Trouble at the Brownstone

Chapter 17

I normally would have hoofed it back to the brownstone, but I was feeling none too steady on my pins, not to mention my head and other parts of my frame, so I flagged a Yellow and slumped into its back seat. At this time of day, the drive is a short one, usually ten minutes, fifteen tops, but the cabbie had to wake me when we got to Thirty-Fifth Street.

“C’mon, Mac, you’re home. Go inside and sleep it off, you’ll feel better in the morning. I know that only too well; I’ve been in that shape more times than I can count.”

I tried to tell him that I was as sober as a Puritan judge at a New England witch trial, but it would have taken more effort than I cared to expend. I paid him and lumbered up the steps, leaning on the bell and pressing it with the longs-and-shorts code that Fritz knew.

“Archie! What has happened to you?” our world-class chef gasped as I staggered in, dropping my small suitcase on the floor. “Come into the front room and sit down,” he said, leading me gently by an arm. “I will get Mr. Wolfe.”

I tried to tell him not to bother, but he was gone. After what seemed like five minutes later but probably was far less, Wolfe stepped in with a stein of beer in one hand and looked down, considering me in my sprawl on the sofa.

“What has happened?” he barked.

“Not so loud!” I said, putting my palms over my ears. “There is no need to shout.”

“I was not—” Wolfe cut himself off, realizing my condition. He lowered himself into the facing easy chair, one of several in the brownstone big enough to accommodate his girth. “Report, if you are able.”

“You are damned right I’m able,” I told him and then went into what must have been a rambling account of my evening’s escapades. Wolfe sat, lips pursed, and took a drink. “I am going to telephone Dr. Vollmer,” he declared, rising.

“No, I don’t need—”

“Archie, be quiet!” he barked, walking back across the hall to the office. I worked myself into a sitting position, which wasn’t easy, and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “Archie, here is some tea, it will be refreshing,” Fritz said, concern lining his face.

“You know I don’t like tea!” I shot back, pushing the cup away and causing Fritz to recoil as if having been slapped. Wolfe reentered the front room and announced that “The doctor is on his way.”

Before I could respond, Vollmer came in, panting. “Well, well,” he shook his head and clucked in a tone they probably teach in medical school. “It seems that you have run into some trouble.”

“Trouble ran into me,” I replied, “but I’m fine. I just need a little rest.”

“I will be the judge of that,” the doctor said, pulling out his stethoscope. “Take off your tie and unbutton your shirt,” he demanded in what I knew to be his standard bedside manner. “Um-hmm, yes, yes,” he said, nodding to no one in particular and he moved the scope around on my chest. Next came a miniature flashlight, with which Vollmer peered into one of my eyes and then the other one, nodding again. “How are you feeling, Archie?”

“I feel fine, and as I just told you, Doc, a good night’s sleep will do wonders for me.”

“It will take more than just a good night’s sleep,” the sawbones remarked dryly. He took a rubber mallet out of his bag and tapped my knee, shaking his head. “What do you remember about tonight?” he asked.

“Too much,” I said.

“Come, come, tell me exactly what happened,” he insisted, running his fingers over my scalp, which I did not like one damned bit. Before I could relate the day’s events, Vollmer said, “You’ve got a nasty cut right there. I’m surprised it didn’t bleed much, but you’re going to need stitches.”

“You’re full of good news, aren’t you?”

“And I’ve got more of it,” the doctor said. “All the signs are that you’ve got a concussion and will have to take it easy for a while.”

“And just what does ‘for a while’ mean?”

“Seven to ten days, during which time you should stay inside, relax — if you even know how — and eat well and drink plenty of water. Oh, and I’m going to be suturing that gash in your head, which should take about three or maybe four stitches.”

“Swell. Where do I have to go for you to do that.”

“Archie, because you and Nero Wolfe are longtime patients as well as neighbors, I am perfectly willing to sew you up down the street in my office — right now. I believe your condition is such that you can walk that far.”

I grumbled and started to stand, but got dizzy and plopped back down on the sofa. At that moment, Wolfe returned yet again to the front room, his expression one that demanded answers.

“It’s a concussion,” Vollmer told him. “I have already told Archie he needs to rest for more than a week. He can eat all he wants and should drink plenty of water. But no physical exertion whatever. Also, he’s got a dandy slice on the head.”

“Which you will attend to,” Wolfe said.

“Yes, at my office, where we are going immediately. I’m going to call my nurse at home, if I may use your telephone.”

With old Vollmer, of all people, supporting me although I felt I didn’t need it, we made it to his establishment a few doors from the brownstone. It was never a place I cared to be, with one exception: Caroline.

She was the doctor’s nurse and factotum, performing myriad duties in this medical workplace. More than that, she was shapely and lovely and had a warmth and cheerfulness that went a long way toward partially offsetting Vollmer’s dour manner.

The doctor got me settled on a mini-operating table in his office and draped a sheet over my shoulders. We had been in the office for a few minutes before Caroline rushed in, breathless. “Mr. Goodwin, it is always so nice to see you,” she said with a smile worthy of a toothpaste advertisement, “even when you are here on a less-than-pleasant matter. I am happy to tell you that from what the doctor has said to me on the phone, this process will be simple and brief.”

“I know it will go well, if only you promise to hold my hand the entire time,” I said.

“You know, Mr. Goodwin, that I would be more than happy to comply with your wishes, except that I fear the doctor will need me, including both of my hands, during the entire procedure,” she said. “But I will be right beside you the entire time.”

“Be still my heart,” I told her as Vollmer, white coat and all, entered, casting a pall over the scene. I knew him to be a first-rate doctor, but he must have flunked Bedside Manner 101 in medical school.

Anyway, Caroline was correct in her assessment. The procedure was brief and relatively painless, although I left with a portion of my hair shaved off and a rather large white dressing serving as my crown.

As I entered the brownstone, Fritz looked me over and, to his credit, he neither laughed nor stared. He was, he told me earnestly, happy that I was feeling better. Wolfe, who was at his desk reading, looked up, his eyes asking how I felt.

“Vollmer stitched me up, although he’s made me look like a freak,” I said.

I had more than nine hours of sleep that night, followed by an unusually late breakfast in the kitchen as Fritz fussed over me like a mother hen. Then I went to the office with coffee and flipped through the morning mail delivery, which held nothing of interest.

Wolfe came down from the plant rooms promptly at eleven and peered at me. “Good morning, Archie. How do you feel?” he asked as he placed an orchid raceme in the small vase on his desk, as was his daily practice.

“Well, as you can see, I look like I got into a snowball fight and one of the snowballs is still on my head. But otherwise, I’m upright and more or less fit.”

“I realize from what the doctor has said that the next week or more will be a time of rest for you,” Wolfe said, “so I hesitate to give you assignments.”

“Hey, I am supposed to take it easy, not take to my bed. I’m not an invalid.”

“Understood,” he said. “Do you feel confident that when you fired at those men last night, you hit one of them?”

“Positive. As I said, I aimed low because I wasn’t trying to kill anybody, but after what had happened to me, I wasn’t above inflicting some pain and catching at least one of the pair. Obviously, I was no condition to catch anyone, but I did get one of them, either on an ankle or low down on a leg.”

“As far as you were able to tell, were there any onlookers, eyewitnesses?”

“I don’t think so. That section of street was deserted at the time.”

“It is possible, but not likely, that the man went to an emergency room.”

“I agree with your ‘not likely.’ As we both know, whenever someone with a gunshot wound goes to a hospital, reports have to be filled out and the police get involved. Those guys, whoever they were, would have avoided that.”

“I will be placing an advertisement in the Gazette,” he said.

“I’m ready,” I told him, poising a pen over my note pad.

“The notice should be two columns wide, boxed, with an eighteen-point boldface headline reading Witness Sought. The body type will read: Wanted: any witnesses to a gunshot fired at an individual Wednesday night in the vicinity of Eleventh Avenue and...” He turned to me with an eyebrow raised.

“Fifty-Sixth Street,” I said and wrote the words down.

Wolfe continued: “A reward will be given to anyone who provides substantive information.”

“Anything else?”

“I know the newspaper then provides a box number at the bottom for those responding. At least that has been the case in the past.”

“Right. I will call and set it up. You know, of course, that we will almost surely get reaction from our old friend, Mr. Cohen. He is used to you placing this type of ad.”

“We shall be prepared for a response from Mr. Cohen. Let us hope it is not the only response we get.”