Death on Deadline - Robert Goldsborough Page 0,10
safe and tucked our latest check in, then wandered out to the kitchen, where Fritz was in high gear for dinner, and poured myself a glass of milk. “What’s the program?” I asked.
“Breast of chicken in cream with foie gras on noodles,” he said. “I remember how much Mr. Cohen liked the chicken breast another time when he was here.”
“Nice choice,” I said, and meant it. Fritz is a magician with chicken. But then, he also is a magician with beef, lamb, pork, veal, and any fish you can name. If there’s a Cooperstown for chefs somewhere, he ought to have a spot there, with his puss and his name in capital letters on a brass plaque along with the words “He keeps Nero Wolfe happy—which alone is reason enough to be in the Hall of Fame.”
Not that Wolfe and Fritz didn’t have their differences over food—and some of their bouts had been dandies. Like the time Fritz used tarragon and saffron to season a platter of starlings and Wolfe went into a pout and refused to eat it because he wanted sage instead. Despite their occasional tussles, Wolfe knows Fritz’s batting average is well over .950, so he picks his fights cautiously—and rarely.
My stomach already was pondering the chicken breast as I went back to the office and typed a letter to an orchid grower in Pennsylvania who wanted a peek at the plant rooms on a trip he was making to New York next month. Permission granted. Wolfe almost never denies a serious request to see his precious orchids. I call it vanity; he says it’s the sharing of information, although visitors always learn far more than they could ever teach either Wolfe or Theodore.
After finishing the letter and putting it on Wolfe’s blotter for his signature, I started in on the germination records but was interrupted by the phone.
“Archie, it’s Lon. I’ll be hung up at the office for a while yet. I’ll tell you why when I get there. It’ll probably be pushing seven.”
I told him not to worry, that we might even postpone the start of dinner by as much as three minutes if he was late. As I turned again to the germination cards that Theodore brings down daily, I heard the whine of the elevator. My watch said six-oh-two, which meant Wolfe was on his way down from the plant rooms.
“Lon called—he’ll be a little late. Trouble of some kind at the paper,” I said as Wolfe came in and headed for his desk. “I’ll lay nine to five it has something to do with MacLaren.”
“Very likely,” Wolfe said, reaching for the Terkel book. “We can delay dinner if necessary.” His tone told me he found the idea extremely distasteful. But he also felt—he’s said so many times—that “a guest is a jewel, resting on a cushion of hospitality.”
As it turned out, we were able to stay on schedule. Lon rang the doorbell at six-fifty-seven, which meant he had plenty of time for Scotch on the rocks in the office while I worked on bourbon and Wolfe downed his second beer.
“Sorry I’m late,” Lon told Wolfe, settling into the red leather chair with his drink. He looked beat. “Things are jumping at our place. Turns out the Times is breaking a story in tomorrow’s editions that MacLaren has made a bid for the Gazette. I don’t know how they caught wind of it, but they called our chairman, Harriet Haverhill, and asked her to respond to MacLaren’s statement that he was making an offer for Gazette stock. She gave them a ‘no comment,’ then called the city desk to alert them, and we really had to scramble to get something into tonight’s Final.”
“Indeed?” Wolfe said. “Mr. Cohen, with your sufferance, I would like to defer the subject of Ian MacLaren until after dinner. I assure you I’m most interested in hearing about him, but—”
“Say no more,” Lon cut in, laughing and holding up a hand. “I agree completely. I’ve been looking forward to this meal, and the best way to enjoy it is with conversation on more pleasant topics.”
So twice in one day MacLaren got scrubbed as a mealtime subject. And knowing how both Wolfe and Lon felt about him, I was beginning to be anxious to meet the guy to see whether he had horns, fangs, or maybe a third eye in the middle of his forehead.
Still, events at the Gazette hadn’t noticeably damaged Lon’s appetite. He managed three helpings of the