Champagne for One

I do not pretend to understand Fritz’s attitude towards murder. He deplores it. To him the idea of one human being killing another is insupportable; he has told me so, and he meant it. But he never has the slightest interest in the details, not even who the victim was, or the murderer, and if I try to tell him about any of the fine points it just bores him. Beyond the bare fact that again a human being has done something insupportable, the only question he wants answered is whether we have a client.

"No client," I told him.

"There may be one, if you were there. Have you had nothing to eat?"

"No. Three hours ago they offered to get me a sandwich at the District Attorney’s office, but my stomach said no. It preferred to wait for something that would stay down." He handed me a glass of orange juice. "Many, many thanks. That sausage smells marvellous."

He didn’t like to talk or listen when he was actually cooking, even something as simple as broiling sausage, so I picked up the Times, there on my table as usual, and gave it a look. A murder has to be more than run-of-the-mill to make the front page of the Times, but this one certainly qualified, having occurred at the famous unmarried-mothers party at the home of Mrs Robert Robilotti, and it was there, with a three-column lead on the bottom half of the page, carried over to page 23. But the account didn’t amount to much, since it had happened so late, and there were no pictures, not even of me. That settled, I propped the paper on the reading rack and tackled a sausage and griddle cake.

I was arranging two poached eggs on the fourth cake when the house phone buzzed, and I reached for it and said good morning and had Wolfe’s voice.

"So you’re here. When did you get home?"

"Half an hour ago. I’m eating breakfast. I suppose it was on the seven-thirty newscast."

"Yes. I just heard it. As you know, I dislike the word ‘newscast’. Must you use it?"

"Correction. Make it the seven-thirty radio news broadcast. I don’t feel like arguing, and my cake is getting cold."

"You will come up when you have finished."

I said I would. When I had cradled the phone Fritz asked if he was in humour, and I said I didn’t know and didn’t give a damn. I was still sore at myself.