interrupted by two calls, one
each from newspaper and TV reporters following up on Wolfe’s murder theory and wanting to know if there were any new developments. I said no, wondering how they’d react when they saw Saturday’s late edition of the Gazette.
I didn’t get around to finishing the office setup until after dinner, when Fritz gave me a hand. While Wolfe sat reading, oblivious of us, we rearranged the chairs and brought in some extras from the dining room, placing them with the assumption that all the invited guests would show. Fritz wheeled in the big serving cart, also from the dining room, and we set up a bar with gin, vodka, rye, bourbon, Scotch, sherry, and a carafe each of white and red wine. I had my usual argument with him, claiming that almost nobody asks for red wine except during a meal, but he held fast and even made sure a bottle of rosé was on hand too.
At eight-thirty, the doorbell rang. I got to the hall and let Lon in, and we went to the office, where he slipped into the red chair. “You’ll want to view the proceedings through the hole in the painting,” Wolfe told him. Lon nodded, and I knew he was bursting to ask what exactly he would be watching, but he knew Wolfe well enough to realize he wasn’t going to get an answer—not yet, anyway.
I should discuss the hole in the painting. On the right as you walk into the office from the hall is a colorful picture of a waterfall, with lots of greens and blues. It was made to Wolfe’s specifications years ago, and there’s a hole in it that’s almost impossible to spot. In the hall is a wooden panel with hinges. Swing it open, and you’re looking at the back of the picture. But that’s not all you’re looking at: the hole, at eye level for someone about my height, which is five-eleven, gives you a view of the entire office, and you also can near everything that’s said. This was where Lon would watch the action.
At eight-forty-five, the bell chimed, which meant the first of our cast had arrived. Wolfe and Lon rose and headed for the kitchen, where they would wait until everyone got seated. When I asked Lon if he wanted a
drink, he gave me a “No thanks, not while I’m working—try me later.”
Through the front door panel, I saw Audrey MacLaren, wearing a designer suit the color of her eyes and a nervous look on that stunning face. “Come in,” I said as she stepped across the threshold and cut loose with what she probably thought was a fetching smile. She was right. “Am I the first one here?”
“You are indeed,” I said, admiring her suit as I followed her into the office, directing her to the red leather chair, which probably was still warm from Lon.
“Where’s Mr. Wolfe?” she asked, the nervous look back in place of the smile.
“He likes to make a grand entry. You won’t see him until all the players are in place.”
“And the players are . . . ?”
I ran down the guest list for her—including Cramer and Stebbins—and asked if she wanted a drink. I got a shake of the head as the bell sounded again.
The newcomers were Inspector Cramer and Purley Stebbins, both of whom nodded grimly as I swung the door open. They marched into the office, and I introduced them to Audrey, who turned in her chair, nodded, and then gave them her back. Cramer and Purley, each clad in a dark blue suit about as stylish as what the Russian muckety-mucks wear, moved to the two chairs in the third row, which were spots they had occupied in similar situations.
The next time the doorbell rang, Fritz was there to help out in case there were coats. It was all four of the Haverhills. David and Carolyn had obviously been arguing out on the stoop and both of the men came in griping. “Goodwin, we’re only here because Carl told us Wolfe was threatening to go to the Times with some kind of stupid story,” Scott announced loudly. “That’s the only reason, believe me.” David seconded the complaint in a whiny echo, and Donna looked somber but said nothing. Carolyn looked pretty good herself in a red outfit that I guessed was a Galanos. If nothing else, the evening would set a record for the greatest number of good-looking women in the brownstone at