The Last Coincidence

Eight

Mr. Ramirez pulled up in front of the brownstone at ten-fifty-nine, which meant that by the time I’d paid, tipped him, and got Fritz to unbolt the front door, Wolfe already had arranged himself behind his desk and started attacking the morning mail. So much for my being on hand to greet him.

“Good morning, did you sleep well?” I asked with a smile, stealing his own opening line as I sauntered into the office.

Wolfe scowled his opinion of my attempt at humor and then gave me an expression that a six-year-old could have interpreted as: Where the hell have you been?

“Maybe you’ve been wondering where I’ve been,” I said conversationally as I dropped into my desk chair. “On the other hand, maybe you haven’t.”

“Archie,” he said, allowing himself a protracted sigh that probably reached Fritz’s ears in the kitchen, “I could of course feign total uninterest regarding your ambulations, but you would no doubt counter with one of your puerile devices to distract or otherwise bedevil me. The result would be to increase the tension in this environment, which is hardly conducive to proper digestion. Am I correct in stating that your foreday activities centered on Miss Rowan’s family?”

“You are.”

“All right, confound it, report!” he grumbled, indulging himself in another sigh.

“Yes, sir,” I said, making sure to keep my face straight. I then proceeded to give him a verbatim of the events at both Lily’s and Megan’s apartments. Wolfe listened with eyes closed and fingers laced over his center mound, except when he surfaced to drink beer poured from the first of two bottles Fritz had delivered. He asked no questions, which is out of character, but he made a face several times — which is in character — and managed a full-scale grimace right at the end of my narrative, when I got to the part about Noreen wanting to hire him.

“Bah, refer her to the police. They have the resources to establish her brother’s innocence or guilt far more readily than I.”

“Hell, the cops already are convinced the brother did it. Besides, that’s the easy way out for them — a confession dropped into their laps. No, sir. She wants you. And she says she is willing to pay.”

“I am not interested.” He reached for his book.

“I can suggest two reasons why you should be,” I told him. “One, Lily Rowan; and two, our bank balance. I realize that the latter is in moderately robust health at this moment, but we both know only too well how fast that can change. For one thing, the Mercedes is due for a major tune-up. For another, the heating-and-air-conditioning man is coming next week, and chances are the old furnace is ready for the scrap heap. Remember, you’re the one who complained so much last winter about drafts. For yet another, the outside trim has got to be painted and—”

“Archie, shut up!”

“Then there’s Lily Rowan, who admires you unabashedly and for whom you also have expressed admiration. This is her niece we’re talking about, a young woman ill-used by someone she thought was a friend.”

“You have only her word for that,” Wolfe remarked, setting his book down deliberately and glaring at me.

“That’s true, and now with Linville dead, that’s all I’ll ever have. But as you have said many times, I am an astute judge of women,” I told him, warming to the realization that now I at least had his attention. “And from what little I’ve seen of Noreen James so far, as well as what Lily has told me, I would be inclined to wager my next paycheck that the young lady had a bad experience, probably a very bad experience, with the late Mr. L.”

Wolfe scowled, drained the beer from his glass, and scowled again, opening his center desk drawer and peering in. He was counting bottle caps, a ritual that allows him to monitor his beer consumption. “All right, I will see Miss James. What is her emotional state?” This question is not surprising from a man who has been known to flee from a room at the first hint of tears or other signs of what he perceives — rightly or otherwise — to be female hysteria.

“Unhappy, but plenty stable,” I responded. “In many ways, she reminds me of Lily. She has that same blend of warmth, toughness, temper, and brains. And who knows — maybe like her aunt, she will find you charming.”

That remark got ignored, as I had expected it would. Wolfe leaned back, eyes closed and hands cupping the arms of his chair. While a visitor might surmise that he was weighing the pros and cons of the prospective case, I knew he was contemplating lunch, because the wonderful aroma of Fritz’s spareribs, served with a special sauce he and Wolfe concocted several years back, had begun to permeate the office. I’ll confess that I was thinking about lunch myself.

“At the risk of breaking into what might well be a creative reverie, when can you see Noreen?” I asked. “What about this afternoon? Say, three o’clock?”

Wolfe sniffed. “ ‘Creative reverie’ is an oxymoron. I do not indulge in reverie.”

But I hadn’t spent more than half my life with Wolfe’s dictionary for nothing. “Enough with the obfuscation,” I told him. “If you don’t like three, pick another number. I got the distinct impression Noreen could come at any time convenient to you.”

That threw him off, as I had hoped it would. He knows my vocabulary has increased, albeit slowly, through the years, but he’s never quite prepared to hear words such as “obfuscation” coming out of my mouth. Maybe he thinks that he’s the only one in the brownstone who reads Safire’s column in the Times Sunday magazine.

“Miss James may come at three,” he decreed. “My agreeing to see her, however, does not constitute a contract, and she should be fully cognizant of that.”

“I believe she already is well aware of your methods of operation. In fact, I have it on good authority that to ingratiate herself, she is bringing gifts to you, including a new illustrated guide to orchid growing, two cases of Remmers beer, and a collection of London Times crossword puzzles. I of course told her that you couldn’t be bought by such transparent ploys, but she...”

I stopped talking, because I lost my audience. Wolfe had risen and was headed out the office door, his destination being the dining room, where a plate of spareribs awaited him — and me.