Have patience.
I'll go home and tell Wolfe about it, and you talk 'em over with Captain Dixon-that is, if he can talk-”
Cramer grunted.
“I should have had more sense.
If that fat rhinoceros is kidding me, I'll make him eat his license and then he won't have any.”
I had climbed in the roadster.
“He's not kidding you.
Wait and see.
Give him a chance.”
I slipped in the gear and rolled away. Little did I suspect what was waiting for me at West 35th Street.
I got there about half past eleven, thinking that Wolfe would have been down from the plant rooms for half an hour and therefore I would catch him in good humor with his third bottle of beer, which was so much to the good, since I was not exactly the bearer of glad tidings.
After parking in front and depositing my hat in the hall, I went to the office, and found to my surprise that it was empty.
I sought the bathroom, but it was empty too.
I proceeded to the kitchen to inquire of Fritz, and as soon as I crossed the threshold I stopped and my heart sank to my feet and kept on right through the floor.
Wolfe sat at the kitchen table with a pencil in his hand and sheets of paper scattered around.
Fritz stood across from him, with the gleam in his eye that I knew only too well.
Neither paid any attention to the noise I had made entering.
Wolfe was saying:
“…but we cannot get good peafowl.
Archie could try that place on Long Island, but it is probably hopeless.
A peafowl's breast flesh will not be sweet and tender and properly developed unless it is well protected from all alarms, especially from the air, to prevent nervousness, and Long Island is full of airplanes.
The goose for this evening, with the stuffing as arranged, will be quite satisfactory.
The kid will be ideal for tomorrow.
We can phone Mr. Salzenback at once to butcher one, and Archie can drive to Garfield for it in the morning.
You can proceed with the preliminaries for the sauce.
Friday is a problem. If we try the peafowl we shall merely be inviting catastrophe. Squabs will do for tidbits, but the chief difficulty remains.
Fritz, I'll tell you. Let us try a new tack entirely.
Do you know shish-kabob?
I have had it in Turkey.
Marinate thin slices of tender lamb for several hours in red wine and spices.
Here, I'll put it down: thyme, mace, peppercorns, garlic-”
I stood and took it in.
It looked hopeless.
There was no question but that it was the beginning of a major relapse.
He hadn't had one for a long while, and it might last a week or more, and while that spell was on him you might as well try to talk business to a lamp post as to Nero Wolfe.
When we were engaged on a case, I never liked to go out and leave him alone with Fritz, for this very reason.
If only I had got home an hour earlier!
It looked now as if it had gone too far to stop it.
And this was one of the times when it seemed easy to guess what had brought it on: he hadn't really expected anything from the mess he had cooked up for Cramer and me, and he was covering up.
I gritted my teeth and walked over to the table.
Wolfe went on talking, and Fritz didn't look at me.
I said,
“What's this, you going to start a restaurant?”
No attention.
I said, “I've got a report to make. Forty-five people ate candy out of those boxes, and they all died in agony.
Cramer is dead. H. R. Cragg is dead.
The goddesses are dead.
I'm sick.”
“Shut up, Archie.
Is the car in front?