Thomas Godfrey (Ed) (76 page)

Preen said nothing. He put his hand
in an inner pocket and drew out an envelope which he handed over without a
word. Campion examined the slip of pink paper within by the light of a pencil
torch.

“You kept it for quite a time before
trying to cash it, didn’t you?” he said. “Dear me. that’s rather an old trick
and it was never admired. Young men who are careless with their accounts have
been caught out like that before. It simply wouldn’t have looked good to his
legal-minded old man, I take it? You two seem to be hampered by your respective
papas’ integrity. Yes, well, you can go now.”

Preen hesitated, opened his mouth to
protest, but thought better of it. Lance looked after his retreating figure for
some little time before he returned to his friend.

“Who wrote that blinking note?” he
demanded.

“He did, of course.” said Campion
brutally. “He wanted to see the report but was making absolutely sure that
young Groome took all the risks of being found with it.”

“Preen wrote the note,” Lance
repeated blankly.

“Well, naturally,” said Campion
absently. “That was obvious as soon as the report appeared in the picture. He
was the only man in the place with the necessary special information to make
use of it.”

Lance made no comment. He pulled his
coat collar more closely about his throat and stuffed his hands into his
pockets.

All the same the artist was not
quite satisfied, for, later still, when Campion was sitting in his dressing
gown writing a note at one of the little escritoires which Florence so
thoughtfully provided in her guest bedrooms, he came padding in again and stood
warming himself before the fire.

“Why?” he demanded suddenly. “Why
did I get the invitation?”

“Oh, that was a question of luggage,”
Campion spoke over his shoulder.

“That bothered me at first, but as
soon as we fixed it onto Preen that little mystery became blindingly clear. Do
you remember falling into the carriage this afternoon? Where did you put your
elegant piece of gent’s natty suitcasing? Over young Groome’s head. Preen saw
it from the corridor and assumed that the chap was sitting
under his own bag
!
He sent his own man over here with the note, told him not to ask for Peter by
name but to follow the nice new pigskin suitcase upstairs.”

Lance nodded regretfully. “Very
likely,” he said sadly. “Funny thing. I was sure it was the girl.”

After a while he came over to the
desk. Campion put down his pen and indicated the written sheet.

“Dear Groome,” it ran, “I enclose a
little matter that I should burn forthwith. The package you left in the
inglenook is still there, right at the back on the left-hand side, cunningly
concealed under a pile of logs. It has not been seen by anyone who could possibly
understand it. If you nipped over very early this morning you could return it
to its appointed place without any trouble. If I may venture a word of advice,
it is never worth it.”

The author grimaced. “It’s a bit
avuncular,” he admitted awkwardly, “but what else can I do? His light is still
on, poor chap. I thought I’d stick it under his door.”

Lance was grinning wickedly. “That’s
fine,” he murmured. “The old man does his stuff for reckless youth. There’s
just the signature now and that ought to be as obvious as everything else has
been to you. I’ll write it for you. ‘Merry Christmas. Love from Santa Claus.’”

“You win,” said Mr. Campion.

How bless'd, how
envied were our life Could we but scape the poulterer's knife! But man, cursed
man, on turkeys preys, And Christmas shortens all our days: Sometimes with
oysters we combine, Sometimes assist the savory chine; From the low peasant to
the lord, The Turkey smokes on every board.

John Gay (1685 -
1732)

 
Fables,
The Turkey and the Ant

In his obituaries, he was called
“the American Arthur Conan Doyle.” Certainly no writer deserves the title more.
Rex Stout and his detective Nero Wolfe command a following second only to the
Sherlockian horde. The Wolfe Pack, organized December 2, 1978, meets once a
year at its annual Black Orchids Banquet to honor Stout and present awards for
excellence in mystery writing. Wolfe has recently been portrayed in a
television series. Stout has been the subject of an award-winning biography.
The Wolfe books are still reprinted, and Stout’s vigorous brownstone style
brings the legendary figure (a seventh of a ton) to life with a mystique that
only Doyle has equalled. In fact, it was once rumored that Wolfe was the
illegitimate son of Sherlock Holmes.

“Christmas Party” is one of the best
of the Wolfe stories. It captures its hero in an uncharacteristic pose, aided
and abetted by his amanuensis Archie Goodwin. It also finds murder at that most
barbaric of all holiday institutions, the office Christmas party. Wolfe’s
physical and intellectual largesse permeate every scene, and Stout regales his
reader with his special talent for making this unique corner of New York City
come alive.

Wolfe stews, Archie engages, orchids
bloom and a good time will be had by all.

“I’m sorry, Sir,”
I said. I tried to sound sorry. “But I told you two days
ago. Monday, that I had a date for Friday afternoon, and you said all right. So
I’ll drive you to Long Island Saturday or Sunday.”

Nero
Wolfe shook his head. “That won’t do. Mr. Thompson’s ship docks Friday morning,
and he will be at Mr. Hewitt’s place only until Saturday noon, when he leaves
for New Orleans. As you know, he is the best hybridizer in England, and I am
grateful to Mr. Hewitt for inviting me to spend a few hours with him. As I
remember, the drive takes about an hour and a half, so we should leave at
twelve-thirty.”

I
decided to count ten, and swiveled my chair, facing my desk, so as to have
privacy for it. As usual when we have no important case going, we had been
getting on each other’s nerves for a week, and I admit I was a little touchy,
but his taking it for granted like that was a little too much. When I had
finished the count I turned my head, to where he was perched on his throne
behind his desk, and darned if he hadn’t gone back to his book, making it plain
that he regarded it as settled. That was much too much. I swiveled my chair to
confront him.

“I
really am sorry,” I said, not trying to sound sorry, “but I have to keep that
date Friday afternoon. It’s a Christmas party at the office of Kurt
Bottweill—you remember him, we did a job for him a few months ago, the stolen
tapestries. You may not remember a member of his staff named Margot Dickey, but
I do. I have been seeing her some, and I promised her I’d go to the party. We
never have a Christmas office party here. As for going to Long Island, your
idea that a car is a death trap if I’m not driving it is unsound. You can take
a taxi, or hire a Baxter man, or get Saul Panzer to drive you.”

Wolfe
had lowered his book. “I hope to get some useful information from Mr. Thompson,
and you will take notes.”

“Not
if I’m not there. Hewitt’s secretary knows orchid terms as well as I do. So do
you.”

I
admit those last three words were a bit strong, but he shouldn’t have gone back
to his book. His lips tightened. “Archie. How many times in the past year have
I asked you to drive me somewhere?”

“If
you call it asking, maybe eighteen or twenty.”

“Not
excessive, surely. If my feeling that you alone are to be trusted at the wheel
of a car is an aberration, I have it. We will leave for Mr. Hewitt’s place
Friday at twelve-thirty.”

So
there we were. I took a breath, but I didn’t need to count ten again. If he was
to be taught a lesson, and he certainly needed one, luckily I had in my
possession a document that would make it good. Reaching to my inside breast
pocket, I took out a folded sheet of paper.

“I
didn’t intend,” I told him,”to spring this on you until tomorrow, or maybe even
later, but I guess it will have to be now. Just as well, I suppose.”

I left
my chair, unfolded the paper, and handed it to him. He put his book down to
take it, gave it a look, shot a glance at me, looked at the paper again, and
let it drop on his desk.

He
snorted. “Pfui. What flummery is this?”

“No
flummery. As you see, it’s a marriage license for Archie Goodwin and Margot
Dickey. It cost me two bucks. I could be mushy about it, but I won’t. I will
only say that if I am hooked at last, it took an expert. She intends to spread
the tidings at the Christmas office party, and of course I have to be there.
When you announce you have caught a fish it helps to have the fish present in
person. Frankly, I would prefer to drive you to Long Island, but it can’t be
done.”

The
effect was all I could have asked. He gazed at me through narrowed eyes long
enough to count eleven, then picked up the document and gazed at it. He flicked
it from him to the edge of the desk as if it were crawling with germs, and
focused on me again.

“You
are deranged,” he said evenly and distinctly. “Sit down.”

I
nodded. “I suppose,” I agreed, remaining upright, “it’s a form of madness, but
so what if I’ve got it? Like what Margot was reading to me the other night—some
poet, I think it was some Greek—‘O love, resistless in thy might, thou
triumphest even—’”

“Shut
up and sit down!”

“Yes,
sir.” I didn’t move. “But we’re not rushing it. We haven’t set the date, and
there’ll be plenty of time to decide on adjustments. You may not want me here
any more, but that’s up to you. As far as
I
’m concerned, I would like to stay. My long association
with you has had its flaws, but I would hate to end it. The pay is okay,
especially if I get a raise the first of the year, which is a week from Monday.
I have grown to regard this old brownstone as my home, although you own it and
although there are two creaky boards in the floor of my room. I appreciate
working for the greatest private detective in the free world, no matter how
eccentric he is. I appreciate being able to go up to the plant rooms whenever I
feel like it and look
at
ten thousand orchids, especially the odontoglossums. I fully appreciate—”