The Doorbell Rang (The Rex Stout Library)

DAVID ALTHAUS Morris's father, around 60, was a partner in Althaus and Greif, makers of the Peggy Pilgrim line of dresses and suits (see your local newspaper). David had resented it that Morris, his only child, had given Peggy Pilgrim the go-by, and they hadn't been close in recent years.

IVANA (Mrs David) ALTHAUS had not seen a reporter, and would not. She was still, seven weeks after her son's death, seeing no one but a few close friends.

MARIAN HINCKLEY, 24, had been on the research staff at Tick-Tock for about two years. There were pictures of her in the file, and they made it easy to understand why Althaus had decided to concentrate on her. She had also refused to talk to reporters, but a newshen from the Post had finally got enough out of her for a spread, making some fur fly at the Gazette. It had made one Gazette female so sore that she worked up the theory that Marian Hinckley had shot Althaus with his own gun because he was cheating on her, but it had petered out.

TIMOTHY QUAYLE, around 40, was a senior editor at Tick-Tock. I include him because he had got rough and tangled with a journalist from the Daily News who tried to corner Marian Hinckley in the lobby of the Tick-Tock building. A man that gallant deserves a look.

VINCENT YARMACK, around 50, was another senior editor at Tick-Tock. I include him because the piece by Althaus about the FBI had been his project.

It didn't look very promising for an approach. I considered the stage personality, but her whirl with Althaus had ended more than a year ago, and besides, a couple of previous experiences had taught me that actresses are better from the fifth or sixth row. The two editors would hang up. Father probably had nothing. Marian Hinckley would stiff-neck me. The best bet was mother, and it was her number I looked up and went to the booth to dial.

First, of course, to get her to the phone. To the female who answered I gave no name; I merely told her, in an official tone, to tell Mrs Althaus that I was talking from a booth and an FBI man was with me and I must speak to her. It worked. In a couple of minutes another voice came.

"Who is this? An FBI man?"

"Mrs Althaus?"

"Yes."

"My name is Archie Goodwin. I'm not an FBI man. I work for Nero Wolfe, the private investigator. The FBI man is not here in the booth with me; he is with me because he is following me. Tailing me. He will follow me to your address, but that doesn't matter to me if it doesn't to you. I must see you-now, if possible. It will-"