The Doorbell Rang (The Rex Stout Library)

Going to the kitchen before going up to bed, around midnight, to check that Fritz had bolted the back door, I was pleased to see that batter for sour-milk buckwheat cakes was there in a bowl on the range. In that situation nice crisp toast or flaky croissants would have been inadequate. So when I descended the two flights a little after nine o'clock Wednesday morning I knew I would be properly fueled. As I entered the kitchen Fritz turned up the flame under the griddle, and I told him good morning and got my orange juice from the refrigerator. Wolfe, who breakfasts in his room from a tray taken up by Fritz, had gone up to the plant rooms on the roof for his two morning hours with the orchids; I had heard the elevator as usual. As I went to the little table by the wall where I eat breakfast I asked Fritz if there was anything stirring.

"Yes," he said, "and you are to tell me what it is."

"Oh, didn't he tell you?"

"No. He said only that the doors are to be bolted and the windows locked at all times, that I am to be-what does 'circumspect' mean?"

"It means watch your step. Say nothing to anyone on the phone that you wouldn't want to see in the paper. When you go out, do nothing that you wouldn't want to see on TV. For instance, girl friends. Stay away. Swear off. Suspect all strangers."

Fritz wouldn't, and didn't, talk while cakes were getting to just the right shade of brown. When they were before me, the first two, and the sausage, and were being buttered, he said, "I want to know, Archie, and I have a right to know. He said you would explain. Bien. I demand it."

I picked up the fork. "You know what the FBI is."

"But certainly. Mr Hoover."

"That's what he thinks. On behalf of a client we're going to push his nose in. Just a routine chore, but he's touchy and will try to stop us. So futile." I put a bite of cake where it belonged.

"But he-he's a great man. Yes?"

"Sure. But I suppose you've seen pictures of him."

"Yes."

"What do you think of his nose?"

"Not good. Not exactly epate, but broad. Not bien fait."

"Then it should be pushed." I forked sausage.