The Missing Chapter

“I sense that I am not going to be offered an alternative.” Wolfe leaned back with his eyes closed as I gave him the conversation verbatim, ending with Ott’s comment about me being urbane. “Indeed?” he said, raising his eyebrows and coming forward in his chair. “My dictionary defines urbane as, among other things, ‘evincing the suavity and polish characteristic of social life in large cities.’ That same definition also includes the words ‘courteous’ and ‘polite.’ Mr. Ott must have been distracted during your visit.”

“I guess that’s sarcasm, huh? Well, you know Lily Rowan, and you’ve even admitted that you approve of her, which makes her a rarity among human females. Ask her about my suavity and polish and see what, she says. Any other reflections?”

He sniffed. “We are having roast quail for dinner.” Then he picked up his book. He wasn’t just changing the subject to get me off his back, although that was part of it. He also was aware that, since it was Thursday, which means the weekly poker game at Saul Panzer’s, I wouldn’t be eating dinner in the brownstone. And he was rubbing it in because he knows very well that roast quail ranks near the top on my list of entrées.

I did not by any means spend the evening moping, however — far from it. First, Saul dished up a mulligan stew Fritz would have been proud to serve. And second, through a combination of reasonably good play and incredibly good luck, I lightened the wallets of all five of my comrades-in-cards.

The next morning, I settled in at my desk in the office after breakfast and put in a call to Charles Childress’s former editor, Keith Billings, at his current publishing house. I got his “voice mail,” which ranks with wristwatch buzzers and beepers as elements guaranteed to bring the ultimate collapse of western civilization as we know it. I left a message and was at the personal computer entering Wolfe’s dictation from the previous day when the doorbell chirped at ten-seventeen. Fritz was out gathering provisions, so I did the honors.

As seen through the one-way glass, he was a specimen worth marveling at — for a moment, at least. His vested suit was pearl gray, with pinstripes, and it fit like it had been woven on him as he stood. His tie was a darker shade of gray, with thin yellow stripes spaced discreetly. He looked to be somewhere between forty-five and fifty-five; an angular face tapered from wide cheekbones to a pointed chin. Above his mouth was a well-tended little mustache that a British colonel would be proud to have nurtured. And atop his noggin, cocked at precisely the right angle, sat a bowler, which — you guessed it — also was gray. And damned if he didn’t carry a walking stick. The only thing missing was spats.

As I swung the door open, I half-expected an English accent. I got New England instead. “Is Mr. Wolfe in?” our dapper visitor demanded in a clipped tone.

“Affirmative, although he’s not available at the moment. Is he expecting you?” I asked, knowing that Wolfe wasn’t expecting anyone.

“No, but I believe he wishes to see me. My name is Wilbur Hobbs.” His pronunciation left no doubt that I was expected to kneel and kiss the green jade ring on his left pinkie. “And you, I presume, are Mr. Goodwin.”

“Correct. Nero Wolfe is occupied until eleven. Would you care to come in and wait?”

“I would indeed,” Hobbs answered, unsmiling. He stepped into the hall, placed his bowler on one of the wooden pegs after checking with an index finger to see if it was dusty, and carefully leaned his stick against the wall.

“You can wait in the front room — there are magazines — or you can come to the office, although I’m afraid I won’t be terribly good company,” I told him. “I’m in the middle of a project that may take the next hour or more.”

“I prefer the office,” Hobbs said haughtily. “Your friend and my colleague, Mr. Cohen, has led me to believe that Mr. Wolfe has a superb library, one of the finest private collections in New York City. I should like very much to browse it. With your permission, needless to say.”

“Of course. Please come this way.” I led Hobbs to the office and pointed him at the red leather chair while I went back to the letter I had almost finished. Within thirty seconds, he was up and over at the bookcases, making clucking sounds. My plan when I let Hobbs in had been to spring him on Wolfe when His Hugeness came down from the plant rooms, but as I typed, I revised the program. I have seen Wolfe march out of the office a few times when I’ve surprised him, and I didn’t want to mess things up.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I told the critic. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Nothing, thank you.” He didn’t bother to turn from the bookshelves where his aristocratic nose was deep in a volume.