“You can send for him.”
“I can, of course, but I’m not going to.” Danilo was emphatic. “The situation there is difficult, and he must stay. Besides, I won’t expose Josip to the hazard of a meeting with you in Titograd, not after the way you have performed and made yourself conspicuous. Marching into the headquarters of the secret police! Walking the streets, anywhere you please, in daylight! It is true that Titograd is no metropolis, it is only a poor little town in this little valley surrounded by mountains, but there are a few people here who have been over the mountains and across the seas, and what if one of them saw you? Do you think I am such a fool as to believe you are Nero Wolfe just because you come to my house and say so? I would have been dead long ago. Once — last winter, it was — my uncle showed me a picture of you that had been printed in an American newspaper, and I recognized you as soon as I saw you at my door. There are others in Titograd who might also recognize you, but you march right in and tell Gospo Stritar you are Toné Stara of Galichnik!”
“I apologize,” Wolfe said stiffly, “if I have imperiled you.”
Danilo waved it away. “That’s not it. The Russians know I take money from Belgrade, and Belgrade knows I take money from the Russians, and they both know I am involved with the Spirit of the Black Mountain, so no one can imperil me. I slip through everybody’s fingers like quicksilver — or like mud, as they think. But not Josip Pasic. If I had him meet you in Titograd, and by some mischance— No. Anyway, he can’t leave. Also, what can he tell you? If he knew— Yes, Meta?”
The door had opened, and Mrs. Vukcic had appeared. She came in a step and said something. Danilo, replying, arose, and so did Wolfe and I as she came toward us.
“I have told my wife who you are,” Danilo said. “Meta, this is Mr. Wolfe and Mr. Goodwin. There is no reason why you shouldn’t shake hands with them.” She did so, with a firm, friendly clasp. Danilo went on, “I know, gentlemen, that, like my uncle, you are accustomed to the finest dishes and delicacies, but a man can only share what he has, and at least we’ll have bread.”
We certainly had bread. It was a very nice party. At the table in the kitchen an electric lamp with a big pink shade was between Wolfe and me so I couldn’t see him without stretching my neck, but that was no great hardship. Mrs. Vukcic was a wonderful hostess. It never occurred to Wolfe or Danilo to give a damn whether I had any notion of what they were talking about, which I hadn’t, but Meta couldn’t stand a guest at her table feeling out of it, so about once a minute she turned her black eyes to me just to include me in. I was reminded of a dinner party Lily Rowan had once thrown at Rusterman’s where one of the guests was an Eskimo, and I tried to remember whether she had been as gracious to him as Meta Vukcic was being to me, but I couldn’t, probably because I had completely ignored him myself. I resolved that if I ever got back to New York and was invited to a meal where someone like an Eskimo was present, I would smile at him or her at least every fifth bite.
There was nothing wrong with the lamb stew, and the radishes were young and crisp, but the big treat was the bread, baked by Mrs. Vukcic in a loaf about as big around as my arm and fully as long. We finished two of them, and I did my part. There was no butter, but sopping in the gravy was taken for granted, and, when that gave out, the bread was even better with a gob of apple butter on each bite. It was really an advantage not being able to follow the conversation, since it kept me busy catering for myself and at the same time making sure I met Meta’s glances to show proper appreciation; and anyway, when Wolfe reported later, he said the table talk was immaterial.
There was even coffee — at least, when I asked Wolfe about it, he said it was supposed to be. I won’t dwell on it. We were all sipping away at it, out of squatty yellow cups, when suddenly Danilo left his chair, crossed to a door — not the one to the living room — opened it enough to slip through, and did so, closing the door behind him. In view of what followed, there must have been some kind of signal, though I hadn’t heard or seen any. Danilo wasn’t gone more than five minutes. When he re-entered he opened the door wider, and a breath of outdoor air came in, enough to get to us at the table. He came back to his chair, sat, put a wad of crumpled brown paper on the table, picked up his coffee cup, and emptied it. Wolfe asked him something in a polite tone. He put the cup down, picked up the wad of paper, unfolded it, got it straightened out, and placed it on the table between him and Wolfe. I stared at the object he had unwrapped, resting there on the paper. Though my eyes are good, at the first glance I didn’t believe them, but when they checked it I had to. The object was a human finger that had been chopped off at the base, no question about it.
“Not for desert, I hope,” Wolfe said dryly.