I didn't sleep in.  For the second day in a row I set my alarm clock, and it took a glass of orange juice, three of Fritz's griddle cakes, and half of the Gazette to start me off behaving in what I consider to be a civilized manner.  I looked over to where Fritz was adding herbs to bottles of vinegar while keeping a wary eye on my griddle cake consumption and said, "Good morning, Fritz. I've snuck back in and booted out that rude fellow."

He gave me a tolerant look.  "It is fine, Archie.  I know your dislike of arising after you have not slept to your taste."  He came over and patted my shoulder reassuringly.  "All shall be well.  I will be here to cook today and you will both feel better." I blinked in astonishment.  Sundays are his days off, and he defends this freedom religiously.  He caught my look and shrugged elaborately.  "C'est la guerre.  He said," he glanced up at the ceiling, "that we were attacked last night."

"He was correct.  Hurrah for us, the score is fourteen to zero, home team advantage.  It's time for the half-time show, featuring Wolfe the Wonderful, prestidigitator to the prestigious."

Fritz shook his head.  "I can tell that you have been fantomatique.  There is an attitude, and you are both eating more."

I stopped my fork in mid air, charmed by his answer to a question that had been bothering me for years.  I had always wondered why Wolfe, shoveling it in the way he does and avoiding sweat like a slaughterhouse, hadn't kept layering on fat like the Christmas hog.  Sorcery must be slimming.  It seemed as good a reason as any to eat another one of Fritz's griddlecakes.

When I had finished breakfast, I went up to Wolfe's bedroom.  He had the names for me:

Mr. Bruce Hancock-Skinner
Mr. Hugyan Fischer
M. Frans De Blieu
Miss Leonne Lee
Miss Caroline Amdahl

I do not like lists, but I'm reproducing this one here because it turned out to have points of interest.  Wolfe also listed their addresses for me.  Since these characters are both powerful and whimsical with it, I'll give you a break and omit them. 

Wolfe could have left the roster on my desk and let me sleep in, but he wanted to repeat his finger-painting exercises.  When I hit the sidewalks that morning, I was more careful than usual to look both ways before crossing the streets.  I figured Wolfe's handiwork would be even harder to explain to the emergency room nurses than the ragged underwear my Aunt Viola always warned me about.

It was a fine late autumn day, illuminated by bright sunlight that edged the shadows razor-sharp.  A breeze sweeping off the Hudson added a touch of chill to the air and rustled the leaves on the penthouse trees.  The families on their way back from church were brisk and cheerful, and the women were all wearing their most colorful hats and scarves.  For a moment, I was tempted to delay chasing down esoteric masters and detour to Central Park.  That morning the city seemed too vivid, too clear, to host the shenanigans I was mixed up with. 

Instead, I decided to visit Caroline Amdahl and Bruce Hancock-Skinner.  They shared an address although Wolfe had placed them on the opposite ends of his list.  Typical:  I think it burns him that he can't single-handedly keep up the Victorian practice of segregating male and female authors onto separate shelves without my---but that's a private debate.  Heading downtown into the ragged fringes of the Village, I found a townhouse that was marginally cleaner than its neighbors.  In the window on the ground floor was taped-up a visiting card that had typed upon it, "Metaphysical Investigations, By Appointment Only." I knocked. 

The woman who answered the door was a stunner.  I don't want to imply that she was the sort of lady I take out dancing while researching beauty throughout the ages.  I mean that the sight of her was stunning.  She was as large as Wolfe but lacked his even packing and was topped off by a pile of hair dyed carrot-orange.  Her bulk had been poured into a loose blue cotton dress patterned with gold suns and moons.  A cigarette hung from the corner of her mouth.  I could tell that she had just started her trip through the day and was inclined to be peevish about the view.

"Yeah? Whadda ya want?"  It had only needed that voice:  gravel and a case of beer glasses tossed into a cement mixer together.

"I'm here to see Caroline Amdahl, Bruce Hancock-Skinner, or both.  My name is Archie Goodwin, and I work for Nero Wolfe."

"Oh, yeah?" She took her time examining me.  The brown eyes peering out over her fat cheeks were sharp.  "Let's see some I.D."

I fished out my card case with my P.I. licenses and held it up next to my face so that she could have a good look.

"Okay, you'd better come in." Undoing a chain bolt, she let me in to the building, and then closed up behind me.  On the hall table was an ashtray, in which she stubbed out the cigarette.  I appreciated the sacrifice.  Going over to the carpeted staircase, she bellowed up it, "Bruce! Visitor!" before jerking her head towards the door of the front room.  "Let's go sit.  He'll be a while.  He fusses around in the bathroom, this time of day."

To my surprise, the front room would have made even Wolfe proud.  The Oriental furnishings were put together without the gimcrack details most people can't resist.  The Chinese landscape scrolls on the walls were spectacular.

"Nice," I said and meant it.  Although I doubted she had a hand in the design, she at least knew enough not to mess it up.  Not an ashtray in sight.

"Thanks, I'm sure.  I gotta get one of those T'ang horses for the pedestal," she jerked a thumb towards a black lacquered fantasia, "but everything else is pretty much the way I pictured it.  You wanna cup of coffee?"

"I'd take a glass of milk if you have it."

"You betcha." She got up, waddled out, and came back with a tray of drinks that included my glass of milk.  It was exactly the right temperature and tasted wonderful.  I had time to finish the glass before Hancock-Skinner showed up.

I was surprised to see that he was a Negro.  Otherwise, he was a tall, skinny character, with a pair of pince-nez perched on the bridge of his long, Roman nose.  His eyes were watery blue and examined me quizzically.  It took a moment to figure out what to call his get-up.  You don't see many pairs of breeches these days, especially breeches made from off-purple velvet.  I knew that, if I asked him, he would tell me that the color of the cloth was mauve or aubergine.  His wavy black hair had been slicked back, and I caught a faint whiff of Florida water wafting off of him.  The handshake was all right, though, firm and dry.

Miss Amdahl had brought in coffee for both of them.  The way she poured reminded me of Wolfe handling one of his books.  We all sat down, and I told them my business as they drank.  When I was done, they exchanged a long look and then Hancock-Skinner turned to me.

"We haven't seen him in years, but we owe Nero Wolfe a considerable sum of gratitude."  His sing-song accent was unusual.  It took me a moment to identify it as Caribbean.  "It will be a pleasure to reduce our indebtedness.  Do you have a particular evening in mind?"

"How about tonight?  Eight o'clock would be good if you're free."

"That will be fine.  Let me give you our card, in case there is a need to reschedule."  He took a business card out of his vest pocket and passed it to me.  When I took it, our fingers brushed, and his eyes widened slightly.  Miss Amdahl caught the change in his expression and set her coffee cup down on its saucer with a clink.

"Is something wrong?" I asked. 

"No, young man, you merely took me by surprise.  It is unusual for one of your age and strength to go unnoticed in our circles."

"I'm new to all this business."

"It shows, I'm afraid.  However, you could not be starting out with a better patron."  His tone was pleasant, but I didn't feel like sharing the details of my private life.

"Thanks.  I hope you will both excuse me, but I have some other calls to make."

Miss Amdahl rolled her eyes.  "Yeah, I bet you do.  Better you than me, kid."  I didn't feel like comparing ages, either, so I said my good-byes and left.

Since I was in the neighborhood, I decided to check in with Miss Leonne Lee.  She lived in Chinatown over a restaurant that promised me Peking Duck made crispy-good.  I climbed the three flights of tenement stairs to reach her apartment since the sign on the elevator told me 'out of order' in one language that I recognized and two that I did not.  When I rang her bell, I heard a high voice call out, "just a minute."  She was telling the truth.  It took fifty-eight seconds by my watch for her to open the door.

She was slender and short, with black hair and dark eyes.  From her features and skin, I pegged her as Chinese-and-something-American.  Her dress was cut low of soft brown linen and clung without being stubborn about it.  When she tilted her head and looked me over, I was reminded of a sparrow, if they have sparrows that attractive in Shanghai. 

"Mr.  Goodwin," she said and opened her door wide.  I was surprised she recognized me, but I thought she had seen my picture in the Gazette after one of our cases.  It only goes to show that I still hadn't adjusted to the kind of person I was dealing with now.

She led me into her living room which was unremarkable if you allowed for her fondness for paintings of floating bells and burning tubas.  After insisting that I take the room's one armchair, she perched on the ottoman by my feet.

"I will be glad to meet with you and Mr.  Wolfe at eight this evening although I am not the person you are looking for."

I silently counted to ten before I spoke.  "I'm sure you're right, but you know Mr.  Wolfe will want to hear it for himself."

She laughed, and it was like little golden bells ringing.  I would have never thought that sound could get on my nerves.  "I'm sorry;  I was rushing you, wasn't I?  Sometimes I have problems remembering how to talk to straight-line people."

"That's okay.  Remember to put the beginning first and leave the end for last, drop everything else in the middle, and you'll be fine."

"If only it were that easy."  She leaned forwards, and touched my knee.  "Don't eat Monsieur De Blieu's cookies.  They'll only give you indigestion.  He forgot the baking soda again."

"Thanks for the tip.  Is there anything else I should know?"

She frowned, and a small wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows.  "No, nothing you would heed right now.  Oh, don't worry about telling her, she already knows.  Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"I don't know.  Am I finished?"

"Yes," she said, stood up, and darted to the door.  "It will be nice seeing you again."

"I'm looking forward to it," I said and beat it out into the hall.  She shut the door behind me, and, faintly, behind its barrier, I could hear the golden bells jingling away.  I shook my head.  Maybe Wolfe had given me the list of his fellow eccentrics rather than his fellow occultists.  On the other hand, maybe the two things automatically went together.  I hoped not.  If that was true, and I had joined their ranks, I might be looking at a future of wearing tweeds and playing the xylophone.

I stopped for lunch at an almost new midtown delicatessen best known for pastrami sandwiches.  Their reputation was well earned if my meal was typical.  Even the potato salad was worthy of a mention to Fritz. Afterwards, I joined the trickle of junior business types trudging back uptown after their Sunday lunches to the office buildings where they would finish off their seventy-hour work weeks.  Escaping onto a side street, I found a small brownstone with neoclassical detailing jammed between two of the concrete and glass towers that you saw more and more of in those days as the economy finally picked back up again.

I went up the steps and pushed the button on the speaker outside the front door.

"Yes?"

"Archie Goodwin, to see Mr. De Blieu on behalf of Nero Wolfe."

"Put your hand on the speaker, please."

It made no sense at all, but I did it.  I wondered if my palm was somehow being read. 

"All right." The door lock clicked.  "Come on up."

A Persian Fakarihan runner covered the stairs in the entrance hall, and a drop crystal chandelier hung from the entryway ceiling.  I wasn't surprised.  It must have taken a lot of money to resist the offers of the developers on either side.  I went up to the door at the head of the stairs and knocked. 

"Enter."

The room wasn't what I'd expected.  The entire second floor of the house had been opened out into a single, pillared chamber, with the only light provided by a trio of tall, stained glass windows that took up the south wall and depicted three sailing ships on a blue sea.  Wolfe told me later that the work was by Faberge, in case you follow such details.  My attention was caught and held by the floor, which was of black marble.  On it were inlaid several overlapping circles and symbols in gold.  When I entered, the two occupants of the room were kneeling, blowing out candles placed at the intersections of two of the circles.

The man was handsome enough to seem a little unreal.  He was a platinum blond, but his irises were a purple so dark that they were almost black.  His eyelashes were too long for my taste and so was his hair.  All of his clothes could have been bought in any student's haberdashery over by Columbia University.  The woman was Fay Tremayne.

Her green eyes were examining me as if I were someone she had once admired in a story read long ago and far away.  She said, "You never answered my letter."  She didn't sound resentful;  she was just letting me know that she remembered. 

I shrugged.  Some bruises are best left untouched, but I didn't want to rile her by saying so.  In any case, I was too interested in what a famous female writer was doing crawling around on the floor with one of Wolfe's occult acquaintances to worry about old times.

She answered my question without my having to ask.  "I like to spend time with M. De Blieu.  He is helping me to continue my education.  I see, though, that the two of you have business, so I'll be going."  She got up off the floor, brushed at her skirt, and wandered off in the direction of the stairs.

Fay had changed.  It was as if all her attention had been diverted from men and mischief towards some place that I couldn't see.  I thought about intercepting her, so I could take her back to the brownstone and let Wolfe have another gander at what a brilliant authoress looked like, but decided against it.  Instead, I waited until she was gone and turned to De Blieu, who was still busy blowing out candles.

"We're having a little get-together at eight, this evening, and Mr. Wolfe wondered if you would mind dropping by."

De Blieu pushed a lock of hair back off his forehead and examined me thoughtfully.  "Why?"

"Because.  You might learn something, we might learn something, the refreshments will be good, the company will be interesting.  Take a chance."

"All right."  He was finger combing his hair back in a matter-of-fact way that implied he didn't mean anything special by it.  "Nero Wolfe is interesting enough in and of himself for me to sacrifice an hour or two.  I'll be there."  He nodded to himself and then remembered I was still there.  "Do you want something to eat or drink before you go?"

"No, thanks.  You forgot the baking powder again."

"That's annoying."  He considered how annoying it was and shrugged.  "I have absinthe or Turkish delight if you would prefer a more traditional offering."

"Not this time of the day.  I'm working.  In fact, I have to move right along."

He nodded.  "Yes, and I have to clean up after this botch.  I'll see you this evening, Mr. Goodwin."

I did not linger to explain to him how inviting that prospect was.  I left.

By this point, you would think that I had lost my ability to be surprised, but Fischer blind-sided me.  My last stop was in the upper east eighties, so, since I wanted to report before Wolfe wandered upstairs to glare at all the orchids taking Sunday off, I hailed a cab.  I got in and gave the driver the address, and he made an illegal U-turn and headed downtown.

I rapped on the front seat.  "Excuse me, but I'm not from out of town, and I don't want to see the Empire State Building."

"Since you already found me, kid, I thought I'd save you the trip and dump you back at Wolfe's house."

I glanced at the medallion and then over at the operator's license.  Sure enough, it was Fischer.  "What is it with you folks, a compulsive need to show off?"  It wasn't one of my better efforts, but I was getting annoyed. 

He deftly cut off a limousine whose driver seemed to think legal right of way meant something in Manhattan.  "Hey, you're the new kid in town, and you're Nero Wolfe's boy.  Everyone's trying to show you that they're too tough to be messed with."  Briefly, we were up on the sidewalk.  The pedestrians were amazed. 

I took a deep breath and recited miltonia hybrids to myself before I spoke.  "Look.  I have been a licensed P.I. in this town for almost fifteen years, and I am no one's boy, either by blood or otherwise.  I understand that I'm only just now appearing on your map, but I did have a life of my own before I was---shipped to Siberia." Maybe I should have recited laelia, too.

He was tolerant.  He put one arm along the passenger side of the front seat and craned completely around to look at me while he dodged a mid-town bus.  "No offense, but a lot of us are pretty long-lived, so, to us, you're young.  You're like the new recruit in a veteran squad in the trenches.  After you survive your first few night patrols, then folks'll learn your name and buy you a beer.  Me, though, I'm willing to bet you will make it because Wolfe is your sponsor.  That's like being buddied up with Old Sarge."  He seemed to enjoy his turn of phrase because he paused to consider it while he steered us the wrong way down a one-way street.

I ignored the Midtown Traffic Orchestra's horn rendition of "It Ain't Etiquette," and watched him unwrap a cigar and stick it in his mouth.  Since I had gotten in the cab, his eyes had gone through three colors, his nose had changed from pug to aquiline, and his ancestors had relocated from Ireland to Italy.  Only the accent was staying the same, a weird mix of several dialects and old-fashioned Manhattan.  He had to turn back around to reach his cigarette lighter on the dash, and he took the opportunity to wheel us around a double-parked police car and onto West Thirty-Fifth Street.

"Yeah, Old Sarge.  What does he want, anyhow?"

"We're having a meeting tonight at eight.  Why don't you come and ask him yourself?"

"Sounds good.  Here you go, kid.  Don't bother to pay the meter, it's on the house."

"Gee, thanks, mister."  I got out and leaned in the window.  "Archie Goodwin.  Note the name, please."

"Oh, I did, kid, I did."

He pulled away from the front of the brownstone, taking with him the fourth life of the next-door neighbor's cat, and went merrily off to terrorize a hot dog vendor trundling across the intersection.  I climbed the front stoop and let myself into the house.

It was half past two on a Sunday, so Wolfe was reading a book when I entered the office.  Since, according to his schedule, he was being interrupted, he frowned as he asked, "Well?"

"What, you can't tell by feeling my cranial bumps?"

Wolfe grunted.  "I anticipated some such reaction from you.  Given the circumstances, it is almost justified.  Report."

I had no idea what might be significant when dealing with this new species of animal, so I gave him the conversations verbatim with expressions and gestures.  He listened with his eyes half closed, so I could tell he was taking it in, not sluffing off.  The corner of his mouth twisted twice, once when I mentioned De Blieu's visitor and once when I described the cab ride home.

"Pfui.  Someday that man will overestimate his abilities with machinery," he said when I had finished. 

"As far as I'm concerned, that day was today.  Don't worry, sir, I am never getting into a cab with him behind the wheel again."

"Good."  He made a face.  "His sense of humor is not to be depended upon.  As to the rest, satisfactory."

The word 'satisfactory' made my heart give the usual extra thump, but I ignored it and said, "I don't know why.  I'm having a heck of a time reading these characters, and I'm not sure I picked up on all their cues."

"If you hadn't succeeded, they wouldn't be coming here tonight.  It seems that your intuition comprehends what your conscious mind does not yet understand.  The rest of your intellect will catch up over the next few months."

I turned my palms up.  "If I live through the next few months."

I thought he would accuse me of blathering, but his eyes narrowed to slits, instead.  Then he broke into what was for him a frenzy of activity.  He opened and closed most of the drawers of his desk.  When he took out the battered iron box, to say I was astonished would be too weak.  In all the years I had known him that box had been in his desk, unopened.  Not even the cops had seen its contents, and I'd watched them search his desk three times.  They always ignored it.  I hadn't been able to figure out how Wolfe finessed them.  It had been one of my first clues that something was off-kilter about him.  But, now he opened the box, rummaged through its contents, and took out a gun.

It was an older model, a revolver.  I didn't recognize the make, but the craftsmanship looked European.  Wolfe held it out towards me, butt forward, and I got up and took it from him for closer examination.  It was a beautiful piece of work, well balanced, of blue steel with engravings on the barrel.  I looked closer.  The engravings were the same sorts of characters that Wolfe had been finger-painting onto my torso for the past two days.

"When I still carried a firearm, this was mine.  To the best of my knowledge, it will work on anyone or anything.  You may find it, in the current circumstances, more effective than your automatic."

I weighed the gun in my hand.  Many different words tried to crowd out through my lips, but I was ruthless with them and stuck to business.  "What kind of ammo does it take?"

"For practice, you will find that .38 caliber ammunition will suffice.  These bullets are for when you go out."

The plain cardboard box he slid across to me held cartridges with an unusual sheen to their tips.  "Silver alloy points?"

"Yes, with other additions.  As I have said before, some traditional nostrums are, in fact, potent."  Wolfe closed the box, drummed his fingers on the lid for a minute, and then put it back away in his desk.  I flipped the cylinder open to make sure a stray cartridge wasn't still chambered and then took his gun back to my desk for a good cleaning.  While I worked, Wolfe picked his book back up and pretended to read for a while.  I think it was a relief for both of us when he decided to go up and glare at all the orchids lazing around in Theodore Horstmann's absence.

I took the gun down to the basement to fire a few rounds and take its measure.  When I had finished and was about to go back upstairs, I heard familiar noises.  Fritz was in the wine racks.  I met him at the base of the stairs.  He was cradling a bottle that I didn't recognize.  Funny;  I thought that I'd seen, if not tasted, everything that Wolfe's cellar had to offer.

"Something special for tonight?"

He beamed at me.  "Merveilleux.  This will be your first time exploring the secret of the true wine.  You are in for a treat."

"Don't be so sure.  He may keep it all for himself and the magicians' quintet."

"Oh, no, Archie," Fritz was anxious to reassure me, "he would have shared with you before, if your elan vite could have withstood the strain.  It would have killed you."

I examined the bottle with new interest.  It was a strange shape, with the neck looping back on itself and merging into the body of the bottle.  The cork, believe it or not, was in the base.  Although I couldn't make out much of the label, it seemed to have an engraving of an angel on it.  I made a mental note to ask Saul if he knew the model.

"And now it won't kill me?"

Fritz shrugged.  "How, then, Archie, when you have already died?"

I wasn't going to touch that comment with the longest of Wolfe's walking sticks.