to you intend to charge Mr. Zauberberg with more than just sexual intercourse, which is indeed your stock in trade.”

I could tell Sexy had been snapped at before, probably by one of Zauberberg’s lawyers, because it didn’t slow her down much, though it did make her more cautious.

“Well, maybe he was, and maybe he wasn’t. Anyway, it was a long time ago.”

“Indeed. When did you make Mr. Voroshilov’s acquaintance?”

“Well, a long time ago.”

“Can you be more specific?”

Sexy, or, as I guess I should call her, Mary, seemed to be feeling Wolfe out. The direct lie hadn’t gotten her anywhere. She bit her lip and paused.

“Some Russian mafia guys,” she said suddenly. “You know, I was at a party.”

“With members of the Russian mafia? Did they identify themselves as such?”

“No. They had, you know, Russian accents. Like on TV. And this guy, he came up to me and said, ‘I know you! I know you!’”

She laughed.

“They talk like little kids, like they get really excited. ‘You big porno star! You big porno star!’ I had just made my big picture, Back Door Brides. I was the only girl in the picture, you know, and it was the top-grossing porno of the year. I won best actress. So, you know, that was like in 2007 or 2008. 2008, probably. I guess that’s right.”

She counted on her fingers to come up with the date. Wolfe just grunted, as though getting into a conversation about a film titled Back Door Brides didn’t appeal to him.

Sexy drank from her wine, and swirled it a little in her glass, as if thinking about the good old days.

“Anyway,” she said, “Dimitry really took a liking to me. He didn’t give me his name back then. He called himself Mr. Smith.”

She laughed again.

“I meet a lot of guys named Smith. Also Jones. I met this guy Mr. Jones once who took me on a nice boat.”

“Another Russian mobster?”

“Well, you don’t have to say mobster. He was pretty shy, really. Dimitry told me to be nice to him. Shy guys, you know, they’re the easiest! And sweet! I only saw him once, though. He had a nice boat. Big! But Dimitry was really connected. The way he talked, the way other people treated him, you could tell. And he was rich. I mean, super rich. He used to fly me to his yacht in a helicopter! And a nice helicopter—leather seats, soundproofing, everything. You didn’t have to wear a helmet. I hate that! You can imagine.”

She stroked her hair.

“A lot of men say I have the best hair in the biz. What do you think? Archie, I’ll bet you’re an expert.”

I could tell Wolfe wasn’t liking the way the conversation was going, so I tried to keep it complimentary but brief.

“Your hair is terrific.”

She beamed. Sexy was a pro, in more ways than one, but she took a compliment like a teenager.

“I bet you’ve never ridden on a helicopter at all, have you, Mr. Wolfe?”

“Indeed not. What was his yacht like? I mean Mr. Voroshilov’s.”

“Incredible. Incredible. Some guys, they say it’s their yacht, but you know it isn’t. This was Dimitry’s, the way that crew treated him. He’d say it, and they’d do it. Bang!”

“And when did you first tell him that you knew Mr. Zauberberg?”

“Well, that’s a good question,” said Sexy, stretching it out. “I guess, well, we were in bed and the TV was on, and there was this big shot of Mark’s head and I said ‘Hey, I used to fuck that guy.’ I guess it’s okay to say ‘fuck’, isn’t it?”

“It’s acceptable in reported conversations, but not as expletive or a verb. Or an adjective,” said Wolfe, crisply. He has pretty clear rules about what you can say in his presence, and in his office.

“Did Mr. Voroshilov express an interest in this statement?” he asked.

“Yeah. He said ‘you did!’ and I’m like ‘Fuck yeah, I did!’ That’s okay, isn’t it?”

“It’s acceptable. How did your conversation continue?”

“Well, I told him about the boat. See, I didn’t know who Mark was back then. He was just some guy I had fucked.”

She laughed.

“Sorry. Guess I screwed up. See, I can be good. Anyway, well, after that was the first time he took me to his yacht.”

“Do you recall what film you had completed around this time?”

“Well, Inglorious Butt-Fuckers. It was just two years after Back Door Brides, but wow. I didn’t even have my own dressing room. Things change so fast. That’s why I was so glad to have Dimitry. These guys will tell you how generous they are, but Dimitry was generous. I mean, the best of everything, caviar for breakfast. Good caviar too! The best! And then he disappeared too. Goodbye Mr. Smith, right? I thought I’d never hear from him again, until about six months ago. No helicopter this time, but one of those fancy little hotels. That’s when he told me his real name. He was so sweet. He said he wanted to hear me call him Dimitry.”

She laughed.

“And have you seen him since?”

“Well, no, because of all this publicity. I just talked to him on the phone. He told me how he was a wanted man in the U.S. now, because Mark was so afraid that everything would come out.”

“What was there to come out? You can offer no testimony that the two men were ever together. You surely do not intend to testify that they were. You are, I may say, Miss Hopkins, an engaging personality, but you lack the self possession of an effective liar. Your weapon is your innocence. You cannot keep a secret.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. I like to talk, which is why I would be good on a talk show. And now I will be, because I will be famous. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“It doesn’t occur to you that you might be in danger?”

That got a real laugh out of her.

“Danger! Nice try, Mr. Wolfe. Dimitry would never let anything happen to me. Is Mr. Zauberberg going to have me killed? How would that look?”

“I was not suggesting that Mr. Zauberberg would resort to violence, but the Russians are not so squeamish. Describe Mr. Voroshilov to me.”

“Bald. Really bald. He told me Putin doesn’t like guys with hair.” She laughed. “He says stuff like that. He’s cute. Kinda short, but, you know, not where it counts.”

She laughed again.

“You said there were pictures from your encounter with Mr. Zauberberg. You have these pictures?”

“Yes. I like to keep things. People at parties can get kind of confused. There were no drugs, you know. Mark was really a boy scout like that. They all were. Men can be so funny, you know.”

“I agree with you entirely. My sex has always struck me as surpassingly ludicrous, far more so than yours. But these photographs, no doubt in digital format, you passed copies on to Mr. Voroshilov?”

“Well, I’m afraid I did, Mr. Wolfe. They were mine anyway, and I wasn’t even naked, so there. Anyway, that’s how I got this jacket. Do you like it?”

“I admire it exceedingly. Mr. Voroshilov possesses a fine eye. Do you possess photographs of yourself with him?”

“You are nosy, aren’t you? No, I don’t, but Dimitry has them. He does.”

She added that last part for emphasis.

“No doubt,” said Wolfe. “Miss Hopkins, you will no doubt reject my conclusions as to this matter, but nonetheless I offer them to you in good faith. You are in danger. Mr. Voroshilov has no interest in furthering your career. I suggest that there is a real possibility that he could have you killed, as a way of creating a scandal that would both blacken Mr. Zauberberg’s name and this colossus he has created, further damaging as well the state of political discourse in this country.”

Sexy just laughed at this one.

“Now, Mr. Wolfe, I’m afraid you’ve been watching too much TV. Anyway, I bet Mark just paid you to say that. I bet he did.”

“Very well. I will not waste my time, and yours, on this matter. The hour was late when you arrived, and now the morning approaches. Mr. Goodwin will show you the way out.”

As I rose, Sexy took my arm, as I knew she would, to get a rise out of Wolfe. It was the first time I’d touched a porn star, and I hope it’ll be the last, but it was also rather fun.

“You’re cute, Archie,” she said, as I walked her down the hall. “When I’m rich, you can come work for me. I can fix you up with a lot of girls.”

“I’m already fixed up.”

“You’ll see, Archie. You’ll see.”

There was a car and driver waiting for her, so Dimitry was really taking care of her. Around the corner I could see a sedan that didn’t belong there, so it looked like Henderson’s people had it covered.

“Henderson had a car out,” I told Wolfe when I came back to the office.

“Excellent. Call them and tell them to double their watch. Mr. Zauberberg will bear the expense. And then provide me with a chronology of Miss Hopkins’ films.”

I called Henderson’s office, which was naturally closed, so I had to get the emergency number and ended up waking Bill himself. While all this was going on I did a search for Sexy’s career and printed it out and handed to Wolfe. When I got everything straight with Henderson, convincing him that Wolfe was on the level, I ended the call and turned around to ask Wolfe why he was so sure Dimitry was out for blood, but the lips were already moving in and out, in and out. I just sat there for a good ten minutes. When he was done Wolfe closed his eyes and then opened them again.

“It’s late, Archie,” he said. “You should go to bed.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

Why he was so sure he had this one, and why he had to cut me out of it completely, well, that was just Wolfe being Wolfe. I left the office and closed the door and went half way up the stairs and then came back down and crept down the hallway. I wasn’t listening at the door. I was just standing near it.

For about five minutes I got nothing for my pains, and then I heard Wolfe talking on the phone, not in English. When Wolfe dials a number on his own, it’s something. It’s my guess that he didn’t want me to know that number. There was a long silence, and then I heard him speaking again, this time in what was probably another language, and probably Russian. That went on for almost twenty minutes, Wolfe being pretty harsh sometimes, but also sometimes listening. Then I heard his chair creak, and I headed up the stairs. When he leaves the office he almost always fusses over something before turning off the lights, and by the time I heard his elevator I was already in my room.

I like to get my eight hours, but since it was already past two in the morning, I set the alarm for nine. I came down to the kitchen around nine-thirty, still a little sore from whatever game Wolfe was playing. Fritz greeted me with a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. Drinking it made me realize that I could forget about Wolfe’s little game, whatever it was, for an hour or so and just eat the best breakfast in New York.

Fritz waited until I finished my juice before asking questions.

“Why are you so late, Archie?”

“It’s a long story, and I don’t know the end of it,” I told him. “We have a case, so that Mr. Wolfe can translate Montaigne into Persian.”

“Really? Would you like your omelet with speck or prosciutto?”

“Speck.”

Speck is a smoked prosciutto ham, which Fritz gets from a little town in the Italian Alps that he used to visit when he was a boy. It’s drier than fresh prosciutto but with more flavor. Fritz makes his omelets with speck and fresh-grated parmesan, and cooks them golden brown on the outside, and creamy and melting on the inside, accompanied by home fries and roasted tomatoes with bread crumbs, seasoned with fresh garlic, tarragon and chives. “A man who treats good food with less than the respect it deserves is less than a man,” Wolfe once told me when he thought I was eating too fast, and Fritz’s omelets deserve all the respect I can give them.

When I was finished, I took my coffee out into the office and switched on my computer. The Gazette’s home page popped up on the big 30-inch monitor I use. There was a lot of talk about Zauberberg’s impending testimony, but nothing hot. I had a half a mind to call Lon Cohen to ask him if he’d heard anything, but Russia wasn’t exactly Lon’s beat, and if I gave Lon any hint at all that Wolfe was working for Zauberberg I didn’t think I could quite trust him to keep it to himself.

I was about to head out to the kitchen to get another cup of coffee when I heard Wolfe’s elevator. It was almost eleven-thirty, so he’d been sleeping in too.

“Good morning, Archie,” he said, as he always does. “Did you sleep well?”

“Fine,” I said, wanting to ride him about last night, but not wanting to let him know that I’d been listening to his phone conversations. “Any orders?”

“No,” he said, removing the spray of Anacamptis lacteal from the day before and replacing it with a single Cypripedium reginae.

I waited to speak until he got himself settled in the one chair in the world that fits him and rang for beer. He knew I wanted answers and for once wasn’t going to be coy.

“Yes, Archie?”

I was about to say something—exactly what I’ve forgotten—when the “Breaking News” legend broke across the screen. “Top Russian Security Chiefs Killed in Accident”. Two pictures appeared, labeled Dimitry Voroshilov and Yury Sobchak. I stared for a moment as the crawl identified them as the chief and deputy chief of the Russian Federal Security Service, the successor to Putin’s old outfit, the KGB. I stared for a moment and then swung the monitor around so that he could see it.

“Do you know anything about this?” I demanded.

For once I saw him surprised.

“Good lord,” he said. “I thought to start a hare and instead dislodged an avalanche. This is extraordinary. Extraordinary.”

I was staring at the screen and noticed something.

“They’ve got the pictures wrong,” I said. “Dimitry’s the bald one.”

“No,” he said, “it was poor Miss Hopkins who was diddled. She was a pawn and is fortunate indeed that the fate Mr. Sobchak intended for her has been visited on him.”

“What? Sobchak was setting up his boss?”

“Precisely. During that SEC investigation that proved so profitable it was surmised but never publicly discussed that people linked with Sobchak were behind the mysterious bid for control of FacetoFace that Mr. Zauberberg alluded to, and that Voroshilov was the moving force behind its cancellation, though clearly Mr. Zauberberg had not himself learned of the matter. Mr. Putin has a history with both Voroshilov and Sobchak and seems to have placed them together as sort of a balancing act, favoring first the one and then the other. Mr. Sobchak apparently felt the humiliation dealt him by his superior keenly and contrived this extravagant stunt.”

Fritz arrived with Wolfe’s beer. I waited as he poured the glass and drank.

“Voroshilov was the hapless Mr. Jones. I have no doubt that Mr. Sobchak arranged for their tryst to be photographed. His original plan, I believe, was to lure Mr. Zauberberg into a meeting with Mlss Hopkins, after which she would die under mysterious circumstances. The photographs would surface. Mr. Zauberberg would be implicated, his creation defiled, and our entire political process brought into question.”

“Yeah, but suppose Zauberberg didn’t bite? Suppose he played it the way he played it.”

“Then Miss Hopkins would have been unleashed on the world. You can imagine what a stir she could generate. Both Zauberberg and Voroshilov would be exposed as fools and possible confederates. I suppose Sobchak imagined that his superior would be eased into retirement while he assumed command. I presume Mr. Zauberberg will be pleased with this outcome.”

“Which you didn’t expect.”

Wolfe raised his shoulders slightly and then lowered them.

“No, Archie, I did not. I informed certain people of Mr. Sobchak’s duplicity, with the intention of alerting Mr. Voroshilov to his subordinate’s intentions. I certainly did not intend for this information to reach Mr. Putin, but he obviously has resources that surpassed my expectations. Apparently, the machinations of both Voroshilov and Sobchak had exhausted his patience, and he resolved to make a clean sweep of the matter. Returning to Miss Hopkins, I believe these developments will make her more amenable to a private resolution of this affair. Most important of all, I am now free to concentrate on Montaigne.”

The look on his face when he had first seen the news about Dimitry and Yury was almost enough to convince me that he was on the level, that he hadn’t somehow planned the whole thing from the beginning, but I couldn’t let it go.

“So you had no idea it would go down like this?”

“Of course not, Archie. As Montaigne would have it ‘Que sçais-je?’ What do I know?”

Truffles To Die For
Miss Rowan is the sort of woman, who, if she wants to make an impression on a man, will find a way to do so. With a woman I am not so certain. But when it comes to a man, I have no doubt.

I had noticed that, when she first entered the dining room, she had her handbag with her. It is not unusual for a woman to do this, but in the many times Miss Rowan has dined with us, I do not believe she had done so on any previous occasion.

I cannot, of course, deny Miss Rowan her place at our table. That is Archie’s decision, and Mr. Wolfe’s. Mr. Wolfe understands Miss Rowan as clearly as I do—though I think at times, for Archie’s sake, he acts against his better judgment. We both understand that this is Archie’s affair—though I wish the word were not so appropriate—and we must abide by his decisions, which we do, though again I feel that sometimes Mr. Wolfe goes beyond what would be acceptable to Archie and, thus, beyond what is in fact desirable.

The occasion, to the extent that one involving Miss Rowan can be, was innocent. Mr. Wolfe had concluded a major case with his usual aplomb, the conclusion redounding very much to the advantage of the family of a close acquaintance of Miss Rowan’s father. Miss Rowan had played some small role in the matter, which she naturally chose to exaggerate, and in any event it was inevitable that she would join in the celebration of Mr. Wolfe’s latest triumph. It is rare for Mr. Wolfe to seek company, but when he is certain of being the center of attention and applause, his appetite for recognition, however restrained in manner, manifests itself with a sort of quiet fire that will not be denied.

On such occasions it is of course necessary for everything to be sans flaw, an urgency only intensified by Miss Rowan’s presence. Furthermore, the difficulty of the case caused Mr. Wolfe to simplify our menus, particularly for luncheons, to the extent that, I believe, he had lost as much as two pounds. So there was every reason to embrace a return to the grand meals, the main course in particular, Vol-au-Vis de Veau Toulousaine, what Americans, knowledgeable ones, at least, would call veal sweetbreads served in pastry shells with cream sauce, though to call vol-au-vis “pastry shells” is, one can only say, American.

I was just entering the dining room when Miss Rowan was retrieving her handbag.

“A wonderful meal as usual, Fritz,” she told me, touching my hand with hers in her most elegant manner.

I said nothing, but was instantly on my guard.

“The marrow was particularly splendid,” she continued. “I was so glad you chose to include it. I’m sure I’ve told you before that your marrow dishes are the best I’ve ever tasted! So beautiful, and so delicious!”

Her eyes sparkled as she said this. This is Miss Rowan’s way, though whether she was more delighted with my marrow or her own cunning, it is hard to say. A simple guest will simply praise the meal; a cultured one will praise the most famous dish, the gourmet’s choice. Miss Rowan, however, will praise the chef’s choice. Through her mysterious powers, she will infallibly choose the dish which the chef regards as his finest creation. A man can have no secrets from Miss Rowan.

“The Vol-au-Vis de Veau Toulousaine were of course superb as well,” she continued. “Superb! It is so hard to find truffles worthy of the dish, but of course you succeeded admirably. You know, my chef has a fellow in Paris, and another in Alba, who are able to give exceptional service in obtaining just the very best truffles you can imagine. Shall I have Robert give you a call and provide you with a few samples? I think Mr. Wolfe might enjoy them.”

She gave me a most charming smile, and I have no doubt that she spoke the absolute truth. The market for black truffles in France and white truffles in Italy are controlled with an iron hand; the very best never leave the continent. The finest black truffles are only to be had in Paris; the finest white, in Alba, Asti, and Rome. But Miss Rowan, I had no doubt, had broken through these defenses. It was impossible for me to say no.

“I’m sure Mr. Wolfe would appreciate it,” I said, hoping to convey, through the formality of my manner, that I was not speaking for myself.

“Then it’s settled,” she said. “I love this room!”

And so she departed. Considering the lateness of the hour, it was impossible for me to confer with Mr. Wolfe on this matter. In any event, we had hired three assistants for the occasion and it was imperative for me to supervise their cleanup. I did not retire until after two in the morning, though I was able to sleep until eight, for on such occasions Mr. Wolfe does not breakfast before nine.

I arrived in his bedroom the next day pushing an elaborate cart, virtually a kitchen on wheels, that allows me to deliver Mr. Wolfe all of his favorite breakfasts at the proper temperature, working from behind a screen so as not to disturb him. I brought him his tray and poured him a glass of his favorite juice, a mixture of orange and apricot, which he leavens with mineral water. All this is kept very cold. When he finishes his juice I pour him a cup of coffee, hot and very black. Only after he has had his coffee does Mr. Wolfe speak.

“Good morning, Fritz. I trust the kitchen has recovered from last night’s ordeal.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I was pleased.”

“Thank you very much, sir.”

For Mr. Wolfe to say he was “pleased” after such an occasion means that he was entirely satisfied. He has no higher praise.

“By the way,” he continued, “did Miss Rowan endeavor to engage you in conversation when she disappeared after the conclusion of our dinner?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Indeed. We will discus this at a more propitious time. I will not have that woman disturb my breakfast. Continue with my omelet.”

With that he switched on his computer, which Archie, who is of course so clever with these things, had designed for him. For as long as I have worked for Mr. Wolfe, he has been a great reader of newspapers, particularly while breakfasting, though he always complained of the manner in which the ink would rub off on his hands and the counterpane of his bed. Though he is properly suspicious of the modern “improvements” that so often detract from the dignity and due measure of life, he has learned to control the computer through the device that Archie devised, reading from a large screen that swings into position while he remains in bed. In this manner he peruses newspapers from half a dozen countries each morning.

While he read I prepared him a cheese omelet, served with Virginia Smithfield ham, roasted whole hominy, and roasted tomatoes. Mr. Wolfe, like any true gourmet, cherishes the odors of fine cooking. When he leaves for the plant rooms his bedroom is ventilated, so nothing lingers.

Once I served Mr. Wolfe his meal I departed to the kitchen to begin preparation for Archie’s breakfast, raised pancakes with corn meal, along with pork link sausages. I had beaten down the pancake batter earlier and was pleased to see that it had risen nicely. Archie arrived almost at ten. From his demeanor I could surmise that he had accompanied Miss Rowan to her penthouse, though of course I made no comment.

“Good morning, Archie,” I said. “Last night was quite an evening.”

“Good morning, Fritz. You outdid yourself. You know how Lily loves your marrow.”

“Miss Rowan is always so very kind.”

I am afraid that whatever I say about Miss Rowan amuses Archie, so I sought to change the subject.

“Would you like some juice?”

Archie nodded. He was already engrossed in his computer, watching some video about one of those sporting events in which he takes such interest. This is natural in a young man, but the videos he watches invariably feature announcers whose sole purpose, it seems, is talk as much and as loudly as possible.

“Too loud for you, Fritz?”

“Not at all, Archie.”

He laughed.

“I’ll use the earphones.”

“Thank you, Archie.”

I served Archie his pancakes with orange blossom honey warmed and mixed with orange juice, which both thins and flavors the honey. Archie ate with the wonderful enthusiasm of youth, which is always so charming to see. When he left for the office I immediately began preparing for lunch. Because of the lateness of the previous night, we were more than an hour behind schedule, and I had no time to waste. I was so busy that I did not even hear Mr. Wolfe’s elevator and had no notice of the time until almost noon, when Archie suddenly entered the kitchen.

“I’m going out, Fritz,” he told me, “so don’t forget to fasten the chain. But I’ll be back for lunch.”

“Of course, Archie.”

I followed Archie down the hallway and fastened the chain after he departed. As I was returning to the kitchen I heard Mr. Wolfe’s buzzer, so I entered his office.

“Do you wish me to bring you a beer, sir?” I asked.

“I do, Fritz, but afterwards I desire conversation on the matter of Miss Rowan.”

“Of course, sir.”

I returned to the kitchen to obtain Mr. Wolfe’s beer, looking forward to our impending conversation with both eagerness and, I confess, fear. I gathered from Mr. Wolfe’s manner that, even knowing as little as he did, he took Miss Rowan’s gambit with the very greatest suspicion.

I felt a special sense of obligation to Mr. Wolfe at this moment. I was first of all gratified that he did not ask me to sit. Although Archie is perfectly charming and admirable in every way, he is an American—that, of course, is in great measure the source of his charm—but, still, he is an American, and I feel a special freedom when he leaves the house, so that, when the occasion requires, Mr. Wolfe and I can speak as Europeans. And on this occasion, as no other, we did so.

I brought him his beer and watched as he filled the glass to a quarter inch of the rim and then drank a healthy swallow before putting the glass down with the slightest trace of a sigh.

“In times of stress,” he said, with suitable gravity, “it is imperative not to neglect the quotidian pleasures of life.”

“I agree entirely, sir.”

“Yes. But now I have no choice but to forsake my safe harbor and embark on uncharted seas. I sent Mr. Goodwin on an errand that will occupy him for at least an hour. What did Miss Rowan say to you?”

“After a few compliments, sir, she praised the quality of the truffles served with the Vol-au-Vis de Veau Toulousaine and then implied that her own chef, M. Letty, had privileged access to the most superior truffles in Europe, both black and white. She said that she would have him call me, but so far I have not heard from him.”

“You undoubtedly will,” said Mr. Wolfe. “Confound the woman!”

“Yes, sir.”

I could see one corner of Mr. Wolfe’s mouth twist a little. I could see how fiercely he felt himself gripped by Miss Rowan’s vise.

“The truffles,” he said, tightly, “will be of the very highest quality. The very highest. As a young man, Fritz, I spent two weeks in Asti, a September I shall never forget. Were it not for Mussolini, I should have remained there forever.”

“I know, sir. I spent six months working in the kitchen of the Hotel Alba, departing for similar reasons.”

“And so I shall experience bliss once more, but at a price. Leave me, Fritz. Say nothing to Archie, of course. Do not inform him, once the truffles arrive, that Miss Rowan is their source. She will almost surely release the feline from the sack at a time of her own choosing, but I can endure that. I wish to pursue this matter without arousing suspicion on his part for as long as I can.”

“Of course, sir. The prawns from Mr. Horowitz appear excellent.”

Mr. Wolfe nodded but did not speak, and I departed. Archie returned from his errand and I served the prawns, sautéed and accompanied by artichoke bottoms stuffed with tomato paste and roasted potatoes, along with a light salad, preceded by oxtail soup and followed by fruit and cheese. Mr. Wolfe did not appear preoccupied, which reassured me, while Archie continued in his brightest mood, which, I confess, caused me a slight irritation. It was not his fault, of course, but I could not help thinking that it would be some time in our little home before such ingenuous good humor would be justified.

M. Letty did not call until around 3:30, but when he did he assured me that I would receive a shipment of both black and white truffles on the following day sometime before luncheon. In fact, they arrived at 10:30 in the morning, and the mere aroma, through the sturdy packaging, was enough to evoke those remarkable six months, now so long ago, when I worked daily with the most beautiful truffles imaginable, happy hours and happy days disrupted so tragically by evil men. Those of us at the hotel, who wished for nothing more than to prepare fine food in peace and civility, were forced to endure the sight of terrible things, and even, on occasion, to do them, merely to live. I had escaped all that and found in Mr. Wolfe’s home not merely an island but a pinnacle of civility. And now, with these truffles—almost blessed, one might call them—there was no culinary masterpiece that I could not conjure. Yet over all this loomed the menacing shadow of Miss Rowan. There is, I suppose, no Eden without an apple, and without an Eve.

Once I unpacked the truffles Mr. Wolfe came almost immediately into the kitchen.

“My God,” he murmured, gently touching the magnificent fungi. “This means deviltry indeed. Well, I will consume the bait, and await the hook.”

Mr. Wolfe chose to consume the truffles largely himself, enjoying truffled egg dishes every morning, while enjoying them on the luncheon and dinner menus more frequently than usual, but not at every meal, so that it might appear he was simply celebrating the conclusion of the case, and, in this way, avoid arousing Archie’s curiosity, which is so easily aroused. I myself had resolved not to lie to Archie, or even labor to mislead him, if he asked me outright why our menus had grown so extravagant. Fortunately, he did not ask. There were several of those “pennant” races to which he attaches so much importance occurring at that time, and, taking advantage of the situation, he frequently disappeared during both the afternoon and the evening to attend these matches. Furthermore, on the weekend he decamped entirely for some sort of jaunt with Miss Rowan. All of this was most convenient for Mr. Wolfe’s purposes, for he spent a great deal of time on the computer while Archie was out, and also had a long visit from Mr. Parker on Saturday. That evening, after dinner, he summoned me to the office once more, and this time he did invite me to sit down.

“Sit there,” he said, pointing to the big red chair before his desk.

I sat, and watched as he poured me a small glass of cognac. Then he raised his own.

“To your health, Fritz,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “And to yours.”

We drank, and set our glasses down.

“I have found the hook,” he began. “I confess that Miss Rowan is never entirely out of my mind. It is in my interest to be aware of her activities, and for the past several months I had the very slightest suspicion of something amiss. You may have heard me remark to Archie that the most remarkable thing about Miss Rowan is that she is even more adept at making money than spending it. Her image in the popular press is that of a mere lady of fashion, who follows wherever fashion leads. Nothing could be further from the truth. Though she goes to great lengths to conceal it, she is an acute businesswoman whose endeavors are almost invariably crowned with success. You may recall the spate of stories last year crowning her as the city’s newest billionaire, as well as her affectedly modest disclaimers?”

“I do, sir.”

“Yes. In fact, she had become a billionaire several years before, but had managed to conceal that fact from the popular press, until recently.

“I however was aware, and I was thus struck when after years of constant activity and growth, there appeared to be a sudden stasis in her affairs. I surmised at the time that this merely indicated the application of another layer of deception, and now I find that I am correct. You are aware, Fritz, are you not, that the two most important words in New York City are ‘real estate’, and that the next two most important are ‘river view’?”

“I suppose, sir. I am a chef.”

“Yes, of course. I envy you, Fritz. You pursue perhaps the simplest yet the noblest of professions. I, however, concern myself with the grosser appetites. A scant two miles from this door the greatest orgy of glass and steel—glass and steel and greed—ever to raise its unholy head on this seething isle now proceeds apace. I refer to that grotesque conglomeration of ego and unwholesome profit known as the Hudson Yards. The extent of Miss Rowan’s fortune first became known when it was revealed that she was, in her own person, one of the principal minority investors in that vast undertaking.”

Mr. Wolfe paused, and finished his beer.

“She has been our guest on a number of occasions since the size of her investment first became known, but she always been singularly reluctant to discuss the project, despite its notoriety in the popular press. And, when I questioned her gently on the matter at our recent dinner, she lightly explained that she had significantly reduced the size of her investment, something I knew not to be true. She has, rather, significantly increased it, and intends to increase it still more.”

Mr. Wolfe paused once more, and dropped his voice, but only to speak with greater intensity.

“I have followed this matter very closely,” he said. “One of the principal investors has endured sudden and unsustainable losses in a number of its overseas investments. This of course has been denied as well—everything important is denied—but I know it to be true, and I also know that Miss Rowan is endeavoring to seize control of that investor, to join its share with hers, which would give her effective control of the entire enterprise!”

I could not follow Mr. Wolfe’s reasoning here, but his emotion was unmistakable.

“You find that threatening, sir?” I asked.

“I do indeed, Fritz, I do indeed. Pride of place in these undertaking is always given to the premier investor. To the victor belongs the prominence. What would you say if I told you, Fritz, that Miss Rowan is planning to erect, not more than ten blocks from this house, a hundred and twenty five-story aerie overlooking the Hudson River, surpassing all the other structures in the project, the top five floors to be devoted to a penthouse to be occupied by herself, commanding an unequalled 360-degree perspective of the entire city, a modern-day palace filled with every form of luxury and self-indulgence of which the modern mind has conceived?”

“I couldn’t imagine, sir,” I stammered.

“Well, I can,” Mr. Wolfe said, fiercely. “I can imagine Miss Rowan—that woman!—luring Archie to parties every weekend—the extraordinary convenience of it all, of course!—inviting every personage he might hope to meet. He would stay, at first, only on the weekends. But then, again, the convenience of it all! He would start keeping his clothes there, and then other possessions, and finally she would claim him whole, and we would be fortunate to enjoy his presence for the occasional lunch!”

Mr. Wolfe spoke with such a force of growing passion that I was speechless. I wanted to deny the picture he was painting, but it was all too convincing. I could manage nothing better than to express a helpless prayer.

“It can’t be true!” I cried.

“Well you may wish,” Mr. Wolfe said, with a nod. “Well you may wish. There are a thousand obstacles in her way—first to obtain control of the faltering principal investor and then to obtain the cooperation of all the others. Even as principal investor, of course, she will find it very difficult to construct a building that will be not simply first among equals but rather first without equal, but such is her intent. To obtain the necessary easements, permits, and acquiescences, both formal and informal, for such an undertaking is a Herculean task, and once word gets out, every other developer connected with the project—and every one not so connected—will be struggling to sabotage her efforts, to substitute their own. That is the main, but not the only, reason for her craft. For she fears me as well.”

Mr. Wolfe turned restlessly in his seat. I am not sure if I have ever seen him so distressed.

“Confound the woman!” he said again, in a fierce voice. He seemed about to say more but then lapsed into silence.

“Is there anything I can do, sir?” I finally asked, though I could not imagine how I could be of assistance.

“There is, Fritz, there is. A great deal. In fact, you will figure largely in my response to Miss Rowan’s intended coup.”

“I will do whatever I can.”

“I know that you will. Here is the matter, Fritz. Almost all that I have told you is conjecture—founded, I am sure, on truth, but depending largely on my intimate knowledge of Miss Rowan’s character and capabilities. To convince intellects less informed and acute than my own requires proofs of a more conventional nature. The problem is, if I seek to gather such proofs, Miss Rowan will quickly become aware of my activities, and will seek to thwart or override them. There must be no trace of my interest in these matters. Nor can I use the services of Mr. Parker or Mr. Panzer or anyone else known to be associated with me.”

“But if these people cannot make inquiries I do not see how I should be able to,” I said, confused.

“Of course, Fritz. You would not do so personally. There are in New York, people who will perform almost any task, in complete secrecy, if amply compensated for their efforts. This is particularly the case when real estate is involved. When Mr. Parker was here, I obtained from him a list of individuals, known to him by reputation only, who will form one of those silent corporations that so festoon our city, that will gather information on real estate transactions in this area. You will speak to one of these individuals. I have a list. Simply begin at the beginning. If you are refused, move to the next. You must go to one of those convenience stores—not in this neighborhood—and obtain a cheap phone.”

“But I have never been in a convenience store, sir. How shall I recognize one?”

Mr. Wolfe’s eyes flashed.

“Do not speak as a child, Fritz,” he snapped. “If you wish to serve Archie his breakfast every morning you must prove yourself capable of both extreme measures and extreme exertions!”

“Of course, sir. Of course! I was speaking foolishly. I am sorry.”

“Very well. I suggest you visit the area surrounding Madison Square Garden, particularly the area south of that arena. Proceed on foot. These stores advertise their wares. Buy half a dozen phones, from as many stores. I will give you the cash. When you call the people on this list you may find them reluctant to deal with you absent proof of your financial probity. I have established a discreet account containing $2.5 million under your name. You must first, however, pay these individuals a substantial sum in cash. Mr. Parker assures me that an advance of $25,000 will be sufficient. As you may know, a cash withdrawal of this amount is automatically reported to the government. To avoid such inconveniences, I have obtained from a certain source $50,000 in cash, which you will use to conduct your initial affairs. Once you have formed the requisite dummy corporation that will allow us to make the necessary inquiries anonymously, the financial arrangements can be established in a more conventional manner—though, once again, without revealing our identity.”

“I, I am speechless, Mr. Wolfe.”

“I understand, Fritz. Mr. Parker has compiled a detailed list of instructions for you to follow, and you must memorize them. I will be pleased to supplement them in private conservations whenever necessary. Once you are sufficiently familiar with the instructions you must go to William Cullen Bryant Park, behind the library. You will sit outside and make your calls. You must not take your instructions with you. After each call, you will disassemble the phone with which you made the call and dispose of it in a discreet manner. I will show you how to do this. Always sit at a different table and always discard each phone in a different place.”

“Sir,” I protested, “I do not see how I can possibly remember all this.”

“We will discuss these matters again, Fritz, once you have purchased the phones, and again, if you like, before you make your first calls. But we will only do this in person. Never call me, or anyone known to be associated with me, on any phone. Never give this address, under any circumstance. If it is asked, ignore the request. If the request is repeated, break off the conversation—discreetly, of course. Only on a few occasions will you be required to give your own name. I think this is enough for the time being. Since the weather is expected to be clement, I suggest you purchase the phones tomorrow.”

With that, Mr. Wolfe reached down behind his desk and handed me a plain, black attaché case.

“The money and the instructions are in this case,” he said.

“I shall do my best, Mr. Wolfe,” I said, grasping the handle with much trepidation.

“I have every confidence in you, Fritz.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He looked for a moment directly into his eyes, and then his focus darted away. I sensed that this discussion, charged as it was with such a vast urgency, and so unlike any conversation we had ever experienced in all my years of employment, had strained him almost as much as it had myself, and that now he wished to be alone.

I confess that I sought privacy as well, out of both confusion and fear. I seldom venture out in New York on foot, and certainly not in the vicinity of what Archie calls “the Garden.” I find that in times of stress the best solution is to embrace one’s duty. I took the case down to my room and secured it. Then I returned to the kitchen and deboned a lamb shoulder for Sunday dinner and tended to several other trifles that I had originally planned to do after preparing Mr. Wolfe’s breakfast. In that way I went to be late enough to fall asleep almost immediately, wakening in the morning with a sense of foreboding that persisted as I prepared Mr. Wolfe’s breakfast. He made no mention of our discussion the previous night, as though the matter were now entirely in my hands.

Once I returned to the kitchen and disposed of the dishes I descended the basement stairs to my room and opened the case that Mr. Wolfe had given me the night before. I took out a large folder thick with the pages of Mr. Parker’s instructions, which lay on top of neat packets of one-hundred-dollar bills, accompanied, as I was soon to discover, by several packets of twenty-dollar bills, which I discovered with some relief, for I did not look forward to paying for everything with crisp new bills of a high denomination, which must inevitably suggest illegal activity. I put eight twenty-dollar bills in my wallet and, with some hesitation, five one-hundred-dollar bills in my pocket. Thus equipped financially, I put on a jacket and a light overcoat, a hat, and a walking stick. It seemed wise to have something to hold onto.

I entered the kitchen and passed through it to exit by the rear door. Leaving the house and descending the steps to our small backyard made me uncommonly tense. There are few neighborhoods in New York more proper and peaceful than ours, I believe, but the drop off is sudden and steep. I had barely crossed half a dozen streets before I found myself headed down 8th Avenue, surrounded by one can only call the masses, called forth from, it would seem, virtually every country in the world, and speaking, and speaking very loudly, in every conceivable language, with the exceptions of English and French. At length I passed that ponderous leviathan of a building referred to as “the Garden”, surrounded by a furious, honking swirl of traffic. I observed an establishment of sorts offering cell phones for sale, and after a good deal of confusion, managed to purchase one. I continued for several blocks, buying a phone on each block, and then crossed the street and worked my way back up, until I had accumulated ten of the devices. Mr. Wolfe had suggested half a dozen, but I had no intention of making a second trip.

Archie returned from his weekend trip in time for dinner. To soothe myself I prepared a cream of sorrel soup, along with a large oyster soufflé to precede the lamb shoulder, served with roasted potatoes and asparagus, followed by a tarte tatin with French vanilla ice cream for dessert. When I prepared breakfast for Mr. Wolfe the next morning—his favorite 45-minute scrambled eggs with truffles—he said nothing other than the usual pleasantries, as was indeed his usual practice, though when I removed his tray he could not help but remark, “these truffles are almost unendurably fine.” I thought he might say more but he did not, so I simply continued with my duties.

I felt it was wrong to deny Archie the magnificent truffles that had come to us under such conflicted circumstances, particularly since I feared that he might ask about that wonderful odor that now pervaded my kitchen, so I prepared the same dish for him when he arrived, along with some lamb sausages that I had prepared from a portion of the shoulder the night before.

“Those are truffles you’re putting in the eggs, aren’t they?” he said suddenly.

“Yes, Archie, they are.”

“I can smell them from here.”

“These are very fine truffles, Archie,” I told him, studying the curds as I stirred them while summoning the courage to identify their source.

“Miss Rowan provided them,” I said. “That is to say, she enabled us to obtain them. Her chef appears to have some very special contacts in Europe.”

Archie appeared amused at this news.

“She’s up to something,” he told me. “She’s been in a very good mood, and she won’t tell me why.”

He then laughed in a manner that I did not entirely like, though at the same time I felt reassured. It was definitely better for the news about Mis Rowan’s involvement to come from me than Miss Rowan, and it was a relief to have the issue now settled and done with. In addition, his clear interest in pursuing Miss Rowan’s “secret” would lessen the chance of his stumbling across ours.

After breakfast I repaired again to my bedroom, opening up the set of instructions that Mr. Parker had prepared and reviewing them with great care. According to Mr. Parker’s instructions, there were fifteen steps that I must complete. Mr. Wolfe had insisted that I not take the instructions with me, so I simply wrote a list of numbers, from one to fifteen, on a pad of paper, so that I could check them off. At last I summoned up all my courage and prepared for my first visit to William Cullen Bryant Park. I exited from the rear of the house once more, and walked several blocks before hailing a passing cab. I rode to the park, which proved to be quite charming, almost European, and indeed many of the people seated in the park were clearly what Americans would consider to be “foreigners”. I seated myself at some distance from the library but facing it and, with immense trepidation, dialed the first number.

A voice answered on the first ring, flat and direct, not vulgar and not refined, with a trace of a Slavic accent. To my surprise, the conversation proceeded almost perfectly according to Mr. Parker’s instructions, almost as if the man were reading from a similar document. Despite occasional awkward moments, I was never asked a question I could not answer, and never asked a question I did not want to answer. The matter was brought to a head so briskly that I was almost afraid that something had been omitted, but as I surveyed the checklist before me I saw that we were done in less than half an hour. The first great hurdle had been completed. The second, and most awkward—the transfer of the attaché case containing $25,000 in cash—would occur that afternoon. I disassembled the phone according to Mr. Wolfe’s instructions and unobtrusively discarded it in a trash can that was half full. Then I returned to our brownstone, feeling both immense relief and continued agitation. Once again I sought to calm my fears by embracing routine, preparing a lunch of trout with truffle butter and beet and endive salad with walnuts and goat cheese. Later, as I served the meal, I was amazed at the ease with which Mr. Wolfe spoke with Archie, particularly when the subject of truffles came up, as it inevitably did, thanks to the menu. I cannot deny that Mr. Wolfe is an unusual gentleman, but that he is a gentleman of true distinction no one can deny, and he praised Miss Rowan’s gift with seemingly simple and genuine candor. I had almost thought not to prepare that dish, but the trout, so fresh and succulent, almost begged to be cooked, and to be served with the noblest of truffles for the pleasure of a gourmet of the distinction of Mr. Wolfe and for such a uniquely charming young man as Archie is surely the most glorious fate a trout could wish for.

Yet I confess that I shook a little once the meal was done and everything was cleared away, for now I had no choice but to venture forth with my weighty attaché case, a burden indeed for a man of my character. I made my way out of the alley and walked several blocks before taking a cab to my destination, the Pennsylvania Hotel, a large, hulking building swarming with people of the most casual attire and the most casual of manners, and forming a contrast with my own person so striking that I felt unnaturally conspicuous. But it was soon clear that in such a place no one pays the slightest concern for anyone else, and so I soon lost all fear of attracting attention. I made my way to an elevator and rode to the eighteenth floor and soon found the room number given me, 1823. I knocked and the door opened. My heart beat fiercely now, more fiercely than any time since my days as an apprentice at the Hotel Alba.

But again, it transpired that my fears were exaggerated. Two large men greeted me, with no pleasure but without intimidation. I handed them the attaché case and the smaller of the two immediately set to counting the money, without speaking a word. When he was finished he looked up at me.

“We’re good. Do you need the case back?”

Mr. Parker had advised to retain possession, since his secretary had purchased the case, so I answered in the affirmative.

“Call tomorrow,” he told me. I was almost sure that this was not the man I had spoken to on the phone.

“Yes, of course.”

And then we were done. I left with the now-empty case, swinging it a little as I walked. As I exited the building I stared at the busy street in wonder, suddenly conscious that I had absolutely no idea where I was, but I then realized almost immediately thereafter that my confusion was no matter, because the street before me was clogged with cabs. I took the first that presented itself and rode a few short blocks to 35th Street, where I exited so as to complete my journey on foot, once again marveling at how close Mr. Wolf’s brownstone is to New York’s restless masses, as full of energy as they are lacking in purpose, one must say. We are truly an island.

After I returned I felt compelled to take a shower, before beginning to prepare truffled stuffing for three glorious pheasants that Archie had bagged over the weekend—we never, so it would seem, would find ourselves free from Miss Rowan’s snares! They were excellent birds, and would only require a few more days before being sufficiently tender. The goose liver and pork kidney fat we had obtained from Rutherford’s was up to their usual high standards, almost matching the quality of the truffles. For dinner I planned a relatively simple though extravagant meal—fresh oysters with caviar, followed by tournedos Rossini, using the last of the foie gras that I prepared the week before, served with haricots verts and rice, with broiled grapefruit laced with dark rum and brown sugar for dessert.

The next morning, after breakfast, when Archie was conveniently out of the office, I made another call to the gentleman I had spoken to earlier. Once more, our conversation proceeded almost as though governed by clockwork. In less than half fifteen minutes, everything was settled. He informed me to call him in three days, also informing me that he would establish a postal box in the name of our newly formed corporation, for our mutual use, through which information, coded on those strange little objects that Mr. Wolfe wisely prefers to call “clés USB”, would be transferred. So now I had nothing more to do for the rest of the week but to adhere to our normal routine, which was a great relief to me.

That weekend, Archie again forsook us for Miss Rowan’s company, journeying with her to Boston to observe a “playoff” of some sort. Naturally, she possesses a pied-à-terre in that city as well. During the entire weekend, Mr. Wolfe made no mention of our secretive campaign. On Friday evening we hosted a gathering of Mr. Wolfe’s fellow Montenegrins, semi-annual events that I always find quite touching. It is a fine gesture on Mr. Wolfe’s part. The Montenegrins who attend these affairs are all of some educational attainment, and not mere provincials, but none can approach the haut ton, if I may use an expression that is, I fear, too good for the modern world, of Mr. Wolfe. He comports himself on these occasions with both a special openness and a special reserve that these good-natured people appreciate without understanding. For the dinner I returned to tournedos Rossini, relatively undemanding yet sure to both awe and delight an unsophisticated palate, preceded by caviar and other fine hors d’oeuvres and followed by the sort of “grand” ice cream desserts which I always find easier to purchase than to prepare.

On Monday I called my mysterious gentleman a third time and discovered that our corporation, “Mid-Town Investments”, was an established firm, and that, barring an emergency, no more phone calls were necessary. I spent the rest of the morning boning a capon for a galantine later in the week before preparing mushroom and truffle tartlets for lunch, to be followed by sautéed pork chops charcutiere, with fruit and cheese for dessert. I planned quail for the evening meal, which cook rapidly, giving me time for another of my sorties.

Again I departed from our brownstone by the rear door, walking several blocks before hailing a cab, heading, fortunately, away from Madison Square Garden, before alighting to take the subway, traveling almost a dozen stops to an entirely unfamiliar neighborhood, certainly less crowded than the neighborhood of Madison Square Garden, but scarcely more promising. I found the post office, a small, busy, unprepossessing affair, and then the post office box. A small manila envelope lay inside, containing the clés, which I retrieved.

For the next month I repeated this errand perhaps dozen times, transferring the clés back and forth. During that time, Mr. Wolfe gave no indication of either relief or frustration, and I dared not raise the issue on my own. I remember that it was on a rather chilly Saturday morning that I journeyed to the post office once more, Archie again being in Miss Rowan’s company. I retrieved the package as usual, but as I did so I saw reflected in the expansive glass window at the front of the building the figure of a man who, though wearing dark glasses, seemed to be staring at me intently even though standing before a display of mailing envelopes. I was instantly struck by the conviction that the man was watching me. I suspect that my reaction gave me away, though he remained impassive.

I exited quickly, deciding not to head directly for the subway, though doubting he would follow me. But follow me he did, and quite aggressively. I was suddenly seized with the fear that he would attack my person and snatch the envelope from me. I looked with desperate hope for the sight of a policeman who might aid me but could see no one, nor was there a convenient cab on the street. I observed a man walking perhaps a dozen paces ahead of me head up the stairway to an apartment building and open the door, using some sort of electronic code to enter. I quickly followed, before the door could close, and then pulled it firmly shut behind me. But as I did so I observed a young woman heading up the same stairs, and the gentleman with the sun glasses close behind her.

I entered the lobby of the building. There was a single elevator, with an indicator light displaying the number “7”. Immediately to my left was a doorway marked “Stairs”. I entered and again pulled the door shut behind me, hoping my entry would not be observed. I walked quickly up the first flight and was half-way up the second when I heard the door open on the ground floor, followed by the sound of someone ascending at a rapid pace, so I increased my own. On reaching the third floor I tried to open the door, discovering to my discomfort that it was locked. I had no choice but to keep ascending, briefly attempting the door on each new floor, but without success.

As I passed the seventh floor I could see a door labeled “Roof Access”. It seemed certain that this door would be locked as well, but this assumption proved to be incorrect, for the door opened easily and had no lock that I could discover. I ran out onto the roof, hoping to meet someone who could at least serve as a witness that would discourage an outright assault, but to my great disappointment I saw no one.

The roof was surrounded by a low wall, less than waist high, that ran around the entirety of the building. Near the far side of the roof stood a small shed. I ran towards it, hoping that it contained the entrance to a second staircase, though it had the look of a mere maintenance shed. Its door was locked. As I pulled on the door I heard the door which I had so recently exited open, followed, to my horror and amazement, by the unmistakable sound of a pistol shot!

I hurried to the opposite side of the shed, seeking at least shelter, finding a second door, that had no lock, but rather a simple hole where one might be installed. The frame of the door appeared to be crooked, but by pulling furiously I was able to open it, though the shed was so close to the edge of the roof that there was insufficient room to open it completely. Once inside I braced my foot against the side of door frame and pulled the door as tightly shut as I could. Almost as I did so I heard the heavy footsteps of my assailant. I then heard the sound first of heavy breathing and then a harsh voice.

“Come on out, pal, and you won’t get hurt. I just fired a round to let you know I mean business. But I don’t want a corpse. Hand over the envelope and you won’t have a problem.”

I doubted the veracity of that statement, and in any case I had no intention of surrendering the clés. I squatted and was able to look out through the hole in the door to observe the man, just in the act of placing a small revolver in his waistband. I don’t believe it occurred to him that I might be watching him.

“Come on out of there, pal,” he said once more. “You’re only making it tough on yourself.”

With that he grabbed the handle of the door and tried to pull it open. When it held fast he grabbed it with both hands and braced his left leg against the frame. I heard the grating of metal and suddenly launched my shoulder against the door, causing it to fly open. As it did so I crashed into my pursuer and sent him hurling backwards over the low wall and, had I not fallen on my knees, I might have followed him.

He fell headfirst for three floors, arcing towards the building. His forehead struck on the stone sill of a fifth-floor window with a hideous crunch, so that he completed his fall feet first, bouncing off an iron railing and collapsing on a concrete walkway. He died without a sound.

I realized that I had to get away from this scene as soon as possible. If I had been observed, I would have to deal with it as I could, but it was my hope to escape detection. I re-entered the building and descended the staircase without meeting anyone. The lobby was empty as well, but as I exited I passed a couple entering the building. They were engaged in an animated conversation, which encouraged me to believe that they would not remember me. It was only two blocks to the subway. I entered and took a train headed in the direction opposite to the one I wished, riding for five stops before getting off and transferring to another train, ending at length at a station known as “Brighton Beach”, which, as it turns out, actually is a beach. I walked along the boardwalk for half an hour, wishing that I could call Mr. Wolfe, but I understood that he felt it was most imperative that there be no phone conversations originating or terminating at our address.

When I felt that my heartbeat had returned to something like normal, I returned to the subway and took a train headed back to the city. I arrived at length at Times Square, where it would be almost impossible for a person of any description to attract attention. Eventually, I was able to find a cab and rode to within several blocks of our brownstone before completing my journey on foot. I entered by the rear, of course, and discovered poor Mr. Wolfe, who had had no proper lunch, sitting in the kitchen by himself, with a half loaf of bread and a similarly diminished wheel of cheese before him.

“You have had difficulties, Fritz?” Mr. Wolfe asked, for of course he knew that nothing ordinary could have prevented my prompt return from my errand.

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Wolfe. I am afraid a man is dead.”

“Sit,” he said to me, firmly, indicating the chair beside him. “You must eat. Would you like something to drink?”

“A glass of mineral water, if that would be possible.”

“Of course, Fritz. Of course.”

I should not have allowed Mr. Wolfe to serve me, but I am afraid that once I had sat on my familiar stool I found I could not rise again. There is nothing so shocking as the brute finality of a violent death, and I had happily forgotten its power for a very long time.

He handed me the glass and I drank.

“Eat, Fritz!” He commanded. “But you must have more. I shall prepare you a plain omelet, accompanied by a slice of ham from last night’s dinner.”

“You are too kind, Mr. Wolfe.”

“Nonsense. Not another word until you have eaten.”

As both Mr. Wolfe and I know, there is no restorative comparable to a well-cooked meal. When I had finished the fine omelet he had prepared, I gave him a full description of the grim proceedings of the previous five hours.

“We must devise another plan,” Mr. Wolfe said, once I had completed my account. “There is still much to be done.”

The plan Mr. Wolfe devised proved to be time-consuming though effective. Instead of passing information using a clés, we transmitted the information through disposable phones. To discourage detection, I was forced to ride the subway for fully an hour at a time, due to the length of the “files” and the limited power of the phones. For the next week, I, and I am sure, Mr. Wolfe as well, were fearful that our plans had been discovered, in some manner and to some extent, but Mr. Wolfe said nothing, and the regularity of our transmissions gave me confidence that Mr. Wolfe felt our secret had been maintained.

Fully another month passed after that terrible incident. Mr. Wolfe had taken another case, and Archie was frequently out of the office. Yet Mr. Wolfe never took the occasion to utter the slightest remark to me regarding Miss Rowan. Mr. Wolfe had cautioned me not to make any effort to search for information about the Hudson “Yards” on the Internet, so that I was confined to ignorance, despite the constant reminder of Miss Rowan’s dark intentions, in the form of the most wonderful truffles a chef could imagine.

Thus it was a complete surprise to me one morning when, while preparing Mr. Wolfe’s breakfast I heard him give a sudden snort of surprise.

“Do you desire my assistance, Mr. Wolfe?” I asked, from behind the screen.

“No,” he said, sharply. “Please continue with my omelet.”

I did so, and when it was ready I scooped it onto its plate, accompanied by venison sausages with truffles and popovers. I brought Mr. Wolfe’s tray and placed it before him.

“Very good, Fritz,” he said. There was something in his manner that convinced me he was in good spirits, but no man should be interrupted while eating his breakfast. It is, in a way, perhaps, a sacred meal.

After I served Mr. Wolfe I returned to my station behind the screen to prepare the breakfast cart for its return to the kitchen, as well as to attend to Mr. Wolfe’s request for another cup of coffee when he should require it, for he will always ring when his cup is perhaps one quarter full, to allow me to brew a fresh cup. When he did ring I prepared the fresh cup and brought it to him. As I did so he suddenly swung the computer screen around.

“Look at your handiwork!” he commanded, pointing to the screen, which displayed the facsimile of the page of a newspaper, his finger indicating a small article headlined “Hudson condominium announces restructuring”. I tried to read the article, but the prose was clotted with strange terms, surely the “language” of the commercial world, of which I knew nothing. I did not want to struggle with the meaning, for I knew the remainder of Mr. Wolfe’s omelet was getting cold.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.”

Before replying, I was gratified to see that Mr. Wolfe took a healthy bite of omelet and venison sausage, which he chewed carefully, as is always his practice, followed by a swallow of coffee.

“A fine omelet, as always, Fritz,” he said, “and the venison as well. I’m not surprised that you find the article uninformative. It is designed to be so. But to the knowledgeable it speaks volumes. The information obtained by Mid-Town Investments was dispensed, I am pleased to say, with both the anonymity and effectiveness of an underwater mine. Miss Rowan’s plans were revealed to those most likely to resent them. This ‘restructuring’ assures adequate funding for the organizations she targeted, denying her the controlling interest she pursued. The squabble for precedence will now proceed in the open. These infantile titans inevitably take a greater pleasure in thwarting the dreams of others than fulfilling their own. Miss Rowan will have a building, eventually, I am sure, but not the one of her original expectations. And it will not materialize for, I would say, at least five years.”

“That is so excellent, Mr. Wolfe!” I could not keep myself from exclaiming. “Magnifique!”

Mr. Wolfe appeared indeed pleased. He took another bite of omelet and sausage and chewed happily.

“Most satisfactory,” he said. “Your doing, Fritz.”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Yes, it was. You were the vital link, the only one I could turn to, and you performed admirably. Now you must name your reward.”

“Sir, to have Mr. Goodwin with us is all the reward I require.”

“Well said, Fritz, well said. I believe I will have another popover, with the blackberry jam this time, and the lemon curd as well. And perhaps another sausage.”

“Of course, sir.”