like the Tower of Babel. When I told him I wanted to see Mrs. Haverhill’s office, he said the police were still climbing all over it but probably would clear out by noon. “How does this request of yours tie in with Wolfe’s ad?” he said in a voice that was now almost a shout.
“Look, I’ll fill you in as much as I can when I get there,” I said, raising my own voice so he could hear me above the journalistic din. “Give me a time.”
He said twelve, and I said I’d be there at the stroke of the hour. I then set to figuring out how I was going to get the various younger Haverhills plus Carl Bishop to appear as ordered at Thirty-fifth Street. After fifteen minutes of seeking inspiration from the globe, the bookshelves, the sofa, the safe, and almost every other object in the room, I snapped my fingers. I had the answer. And it could be done, I bet myself, without a single telephone call.
In the kitchen, Fritz was working on lunch—sweetbreads amandine in patty shells. “Save some for me for later,” I told him as I refilled my coffee cup from the pot on the stove. “I’m going to be out at mealtime, but I don’t want to be robbed of my fair share.”
Fritz smiled as he always does when his cooking gets a compliment, but then a frown took over. “Archie, are you going out because of . . . Mrs. Haverhill?”
“What you’re really asking is: ‘Are we working on a case?’ The answer is yes and no. Yes, Mr. Wolfe is interested in her death. No, we don’t have a client, and therefore, we don’t have any prospects of a fee.”
Fritz’s gloom deepened. “The papers say she killed herself.”
“Mr. Wolfe doesn’t believe that.”
“What do you think, Archie?”
“Look, I’m not paid to think, and according to Mr. Wolfe, if I were, I’d be getting my checks from the state unemployment office. I’m paid to run errands, chase down clues, and haul everyone from Jimmy the Greek to Queen Elizabeth back here so His Lordship can grill them in the ease and comfort of his own home.”
That little speech made me feel good, although it didn’t do much for Fritz, who turned back to his work with a mopey mug. I carried my coffee to the office, where I cleaned up some paperwork, changed the typewriter ribbon, and otherwise tried finding innovative ways of keeping busy. By ten-thirty I decided I needed air. I wasn’t anxious to be around when Wolfe came down from the plant rooms; the next time I saw him, I wanted to report some kind of progress.
The sky was gray but the breeze was warm as I headed east at what exercise books probably call a healthy pace. I turned north on Sixth Avenue, catching a glimpse of that spire that tops off the Empire State. I’d have to remember to ask Wolfe if that’s the kind of architectural ornamentation he likes. It suits me well enough, although my personal favorite is the shiny silver spike on the Chrysler Building.
Up near Times Square, I stopped for a glass of milk at a lunch counter, then worked my way north and east until I was in the upper Forties close to First Avenue. My watch read seven minutes to twelve when I turned into the Gazette Building’s block. Two squad cars and mobile units from three TV stations were packed in as close to the front entrance as they could get, and knots of gapers stood on the sidewalks on both sides of the street gawking up at the building, as if anticipating jumpers.
The circus goes on, I thought as I spun through the revolving door and into the two-story Gothic lobby with its neon Gazette logo sending down a glow from high on the marble wall. There were two baby-faced uniformed cops, neither of whom I recognized, among the dozen or so people standing around buzzing. I went to the reception desk, where I signed in while a security guard called Lon’s office. “He’s expecting you,” the guard mouthed through a ham-and-Swiss sandwich, giving me a laminated pass that I clipped to my breast pocket. “Twentieth floor” was his next mumble.
I knew it was the twentieth floor—I’d been in Lon’s office more times than I could remember. I caught a nonstop elevator and swung his door open at one minute to noon.
“Don’t you knock?” he growled, looking up from