Anyhow Wolfe had taken the job and there I was. I pulled a slip of paper from my pocket, typed on by me from notes taken of the talk with Harry Koven, and gave it a look.
MARCELLE KOVEN, wife ADRIAN GETZ, friend or camp follower, maybe both PATRICIA LOWELL, agent (manager?), promoter PETE JORDAN, artist, draws Dazzle Dan BYRAM HILDEBRAND, artist, also draws D.D.
One of those five, according to Harry Koven, had stolen his gun, a Marley .32, and he wanted to know which one. As he had told it, that was all there was to it, but it was a cinch that if the missing object had been an electric shaver or a pair of cufflinks it would not have called for all that lip-chewing, not to mention other signs of strain. He had gone out of his way, not once but twice, to declare that he had no reason to suspect any of the five of wanting to do any shooting. The second time he had made it so emphatic that Wolfe had grunted and I had lifted a brow.
Since a Marley .32 is by no means a collector’s item, it was no great coincidence that there was one in our arsenal and that therefore we were equipped to furnish Koven with the prop he wanted for his performance. As for the performance itself, the judicious thing to do was wait and see, but there was no point in being judicious about something I didn’t like, so I had already checked it off as a dud.
I dismissed the taxi at the address on Seventy-sixth Street, east of Lexington Avenue. The house had had its front done over for the current century, unlike Nero Wolfe’s old brownstone on West Thirty-fifth Street, which still sported the same front stoop it had started with. To enter this one you went down four steps instead of up seven, and I did so, after noting the pink shutters at the windows of all four floors and the tubs of evergreens flanking the entrance.
I was let in by a maid in uniform, with a pug nose and lipstick about as thick as Wolfe spreads Camembert on a wafer. I told her I had an appointment with Mr. Koven. She said Mr. Koven was not yet available and seemed to think that settled it, making me no offer for my hat and coat.
I said, “Our old brownstone, run by men only, is run better. When Fritz or I admit someone with an appointment we take his things.”
“What’s your name?” she demanded in a tone indicating that she doubted if I had one.
A loud male voice came from somewhere within. “Is that the man from Furnari’s?”
A loud female voice came from up above. “Cora, is that my dress?”