Chapter 11
Sometimes I thought it was a wonder Wolfe and I got on together at all. The differences between us, some of them, showed up plainer at the table than anywhere else. He was a taster and I was a swallower. Not that I didn’t know good from bad; after seven years of education from Fritz’s cooking I could even tell, usually, superlative from excellent. But the fact remained that what chiefly attracted Wolfe about food in his pharynx was the affair it was having with his taste buds, whereas with me the important point was that it was bound for my belly. To avoid any misunderstanding, I should add that Wolfe was never disconcerted by the problem of what to do with it when he was through tasting it. He could put it away. I have seen him, during a relapse, dispose completely of a ten-pound goose between eight o’clock and midnight, while I was in a corner with ham sandwiches and milk hoping he would choke. At those times he always ate in the kitchen.
It was the same in business, when we were on a case. A thousand times I’ve wanted to kick him, watching him progress leisurely to the elevator on his way to monkey with the plants upstairs, or read a book tasting each phrase, or discuss with Fritz the best storage place for dry herbs, when I was running around barking my head off and expecting him to tell me where the right hole was. I admit he was a great man. When he called himself a genius he had a right to mean it whether he did or not. I admit that he never lost us a bet by his piddling around. But since I’m only human, I couldn’t keep myself from wanting to kick him just because he was a genius. I came awful close to it sometimes, when he said things like, “Patience, Archie; if you eat the apple before it’s ripe your only reward is a bellyache.”
Well, this Wednesday afternoon, after lunch, I was sore. He went indifferent on me; he even went contrary. He wouldn’t cable the guy in Rome to get into converse with Santini; he said it was futile and expected me to take his word for it. He wouldn’t help me concoct a loop we could use to drag Leopold Elkus into the office; according to him, that was futile too. He kept trying to read in a book while I was after him. He said there were only two men in the case whom he felt any inclination to talk to: Andrew Hibbard and Paul Chapin; and he wasn’t ready yet for Chapin and he didn’t know where Hibbard was, or whether he was alive or dead. I knew Saul Panzer was going to the morgue every morning and afternoon to look over the stiffs, but I didn’t know what else he was doing. I also knew that Wolfe had talked with Inspector Cramer on the phone that morning, but that was nothing to get excited about; Cramer had shot his bolt a week ago at Paul Chapin and all that was keeping him awake was the routine of breathing.
Saul had phoned around noon and Wolfe had talked to him from the kitchen while I was out with Pitney Scott. A little after two Fred Durkin phoned. He said that Paul Chapin had been to the barber and a drugstore, and that the town dick and the guy in the brown cap and pink necktie were still on deck, and he was thinking of forming a club. Wolfe went on reading. About a quarter to three Orrie Cather called up and said he had got hold of something he wanted to show us and could he come on up with it; he was at the Fourteenth Street subway station. I told him yes. Then, just before Orrie arrived, a call came that made Wolfe put down his book. It was from Farrell the architect, and Wolfe talked to him. He said he had had a nice lunch with Mr. Oglethrope, and he had had a tough argument but had finally persuaded him. He was phoning from the publisher’s office. Paul Chapin had on several occasions found it convenient to make use of a typewriter there, but there was some disagreement as to which one or ones, so he was going to take samples from a dozen of them. Wolfe told him to be sure that the factory number of the machine appeared on each sample.
I said, after we hung up, “Okay, that one’s turning brown. But even if you hang the warnings on him, you’ve just started. The Harrison demise is out, you’ll never tie that up. And I’m telling you that the same goes for Dreyer, unless you get Leopold Elkus down here and perform an operation on him. You’ve got to find a hole in his story and open it up, or we’ve licked. What the hell are we waiting for? It’s all right for you, you can keep occupied, you’ve got a book to read — what the devil is it, anyhow?”
I got up to take a squint at it, a dark gray cover stamped in gold: The Chasm of the Mind, by Andrew Hibbard. I grunted. “Huh, maybe that’s where he is, maybe he fell in.”
“Long ago.” Wolfe sighed. “Poor Hibbard, he couldn’t exclude his poetic tendencies even from his title. Any more than Chapin can exclude his savagery from his plots.”
I dropped back into my chair. “Listen, boss.” There was nothing he hated more than being called boss. “I’m beginning to catch on. I suppose Dr. Burton has written books too, and Byron, and maybe Dreyer, and of course Mike Ayers. I’ll take the roadster and drive out to Pike County for a little duck hunting, and when you get caught up with your reading just wire me care of Cleve Sturgis and I’ll mosey back and we’ll tackle this murder case. And take it easy, take your time; if you eat the apple after it is too ripe you’ll get ptomaine poisoning or erysipelas or something, at least I hope to God you will.” I was glaring at him, with no result except to make me feel like a sap, because he merely shut his eyes so as not to see me. I got up from my chair and glared anyhow. “Damn it, all I’m asking for is just a little halfway co-operation! One little lousy cablegram to that Roman wop! I ask you, should I have to work myself into turmoil — now what the hell do you want?”
The last was for Fritz. He had appeared in the door. He was frowning, because he never liked to hear me yell at Wolfe, and I frowned back at him. Then I saw someone standing behind him and I let the frown go and said: