Read Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 24 for Free Online Page A

in action, so it hadn’t been a special demonstration for Huck.
    I turned to Paul Thayer. “Lewent asked me to stay for dinner, but he’s going to skip it, so do you think I rate a cocktail?”
    “Sure, it’s routine.” He was matter-of-fact. “It was started by my aunt a couple of years ago when his legs went bad, and he has kept it up. How goes it? Have you spotted her?”
    “Not to paste a label on.” I aimed a thumb at the cabinet. “What’s this, a dishwasher?”
    “Hell no, a chow wagon. Designed by my aunt and made to order. Plug it in any outlet.”
    “It’s quite a vehicle.” I moved to it. “Mr. Wolfe ought to have one for breakfast in his room. May I take a look?”
    “Sure, go ahead. I’ve got to wash my hands.”
    He went to the sink and turned on a faucet. I opened the door of the cabinet. There was room enough inside for breakfast for a family, with many grooves for the shelves so that the spaces could be arranged as desired. I slid a couple of them out and in, tapped the walls, and inspected the thermostat.
    “Very neat,” I said admiringly. “Just what I want for my ninetieth birthday.”
    “I’ll remember and send you one.” He was patting his hands with a paper towel.
    “Do so.” I neared him. “Tell me something. Did Lewent say anything—uh—disagreeable about Miss Riff to you this afternoon?”
    He squinted at me. “What are you talking about?”
    “I’m just asking. Did he?”
    “No. I haven’t seen Lewent this afternoon, not since he brought you up to my room and left us. Now I’ve answered, why did you ask?”
    “Something someone said. Forget it.”
    “Who said what?”
    I shook my head. “Later. If you don’t want to forget it, I’ll save it for after dinner. We’ll be late for cocktails.”
    He tossed the paper towel at a wastebasket, missed it, growled something, went and picked it up and dropped it in, told me to come on, and led the way to the elevator.
    The provision for drinks in Huck’s room, which was large and lush with luxury, was ample and varied. They were on a portable bar near the center of the room, and alongside it was Huck in his wheelchair, freshly shaven, his hair brushed with care, wearing a lemon-colored shirt, a maroon bow tie, and a maroon jacket. Also the plaid woolen shawl that had covered his lower half had been replaced by a maroon quilted one. The room was lit softly but well enough, with lamps around—one of them a rosy silk globe at the end of a metal staff clamped to the frame of Huck’s chair. As Thayer and I approached, Huck greeted us.
    “Daiquiri as usual, Paul? And you, Mr. Goodwin?”
    Having spotted a bottle of Mangan’s Irish in the collection, I asked for that. Huck poured it himself, and Sylvia Marcy passed it to me. She had changed from her nurse’s uniform to a neat little number, a dress of exactly the same color as Huck’s shirt, as well as I could tell in that light; but she hadn’t changed her coo. Mrs. O’Shea stood off to one side, sipping something on the rocks, and Dorothy Riff was there by the bar with a half-emptied long one. With my generous helping of Mangan’s, I backed off a little and looked and listened. I have good eyes and ears, and they have had long training under the guidance of Nero Wolfe, but I couldn’t see a movement or hear a word or tone that gave the faintest hint that one of them knew a body with a crushed skull was lying only fifty feet away, waiting to be found. They talked and got refills and laughed at a story Huck told. It was a nice little gathering, not hilarious, but absolutely wholesome.
    At the end Huck made it more wholesome still. Mrs. O’Shea was starting to leave, and he called to her, and when she rejoined us he leaned over to reach a low rack at the side of his chair. Coming up with three little boxes bearing the name of Tiffany, he addressed the females.
    “I’m sure you know, you three, that if it weren’t for you my life would be miserable, crippled as I