Trouble at the Brownstone

Chapter 3

The next morning, I was starting breakfast at my small table in the kitchen as usual and reading my copy of the New York Times when Fritz said, “Mr. Wolfe asked me to give you this when I served him up in his room.” He handed me a folded slip of paper that I opened, seeing the writing in Wolfe’s neat hand.

“So, Theodore’s temporary replacement will be coming this morning,” I said, showing Fritz the note. “Of course, that is contingent upon Mr. Wolfe’s approval,” I added.

“Is there any change in Theodore’s condition?”

“Doc Vollmer probably will call this morning with an update, as he has been doing on a daily basis,” I told Fritz. “I will let you know what we hear. Or you may be the one to answer the phone and get the information.”

After my breakfast of wheat cakes, sausage, orange juice, and blueberry muffins, I sat with coffee in the office, opening the morning mail and paying a handful of bills. At nine thirty sharp, the doorbell rang and I went down the hall, seeing a slender figure through the glass.

When I swung open the door, I found myself facing a short and wiry man of about sixty-five who blinked and looked at me with an expression of uncertainty.

“Is this the residence of Mr. Nero Wolfe?” he asked, taking off his flat cap and kneading it with nervous hands.

“It is indeed,” I told him. “And you are Mr. Willis, I presume?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, swallowing hard and continuing to twist the cap.

I introduced myself and ushered him in. “Mr. Wolfe is expecting you, and I’ll lead the way.” He followed me down the hall, and we stepped into the elevator.

“Mr. Wolfe uses this several times a day,” I told Willis as we rumbled upward in the moving closet. Our visitor remained tense, which made me wonder if Lewis Hewitt had painted Wolfe as a stern taskmaster. If so, it’s probably just as well, I thought; better that than be surprised at the brusqueness and lack of warmth of his potential employer.

When we got to the top of the brownstone and into the plant rooms, we found Wolfe at one of the benches, wearing an apron and glaring down at a purple cattleya as if it had somehow disappointed him. We stood in the doorway and I cleared my throat, causing Wolfe to look up and glare in my direction.

“Mr. Willis, meet Nero Wolfe,” I said, stepping back and saying to my boss, “This is Carl Willis.” Our visitor stepped forward shyly and held out a paw, which Wolfe — who hates shaking hands — reluctantly took, having no alternative. If Willis was taken aback by Wolfe’s girth, he didn’t show it, but then he likely had been prepped by Hewitt about this as well as Wolfe’s temperament.

Wolfe glared at me again, my cue to leave. As I walked out and started down the stairway, I heard Wolfe say, “And this is the way I expect you to...”

Back in the office, I got the keys to Theodore’s apartment, which I had kept in my top desk drawer since we took them from his pocket. The walk north up Tenth Avenue took me about twenty minutes. His building, like many others around it, was five stories, with shops at street level that included a barbershop, a dry cleaner, and a deli. Next to the lobby entrance was a faded brass plaque that read The Elmont. If giving the place a name that was meant to confer class, it failed.

The small, unadorned lobby, wedged between two of the business establishments at street level, had a self-service elevator but no doorman or hall man. The Elmont was that sort of place. I rode up alone and went along a dimly lit corridor to 412, fitting the key into the lock and pushing the door open.

The living room was compact and neat, with two curtained windows looking out onto the bustle of Tenth Avenue. The furnishings consisted of a sofa with a plaid slipcover, two stuffed chairs, an end table with a lamp, one floor lamp, and a small bookcase. There was no television set or radio.

I looked at Theodore’s books. Three, as could be expected, were about orchids, others were The World Almanac and a dictionary, and, befitting the man’s new hobby, Contract Bridge in a Nutshell, by Charles Goren. I rifled through each of the books, but nothing fell out. The only other items on the shelves were copies of recent gardening and news magazines, which I also shook, without success.

The drawer in the end table was empty save for a set of plastic coasters and a deck of well-used cards. Perhaps he practiced dealing bridge hands to sharpen his bidding and playing skills.

The bedroom with a neatly made bed proclaimed an overall tidiness, hardly surprising, given that Theodore had always kept his small living area in the brownstone in good order. I rooted through his chest of drawers, finding nothing more than what might be expected: neatly folded shirts, underwear, socks, and two pairs of pajamas. The closet also held no surprises: Slacks, six pairs of them, on hangers, along with one tweed sports coat, three neckties on pegs, two zippered windbreakers, a flat cap, and an overcoat.

An electric alarm clock sat atop the bedside table, which contained two drawers, both of which were empty. Nothing of interest was to be found either in the bathroom, with its almost empty medicine cabinet, or the narrow pullman kitchen. Theodore clearly did not prepare his own meals. After all, he still had breakfast and lunch in the brownstone kitchen with Fritz, and on occasion, dinner as well. He did, however, make coffee for himself, as the stained pot on the counter suggested.

In all, this was a place that had only the slightest of lived-in looks, which made it difficult to imagine that its tenant did much more than sleep here. I made one more pass through the unit and left, planning to visit McCready’s Bar that night.

I got back to the brownstone just before Wolfe came down from the plant rooms. “Well, how is Mr. Willis working out?” I asked as he lowered himself into his chair, placing a raceme of orange laelia in the small vase on his desk and ringing for beer.

“He appears to be adequate, nothing more.”

“Does that mean that you will keep him on?”

Wolfe raised his shoulders slightly and let them down in his version of a shrug. “I feel I have little choice, especially as Mr. Hewitt seems to feel this man is the best of those he said were available.”

“Try not to be too hard on him,” I counseled — as if he would ever be likely to take my counsel. “After all, it took you a long time to break Theodore in, as I recall.”

My answer was a scowl, as is often the reaction I get from Wolfe when I have scored a point in a discussion.