Not Quite Dead Enough

Chapter 3

That was the worst shock I ever got in my life, bar none.

I let myself in with my key, which was still on my ring, dropped my bags in the hall, entered the office, and didn’t believe my eyes. Stacks of unopened mail were on Wolfe’s desk. I walked over to it and saw that it hadn’t been dusted for ten years, and neither had mine. I turned around to face the door and felt myself swallowing. Either Wolfe or Fritz was dead, the only question was which. Next thing I knew I was in the kitchen, and what I saw there convinced me that they both were dead. They must be. The rows of pots and pans were dusty too, and the spice jars.

I swallowed again. I opened a cupboard door and saw not a damn thing but a dish of oranges and six cartons of prunes. I opened the refrigerator, and that finished it. There was nothing there but four heads of lettuce, four tomatoes, and a dish of applesauce. I dashed out and made for the stairs.

One flight up, both Wolfe’s room and the spare were uninhabited, but the furniture looked normal. Same for the two rooms on the floor above, one of which was mine. I kept going, on up to the plant rooms. In the four growing-rooms there was nothing under the glass but orchids, hundreds of them in bloom, but in the potting-room I finally found a sign of human life, namely a man. It was Theodore Horstmann, on a stool at the bench, making entries in a propagation record book which I had formerly kept.

I demanded, “Where’s Wolfe? Where’s Fritz? What the hell’s going on here?”

Theodore finished a word, blotted it, turned on the stool, and squeaked at me:

“Why, hello, Archie. They’re out exercising. Only they call it training. They’re out training.”

“Are they well? Alive?”

“Of course they’re alive. They’re training.”

“Training what?”

“Training each other. Or perhaps more accurately, training themselves. They’re going into the Army, to fight. I am going to stay here as caretaker. Mr. Wolfe was going to dispose of the plants, but I persuaded him to leave them with me. Mr. Wolfe doesn’t work with the plants any more; he only comes up here to sweat. He has to sweat all he can in order to reduce his weight, and then he has to get hardened up, so he and Fritz go over by the river and walk fast. Next week they’re going to start to run. He is dieting and he has stopped drinking beer. Last week he caught cold but he’s over it now. He won’t buy any bread or cream or butter or sugar or lots of things and I have to buy my own meat.”

“Where do they train?”

“Over by the river. Mr. Wolfe obtained permission from the authorities to train on a pier because the boys on the street ridiculed him. From seven to nine in the morning and four to six in the afternoon. Mr. Wolfe is very persistent. He spends the rest of the time up here sweating. He doesn’t talk much, but I heard him telling Fritz that if two million Americans will kill ten Germans apiece—”

I had had enough of Theodore’s squeak. I left him, went back down to the office, got a cloth and dusted my desk and chair, sat down and elevated my dogs, and scowled at the stacks of mail on Wolfe’s desk.

Good God, I thought, what a homecoming this turned out to be. I might have known something like this would happen if I left him to manage himself. It is not only bad, it may be hopeless. The fathead. The big fat goop. And I told that general I know how to handle him. Now what am I going to do?

At 5:50 I heard the front door open and close, and footsteps in the hall, and there was Nero Wolfe looking in at me from the threshold with Fritz back of him.

“What are you doing here?” he boomed.

I’ll never forget that sight as long as I live. I was speechless. He didn’t exactly look smaller, he merely looked deflated. The pants were his own, an old pair of blue serge. The shoes were strangers, rough army style. The sweater was mine, a heavy maroon number that I had bought once for a camping trip, and in spite of his reduction of circumference it was stretched so tight that his yellow shirt showed through the holes.

I found my tongue to say, “Come in! Come on in!”

“I’ve given up the office for the time being,” he said, and he and Fritz both turned and headed for the kitchen.

I sat there awhile, screwing up my lips and scowling, hearing noises they were making, and finally got up and moseyed out to join them. Apparently Wolfe had given up the dining-room too, for he and Fritz were both seated at the little table by the window eating prunes, with a bowl of lettuce and tomatoes, no dressing in sight, waiting for them. I propped myself against the long table, looking down at them, and managed a grin.

“Trying an experiment?” I asked pleasantly.

With his spoon Wolfe conveyed a prune seed from his mouth to the dish. He was looking at me and pretending not to. “How long,” he demanded, “have you been a major?”

“Three days.” I couldn’t help staring at him. It was unbelievable. “They promoted me on account of my table manners. Theodore tells me you are going to join the Army. May I ask in what capacity?”

Wolfe had another prune in his mouth. When he got rid of the seed he said, “Soldier.”

“You mean forward march and bang? Parachute troops? Commandos? Driving a jeep maybe—”

“That will do, Archie.” His tone was sharp and his glance was too. He put down his spoon. “I am going to kill some Germans. I didn’t kill enough in 1918. Whatever your reason for coming here — I presume it is your furlough before going overseas — I am sorry you came. I am quite aware of the physical difficulties that confront me, and I will tolerate no remarks from you. I am more keenly aware of them than you are. I am sorry you came, because I am undertaking a complicated adjustment in my habits, and your presence will make it more burdensome. I congratulate you on your promotion. If you are staying for dinner—”

“No, thank you,” I said politely. “I’ve got a date for dinner. But I’ll sleep here in my bed if you don’t mind. I’ll try not to annoy you—”

“Fritz and I go to bed at nine sharp.”

“Okay. I’ll take my shoes off downstairs. Much obliged for the fatted calf. I apologize for dusting off my desk and chair, but I was afraid I’d get my uniform dirty. My furlough is two weeks.”

“I hope, Archie, you will understand—”

I didn’t wait to hear it. If I had stayed there a second longer I would simply have had to cut loose.