So I tore off the sheet of the magazine section I had been reading from, with the picture of the Marquis of Clivers in the center, fastened it to the corkboard with a couple of thumbtacks, gathered up the darts, stood off fifteen feet, and let fly.
One of the darts got the marquis in the nose, another in his left eye, two of them in his neck, and the last one missed him by an inch.
He was well pinned.
Pretty good shooting, I thought, as I went for my hat to venture out to a movie, not knowing then that before he left our city the marquis would treat us to an exhibition of much better shooting with a quite different weapon, nor that on that sheet of newspaper which I had pinnea to the corkboard was a bit of information that would prove to be fairly useful in Nero Wolfe’s professional consideration of a sudden and violent death.
Chapter 2
For the next day, Monday, October 7, my memo pad showed two appointments.
Neither displayed any promise of being either lucrative or exciting.
The first one, down for 3:30 in the afternoon, was with a guy named Anthony D.
Perry. He was a tycoon, a director of the Metropolitan Trust Company, the bank we did business with, and president of the Seaboard Products Corporation—one of those vague firms occupying six floors of a big skyscraper and selling annually a billion dollars’ worth of something nobody ever actually saw, like soy beans or powdered coconut shells or dried llama’s hoofs.
As I say. Perry was a tycoon; he presided at meetings and was appointed on Mayor’s Committees and that kind of hooey.
Wolfe had handled a couple of investigations for him in previous years—nothing of any importance.
We didn’t know what was on his mind this time; he had telephoned for an appointment.
The second appointment was for 6 P.M. It was a funny one, but we often had funny ones.
Saturday morning, October 5, a female voice had phoned that she wanted to see Nero Wolfe.
I said okay.
She said, yes, but she wanted to bring someone with her who would not arrive in New York until Monday morning, and she would be busy all day, so could they come at 5:30.
I said, no, but they could come at six, picking up a pencil to put down her name.
But she wasn’t divulging it; she said she would bring her name along with her, and they would arrive at six sharp, and it was very important.
It wasn’t much of a date, but I put it on the memo pad and hoped she would turn up, for she had the kind of voice that makes you want to observe it in the Hesh.
Anthony D.
Perry was there on the dot at 3:30.
Fritz answered the door and brought him to the office.
Wolfe was at his desk drinking beer.
I sat in my comer and scowled at the probability that Perry was going to ask us to follow the scent of some competitor suspected of unfair trade practices, as he had before, and I did not regard that as a treat.
But this time he had a different kind of difficulty, though it was nothing to make your blood run cold.
He asked after our health, including me because he was democratic, inquired politely regarding the orchids, and then hitched his chair up and smiled at Wolfe as one man of affairs to another.
“I came to see you, Mr. Wolfe, instead of asking you to call on me, for two reasons.
First, because I know you refuse to leave your home to call on anyone whatever, and, second, because the errand I want you to undertake is private and confidential.”
Wolfe nodded.
“Either would have sufficed, sir.
And the errand?”
“Is, as I say, confidential.”
Perry cleared his throat, glancing at me as I opened up my notebook.
“I suppose Mr…”
“Goodwin.” Wolfe poured a glass of beer. “Mr. Goodwin’s discretion reaches to infinity.
Anything too confidential for him would find me deaf.”
“Very well.
I want to engage you for a delicate investigation, one that will require most careful handling.
It is in connection with an unfortunate situation that has arisen in our executive offices.”
Perry cleared his throat again.
“I fear that a young woman, one of our employees, is going to suffer an injustice—a victim of circumstances—unless something is done about it.”
He paused.
Wolfe said,
“But, Mr. Perry, surely, as the directing head of your corporation, you are its fount of justice—or its opposite?”
Perry smiled.
“Not absolutely.
At best, a constitutional monarch.
Let me eacplain.
Our executive offices are on the thirty-second floor of our building—the Seaboard Building.
We have some thirty private offices on that floor, officers of the corporation, department heads, and so on.