Chapter 1
We swooped down and hit the concrete alongside the Potomac at 1:20 p.m. on a raw Monday in early March.
I didn’t know whether I would be staying in Washington or hopping a plane for Detroit or Africa, so I checked my bags at the parcel room at the airport and went out front and flagged a taxi. For twenty minutes I sat back and watched the driver fight his way through two million government employees, in uniforms and in civies, on wheels and on foot, and for another twenty minutes, after entering a building, I showed credentials and waited and let myself be led through corridors, and finally was ushered into a big room with a big desk.
It was the first time I had ever seen the top mackaroo of United States Army Intelligence. He was in uniform and had two chins and a pair of eyes that wasted neither time nor space. I was perfectly willing to shake hands, but he just said to sit down, glanced at a paper on top of a pile and told me in a dry brittle voice that my name was Archie Goodwin.
I nodded noncommittally. For all I knew, it was a military secret.
He inquired acidly, “What the hell is the matter with Nero Wolfe?”
“Search me, sir. Why, is he sick?”
“You worked for him for ten years. As his chief assistant in the detective business. Didn’t you?”
“All of that. Yes, sir. But I never found out what was the matter with him. However, if you want some good guesses—”
“You seem to have done pretty well with that mess down in Georgia, Major Goodwin.”