“Brother,” I said, “who I am can be left to the worms that eventually eat me, but I know who I am not. I am not a guy who swims the Hellespont, nor him who — he who flees the turmoil of battle to seek you know what on the silken cushions of Cleopatra’s barge. I’m not the type—”
The phone rang and I put the receiver to my ear and heard Wolfe’s voice: “Archie, come up here.”
“Right away,” I said, and arose and asked Fred, “Which do you want, whisky or hot coffee?”
“Coffee, if it’s not—”
“Righto. Come with me.”
I turned him over to Fritz in the kitchen and mounted the three flights to the plant rooms. It was a sunny day and some of the mats were drawn, but mostly the glass was clear, especially in the first two rooms, and the glare and blaze of color was dazzling. In the long stretch where the germinating flasks were, of course the glass was painted. Theodore Horstmann was there examining the flasks. I opened the door into the potting room, and after taking one step stopped and sniffed. My nose is good and I knew that odor. One glance at Wolfe there on his special stool, which is more like a throne, showed me that he was alive, so I dived across to the wall and grabbed the valve to turn it. It was shut tight.
“What’s the matter?” Wolfe inquired peevishly.
“I smelled ciphogene. I still do.”
“I know. Theodore fumigated those plants a little while ago and opened the door too soon. There’s not enough to do any harm.”
“Maybe not,” I muttered, “but I wouldn’t trust that stuff on top of the Empire State Building on a windy day.” The door to the fumigating room was standing open and I glanced inside. The benches were empty, as well as I could tell in the half dark. It had no glass. The smell didn’t seem any stronger inside. I returned to Wolfe.