“This place isn’t bad,” he told Wolfe, “even for you who live in luxury. Marko liked to do his own cooking, but I can get a woman in tomorrow.”
“It won’t be necessary,” Wolfe said. “I’m going over.”
Telesio stared. “No. You must not.”
“On the contrary. I must. Where do we find this Guido?”
Telesio sat down. “You mean this?”
“Yes. I’m going.”
“In what form and what capacity?”
“My own. To find the man who killed Marko. I can’t enter Yugoslavia legally, but among those rocks and ravines what’s the difference?”
“That’s not the problem. The worst Belgrade would do to Nero Wolfe would be to ship him out, but the rocks and ravines are not Belgrade. Nor are they what you remember. Precisely there, around that mountain, are the lairs of the Tito cutthroats and the Albanian thugs from across the border who are the tools of Russia. They reached to kill Marko in far-off America. They killed your daughter within hours after she stepped ashore. She may have exposed herself by carelessness, but what you propose — to appear among them as yourself — would be greatly worse. If you are so eager to commit suicide, I will favor you by providing a knife or a gun, as you may prefer, and there will be no need for you to undertake the journey across our beautiful sea, which is often rough, as you know. I would like to ask a question. Am I a coward?”
“No. You were not.”