“Mr. Nero Wolfe’s residence.”
Fritz, who had been with Wolfe even longer than me, had his own ideas about certain details. When he answered the phone in the daytime between nine and five he said, “Mr. Nero Wolfe’s office.” At any other time he said, “Mr. Nero Wolfe’s residence.”
“Hello, Fritz. Archie. Calling from Washington. Where’s Mr. Wolfe?”
“He’s in bed. He had a hard day. And evening.”
“Doing what?”
“He was very busy on the telephone. Also some callers. Mr. Cramer. And he had that stenographer from that place.”
“Oh. He did. Using my typewriter. Do you happen to know whether he looked at the Star today?”
“The Star?” Fritz hesitated. “Not that I know of. He never does. There is only my copy, and it’s in the kitchen.”
“Get it, and look at an ad, a small one in a box, near the lower right corner on page eleven. Read it. I’ll hold the wire.”
I sat and waited. Before long he was back on.