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would have given a dozen polyester buttons to know whether he had planned it while he was dictating letters or while he was reading
Travels with Charley.

Chapter 4
    T he house rules in the old brownstone on West 35th Street are of course set by Wolfe, since he owns the house, but any variation in the morning routine usually comes from me. Wolfe sticks to his personal schedule: at 8:15 breakfast in his room on the second floor, on a tray taken up by Fritz, at nine o’clock to the elevator and up to the plant rooms, and down to the office at eleven. My schedule depends on what is stirring and on what time I turned in. I need to be flat a full eight hours, and at night I adjust the clock on my bedstand accordingly; and since I spent that Wednesday evening at a theater, and then at the Flamingo, with a friend, and it was after one when I got home, I set the pointer at 9:30.
    But it wasn’t the radio, nudged by the clock, that roused me Thursday morning. When it happened I squeezed my eyes tighter shut to try to figure out what the hell it was. It wasn’t the phone, because I had switched my extension off, and anyway it wasn’t loud enough. It was a bumblebee, and why the hell was a bumblebee buzzing around 35th Street in the middle of the night? Or maybe the sun was up. I forced my eyesopen and focused on the clock. Six minutes to nine. And it was the house phone, of course, I should have known. I rolled over and reached for it.
    “Archie Goodwin’s room, Mr. Goodwin speaking.”
    “I’m sorry, Archie.” Fritz. “But she insists—”
    “Who?”
    “A woman on the phone. Something about buttons. She says—”
    “Okay, I’ll take it.” I flipped the switch of the extension and got the receiver. “Yes? Archie Goodwin speak—”
    “I want Nero Wolfe and I’m in a hurry!”
    “He’s not available. If it’s about the ad—”
    “It is. I saw it in the
News.
I know about some buttons like that and I want to be first—”
    “You are. Your name, please?”
    “Beatrice Epps. E-P-P-S. Am I first?”
    “You are if it fits. Mrs. Epps, or Miss?”
    “Miss Beatrice Epps. I can’t tell you now—”
    “Where are you, Miss Epps?”
    “I’m in a phone booth at Grand Central. I’m on my way to work and I have to be there at nine o’clock, so I can’t tell you now, but I wanted to be first.”
    “Sure. Very sensible. Where do you work?”
    “At Quinn and Collins in the Chanin Building. Real estate. But don’t come there, they wouldn’t like it. Ill phone again on my lunch hour.”
    “What time?”
    “Half past twelve.”
    “Okay, I’ll be at the newsstand in the Chanin Building at twelve-thirty and I’ll buy you a lunch. I’ll have an orchid in my buttonhole, a small one, white and green, and I’ll have a hundred—”
    “I’m late, I have to go. I’ll be there.” The connectionwent. I flopped back onto the pillow, found that I was too near awake for another half-hour to be any good, swung around, and got my feet on the floor.
    At ten o’clock I was in the kitchen at my breakfast table, sprinkling brown sugar on a buttered sour-milk griddle cake, with the
Times
before me on the rack. Fritz, standing by, asked, “No cinnamon?”
    “No,” I said firmly. “I’ve decided it’s an aphrodisiac.”
    “Then for you it would be—how is it? Taking coal somewhere.”
    “Coals to Newcastle. That’s not the point, but you mean well and I thank you.”
    “I always mean well.” Seeing that I had taken the second bite, he stepped to the range to start the next cake. “I saw the advertisement. Also I saw the things on your desk that you brought in the suitcase. I have heard that the most dangerous kind of case for a detective is a kidnaping case.”
    “Maybe and maybe not. It depends.”
    “And in all the years I have been with him this is the first kidnaping case he has ever had.”
    I sipped coffee. “There you go again, Fritz, circling around. You could just ask, is it a kidnaping case? and I