Seven

When I got back to the brownstone, it was eight minutes after six, which meant Wolfe was down from the plant rooms. I was not surprised to find him seated behind his desk with beer and book.

“Home is the hunter, home from the sea,” I said as I dropped into my desk chair.

He set the book down and sighed — not softly. “Archie, if you must quote Stevenson, make at least a minimal effort to get it correct: It is ‘Home is the sailor, home from the sea, and the hunter, home from the hill.’“

“I’ll work on it, thanks. Ready for a report on my meeting with Mr. Ott?”

“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.

When I went to the kitchen, I came upon Fritz frowning and shaking his head over a pot on the stove. “I know that whatever you have in there will turn out all right,” I assured him. “It always does. I have to run up and talk to Mr. Wolfe. There is a man in the office, waiting to see him. He’s probably harmless, but I don’t want him dashing out the front door with a first edition tucked under his well-tailored arm. Keep an eye on him through the peephole. If he starts to leave, buzz the plant rooms.”

Fritz, who knows how to throw a punch when he has to, nodded solemnly, marching to an alcove in the hall and silently sliding back a panel that reveals a seven-by-twelve-inch hole. On the office side of the one-way opening is a picture of a waterfall, custom-designed to allow a viewer in the alcove both to see and hear what’s going on in the office.

I left Fritz to his surveillance and took the stairs by twos. As often as I’ve been up in the glassed-in rooms that occupy the fourth floor of the brownstone, I’m still awed each time I get hit by the colors of those ten thousand orchids that Wolfe unblushingly refers to as his concubines. I walked down the aisles through the cool, medium, and warm rooms, and stepped into the potting room, where both Theodore and Wolfe greeted me with cold stares. Wolfe, a sight to behold in his yellow smock, was sitting on a stool and contemplating a plant on the bench. “Yes?” he said sharply. He doesn’t like to be disturbed during his playtime.

“We have a guest, name of Wilbur Hobbs. He came to the door a few minutes ago, and I put him in the office. Fritz is keeping watch.”

He scowled, said something like “Grrr,” and pressed his lips together. “Very well. At eleven.” He turned back to the orchid.

There were two reasons Wolfe wanted me out of the plant rooms. First, as I mentioned above, he hates interruptions. Second, the longer Fritz stood in the hallway peering through the waterfall picture into the office, the more the preparations for lunch might be delayed.

When I got back to the first floor, Fritz nodded and silently slid the panel shut. “He has been looking at books the whole time, Archie,” he whispered, although with the thickness of the office door, whispering wasn’t necessary. I thanked him and marched in.

“Hi, sorry to desert you,” I said to Hobbs. He was standing at the shelves with a book lying open in his hand, the one without the jade pinkie ring. “Are you keeping occupied?”

“Indeed. An intriguing collection.”

“So I’ve remarked many times. To repeat my earlier offer, can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Beer? Bottled water?”

He swiveled from the waist up, compressing his lips, which apparently was his idea of a benign smile. “Again, thank you, no,” he told me, returning to the book. I fiddled with the bank balance and performed a few other bookkeeping chores until I heard the whine of the elevator precisely at eleven. I felt like a boxing fan who’d just sat through the undercard at the old St. Nicholas Arena and was about to view the main event.

Wolfe stepped into the room, halted when he saw Hobbs at his bookshelves, and dipped his chin the requisite eighth of an inch. He slipped the orchid-of-the-day into the vase on his blotter before settling into his chair. Our guest got the hint and circled until he was in front of the desk, facing Wolfe. “I am Wilbur Hobbs; Lon Cohen said you wanted to see me — about the suicide of that writer, Childress.” He made the noun sound like a malignancy.

“That is correct,” Wolfe replied, looking straight ahead. “Please sit down, sir. I find it more comfortable to converse without craning my neck.”

Hobbs nodded curtly and folded himself and his pearl-gray suit into the red leather chair. “Your library is most impressive,” he pronounced, folding his arms and cocking his head.

Wolfe considered him without enthusiasm. “It is not my intent to impress, but rather to surround myself with works that merit periodic revisiting.”

“I did not mean to suggest otherwise,” Hobbs fired back tartly. “I was particularly interested to find William Smith’s History of the Province of New York. And the 1895 Almayer’s Folly, inscribed by Conrad himself, and using his Polish name, Korzeniowski. If I’m not mistaken, that’s the edition with the missing ‘e’.”

“On page one-hundred-ten,” Wolfe replied. “Generosity is misspelled. Would you care for something to drink? I am having beer.”

“No, thank you. After Mr. Cohen told me of your interest in meeting with me, I decided to come unannounced on the chance you were available, although I realize that is a significant breach of etiquette, for which I apologize. Although he — Mr. Cohen — did not specify why you desired to see me, I assume it is related to the death of Charles Childress. And knowing something of your line of work, I further assume that you think he may not have died by his own hand.”

“Both logical assumptions,” Wolfe responded.

“I’m afraid I have little — presumably nothing — that will be of help to you in the pursuit of this line of investigation,” Hobbs said, forming a chapel with his fingers. “But I came anyway, partially, I confess, because I was extremely interested in meeting you — and in seeing your library. I am leaving this afternoon for an extended weekend on Long Island and won’t return to the city until Tuesday.”

“I will not delay your departure,” Wolfe said as Fritz entered with his libation. “Were you personally acquainted with Mr. Childress?”

Hobbs smoothed his mustache with an index finger. “I never met the man. I make it a point to avoid functions where authors are likely to congregate. I prefer to know them only through their writing.”

“You had a low opinion of his work?”

“I have what you would term low opinions of many authors,” Hobbs replied belligerently, “and I would be less than forthright with readers of the Gazette if I did not express my opinions both clearly and forcefully. Writers — the majority of writers, that is — understand and accept this as part of the price of plying their craft — or art, depending on the writer. Charles Childress did not. As you undoubtedly are aware, his bruised and fragile ego drove him to excoriate me in the Manhattan Literary Times. It was an unconscionable diatribe.”

Wolfe sampled the beer and moved his shoulders. “Those who hurl javelins must be prepared to dodge them as well.”

“Hah! But there is a difference,” Hobbs snapped, punching the air with a fist. “I was reviewing his work, while his attack was personal — a vicious assault upon my integrity.”

If that little speech was intended to impress Wolfe, it failed. “You reviewed all three of Mr. Childress’s books about the Pennsylvania detective, Barnstable?”

Hobbs drew in air and expelled it, settling back into the chair, which dwarfed him. “I did.”

“And you disliked each of them?”

“In varying degrees. I thought I was relatively kind to the first one that he penned. Bear in mind, I was never a great fan of Darius Sawyer’s Barnstable books. Oh, Sawyer was a serviceable writer, I’ll give him that much. Better than serviceable. He had two or maybe three interesting characters, and some of his dialogue was actually quite amusing. As you know, he developed an impressive following — some might call it a cult — in his later years. Then he died and along comes this continuator, a man of whom I had no previous knowledge.

“Now I must tell you, Mr. Wolfe, that on principle I do not abide life-after-death in the world of literature. But I read the new book with an open mind — as I of course always do. Charles Childress did a marginally adequate job of re-creating this Orville Barnstable character and other members of Sawyer’s original ensemble company. His dialogue was acceptable in places, although uneven. But his structure...” Hobbs shook his head and compressed his lips. “His narrative structure was clumsy, ill-constructed, and—”

“And not challenging enough to befuddle a sixth-grader,” Wolfe put in.

“Ah, you went back and found my review of Childress’s first Barnstable book.” Hobbs’s well-tended face glowed with a satisfied smile. “That was three years ago.”

“No, sir, I ‘found’ nothing. It was on a right-hand page, either five or seven, across the top, with a thirty-six point, one-line headline, photographs both of Mr. Sawyer and Mr. Childress, and a reproduction of the new book’s dust jacket. I recall the review.”

“I am flattered.”

“Do not be; I retain what I read. Did Mr. Childress react publicly to your critiques of his earlier Barnstable books?”

“Not to the first. But to the second, I received a rude, boorish, handwritten note from him soon after my review of A Harvest of Horror appeared in the Gazette. Childress claimed I had it in for him because he was a continuator. He also claimed that I had not reviewed his book on its own merits, but rather had attacked it solely because it was a continuation. That charge was patently absurd.”

“Did you reply?”

“I did not,” Hobbs said primly, sounding offended and caressing his mustache again. “I answer civil letters, but Mr. Childress’s was hardly civil. He resorted to puerile name-calling, which shouldn’t have surprised me, given the paucity of his vocabulary.”

Wolfe raised his eyebrows. “Indeed. What did he call you?”

“Huh! It does not bear repeating,” the reviewer sniffed. “It is sufficient that he cast aspersions upon my parentage. Needless to say, I destroyed the missive immediately. I felt demeaned merely handling it.”

“No doubt, then, you expected some form of response from him when you reviewed book number three?”

“In all candor, Mr. Wolfe, the possibility that he might respond did not enter my mind at any time,” Hobbs answered crisply. “I review dozens of books each year. I never allow myself to be concerned about how their authors might react to what I write.”

Wolfe readjusted his bulk. “How, sir, did you react upon reading Mr. Childress’s essay in the Manhattan Literary Times?”

Hobbs jerked forward in the chair. “Essay! I wouldn’t dignify it with that term. As I said before, it was a diatribe — vindictive rantings. I suppose if the man had confined himself to attacking my taste and my standards as a reviewer, I would have shrugged it off and let the whole business pass. But he also impugned my motives and suggested — none too subtly, I might add — that I accepted money or other largess in return for favorable reviews. I considered that actionable, and I said so, both to the editor of the MLT and to Horace Vinson at Monarch.”

“Was it your intent to bring legal action?”

“I can’t remember when I have been so angry,” Hobbs said, accenting each word and folding his arms across his chest. “And yes, I did contemplate a suit — against Childress and the publication. But, well... on reflection, I abandoned the idea.”

“Indeed. Why?”

“Mr. Wolfe, at the risk of sounding melodramatic, I state unequivocally that my work is my life. I have no family, and no hobbies, unless you include foreign travel — I own a modest villa in Tuscany that I visit at least once each year. I am a book reviewer, one fortunate enough to be on the staff of a major metropolitan newspaper, and as such I enjoy a certain anonymity. Oh, my name is well-known, but my face is not, at least outside a limited circle. I relish that anonymity. Some people in this city enjoy being recognized and approached in restaurants and other public places; I do not.” Hobbs stopped for breath and contemplated his manicured fingernails. “After my anger over the Childress polemic dissipated, I realized — and my attorney concurred — that were I to bring a suit, the media, including the Gazette, would turn it into a circus, and I would be faceless no longer. For me, that was far too great a price to pay.”

Wolfe scowled. “And you never spoke to Charles Childress after the article appeared?”

Hobbs shook his head vigorously. “I would not deign to communicate with him. I felt I adequately expressed my displeasure through his publisher, Mr. Vinson. Have you discussed the matter with him?”

Wolfe ignored the question. “Mr. Hobbs, you said Charles Childress charged that you accepted ‘money or other largess’ in return for favorable reviews. Was he correct?”

I would have given three-to-two that Wilbur Hobbs was going to take a walk. And the little man did get halfway out of the red leather chair before dropping back into it and — I swear — smiling.

“I am not going to dignify that question with a response, sir. Neither will I storm out in a snit,” Hobbs replied evenly. If he was angry, he was doing a decent job of keeping the lid on. “I will reply only by saying that I see no need to respond to charges from a man who, tragically, I concede, subsequently chose to end his life violently. Mr. Childress had a host of demons — he hardly needed another in me.

Wolfe narrowed his eyes. “I have other questions, sir, and then you may depart for your Long Island weekend: First, can you account for your time a week ago Tuesday, from, let us say, ten in the morning till four in the afternoon?”

Hobbs snorted. “That was nine days ago — an eternity.” He slipped a hand inside his suitcoat and drew out a kidskin pocket secretary. He opened it and flipped pages, murmuring to himself as he studied them. “Ah, of course, I was home all day, reading, which for me is the norm — I go to the Gazette offices once a week at most. I usually send my reviews in by modem from my PC. Yes — I remember now; it was that frightful biography of an obscure English playwright — justifiably obscure. I bled from every pore as I reeled through it. Abysmal.”

Wolfe closed his eyes. “Did you see anyone that day?” he asked.

“Which is to say, can anyone vouch for me? Alas, I must answer in the negative,” Hobbs replied, shrugging theatrically. “My building on East Seventy-ninth has both a doorman and a hallman, but it also has a service entrance, which I frequently use — that way, I can dispose of garbage in the bin when I leave. My comings and goings are rarely monitored. That day, as I remember, I didn’t leave home at all, until I joined friends for dinner around seven at a wonderful little Szechwan restaurant on Third Avenue.”

Wolfe, to whom the words wonderful and restaurant used together constitute an oxymoron, started to shudder, but recovered nicely. “What was your first thought when you learned of Mr. Childress’s death?”

Hobbs blinked. “An interesting query, not that I would have expected less from you. But then, I am sure you are skilled at keeping unsuspecting people like me off balance. Let me see... I suppose I learned about the suicide — the death — in the Gazette. Yes, yes, I did. I remember now. I was actually in the office that morning. The first edition got dropped on my desk, and as I was thumbing through it, I saw the obituary. I was interested, of course, and no sooner had I finished reading it than the phone rang. It was the cultural affairs editor, inquiring if I knew Mr. Childress well enough to write a personal reminiscence, as a second-day story. I told him — truthfully — that I did not know the man at all, and that was the end of it.”

“Had you ever been in his apartment?”

Hobbs jerked upright. “I... had... not,” he said in an offended tone. “I am surprised you would ask such a question. I make it a point not to socialize with writers, and even if I did, Mr. Childress patently would not have been among them.”

“Did you know that Mr. Childress owned a gun?” Wolfe went on, unfazed.

“Not until I read that it was the weapon that killed him.” Hobbs sniffed. “But I was not surprised. I own a firearm myself. Although my building’s security system appears to be adequate, in this city one can never be too cautious.”

“Do you have any theories about Mr. Childress’s death?”

“I assumed — and still do — that he took his own life. What’s so unusual about that?” Hobbs shot back contentiously. “A lot of creative people, and far more talented ones than Childress, I hasten to add, have killed themselves, for whatever reasons: despair, depression, inability to live up to their earlier works or their reviews or their pathetically inflated self-images. Now I really must go,” he said, looking at his watch with a flourish. “I do not know who your client is, although I can guess. If you will take the advice of someone who has been following the literary cavalcade in this city, and across the country, for more than twenty years, stop jousting with windmills. Charles Childress put an end to his own life. Now, I really must be going. Mr. Wolfe, Mr. Goodwin.” Hobbs stood and bowed to each of us. “Good day.”

“One last thing,” I asked. “Is this by any chance yours?” I held out the key to Hobbs. He plucked it from my palm, contemplated it at arm’s length, and shrugged, handing it back. “No — not at all. Why?”

“Just a stab,” I said. “Any objection to showing me your keys?”

Hobbs glared. “As a matter of fact, I do,” the little man said. “I see no earthly reason to indulge the fantasies and fishing expeditions of private investigators, whether or not they are licensed by the state. Various governments around the world license peddlers and prostitutes, too, among others. Again, good day to you both.” With that, he bowed again, and it was a fine bow, although the gesture was wearing thin with me.

I followed Hobbs to the front hall, where he retrieved his precious bowler and walking stick, favored me with a faint smile — or maybe it was a sneer — and stepped out the door, presumably in search of a taxi. Here’s hoping all the cabbies in Manhattan were on their coffee breaks.