Rex Stout - The Easter Parade Murder

I swiveled my chair to face Nero Wolfe directly across the expanse of his desk top, and to look him in the eye. Then I made a speech.

“Nothing doing. If you wanted me to hook something really worth while, like a Mogok ruby, I might consider it, but I am not an orchid snatcher. For what you pay me I do your mail, I make myself obnoxious to people, I tail them when necessary, I shoot when I have to and get shot at, I stick around and take every mood you’ve got, I give you and Theodore a hand in the plant rooms when required, I lie to Inspector Cramer and Sergeant Stebbins whether required or not, I even help Fritz in the kitchen in emergencies, I answer the phone. I could go on and on. But I will not grab an orchid from a female bosom in the Easter parade. There is—”

“I haven’t asked you to,” Wolfe snapped. He wiggled a finger at me. “You assumed I was headed for that, but you were wrong. I only said I wanted to hire someone for such an errand — someone adroit, discreet, resolute, and reliable.”

“Me, then,” I insisted.

“Pfui. Granting that you qualify, you are not unique. I would pay him a hundred dollars, another hundred if successful, and all expenses if a predicament results.”

My brows went up. “Wow. Maybe I’m not unique, but the orchid must be.”

“It is.” The seventh of a ton of him came forward in his custom-built chair. “Mr. Millard Bynoe has produced a flamingo-pink Vanda — both petals and sepals true pink, with no tints, spots, or edgings.”

“Hooray!”

“But I don’t believe it. I have it from Mr. Lewis Hewitt, who had it from his gardener, who had it from Mr. Bynoe’s gardener, but I don’t believe it. As you know, I have been hybridizing for a pink Vanda for years, and have come no closer to it than the rose-lilac of peetersiana, or the magenta of sandarae. I don’t believe it, and I have to see it.”

“Then phone Bynoe and arrange it. You won’t leave the house on business, but this isn’t business, it’s an acute attack of incurable envy. I’ll go along to watch your face—”

“I have phoned him. He cordially invited me to visit his collection at my convenience, at his place on Long Island, but he wouldn’t admit that he has a pink Vanda, so I wouldn’t see it. According to Mr. Hewitt, he intends to display it in its full glory at the International Flower Show next year, but that is too long to wait. No one has seen it but Mr. Bynoe himself, his wife, and his gardener. But — also from Mr. Hewitt — his wife has persuaded him to let her wear a spray of it on Easter Day. They will attend Easter service at Saint Thomas’s Church. That will provide an opportunity, if not to inspect the plant, at least to see the bloom.”

“It sure will,” I agreed enthusiastically. “You’ve never been in an Easter parade and it will be a treat for you. Only you ought to have a new suit and hat, and it’s only five days—”

I stopped because he wasn’t reacting properly. Instead of scowling or growling, or both, he was merely nodding thoughtfully, as if the idea of rubbing elbows, not to mention other parts of his anatomy, with his fellow beings in the Fifth Avenue Easter mob wasn’t repellent at all. Envy broadens a man.

“It wouldn’t do,” he declared. “If I could plant myself in front of her for a prolonged scrutiny...” His shoulders went up and down. “No. I must examine them at leisure, at least one of them, and with a glass. I wouldn’t expect you to do it. Nor Saul. Orrie?”

I shook my head. “I doubt it. Not just for the two Cs, but he might as a personal favor for you.”

He made a face. “I won’t solicit a favor.”

“Okay. There isn’t time to put an ad in the paper for an experienced orchid snatcher. Do you want me to scare one up?”

“I do.”

“Then I’ll scout around. I have a prospect in mind — in fact, two. But forget about the predicament expenses. The predicament, if any, will be up to him. A C for the try, and another C if he gets the spray or a usable part of it. Right?”

“Yes.” Wolfe was frowning. But if he fails—” He aimed the frown at me. “You have a color camera.”

“ You have,” I corrected him. “You paid for it. I use it on occasion.”

“I suggest that you may regard this as an occasion. Your Sundays are your own when we are not engaged on an important case, but you may take some other day instead. Aren’t there dozens of people with cameras up and down Fifth Avenue in that pandemonium?”

“Not dozens. Thousands.”

He turned a hand over. “Well?”

“Uh-huh.” I considered it. “I admit he might flub it, and I admit I could get a picture, though I can’t say how true the color would be. Pinks are tricky. But I guess it’s no go, because as you say, my Sundays are mine, and I would do it only as a personal favor for you, and you won’t solicit a favor. Too bad.”

“I should have qualified that. There are only four people of whom I would ask a favor, and Orrie is not one of them. You are.”

“Then go ahead and ask. Call me Mr. Goodwin.”

His lips tightened. “Mr. Goodwin,” he said coldly, “I solicit a favor.”

It’s amazing what lengths a man will go to for envy.

Easter Sunday the weather wasn’t perfect, but I had seen much worse. As, shortly before noon, I left the old brownstone, the sun was slanting down into West Thirty-fifth Street, and I crossed over to have it on me. The breeze from the river wasn’t as chilly as I had expected, and I unbuttoned my topcoat. I was not arrayed, merely had my clothes on, with the Centrex, loaded and ready, dangling from a strap over my shoulder.

Crosstown to Fifth Avenue, and uptown for five blocks, it was just a pleasant walk with plenty of room, but in front of the library some early birds were already around, moving or standing in the sunshine, and I had to start dodging. From there on it got thicker all the way, and it was a good thing I had allowed extra time, since I had told Tabby I would be in front of Saint Thomas’s at twelve-thirty.

Tabby will do for him, though I know his name and address. Tabby will do. It had been a mistake to bait him with two Cs, one down and one if and when, since a pair of twenties would have been more his speed, and it might make him nervous, but I had followed orders. I had briefed him thoroughly, shown him pictures of Millard Bynoe and his wife, and even introduced Vanda to him by giving him a spray, though not flamingo-pink, from one of Wolfe’s plants. There would be a lot of bosoms sporting orchids in that stampede, from Cattleyas to Calanthes. Also, to cinch it, I was going to give him a sign.

By the time I reached Saint Patrick’s at Fiftieth Street, with three blocks to go, the street was no better than the sidewalks — absolutely solid with dressed-up bipeds, some of them looking pleased and even happy. The display of lipstick colors and patterns, goofy hats, and flossy neckties deserved more appreciation than I had time for as I wormed my way north, rubbing not only elbows but shoulders and hips. As I pushed through to the curb in front of Saint Thomas’s, I was thinking it might be worth while to come back next year on my own time for a thorough survey of the panorama, provided I could rent a suit of armor at a bargain. At Fifty-second Street a six-foot amazon in a purple ensemble had got me in the ribs.

I stretched my own six feet by rising on my toes and spotted Tabby, anchored out of the current in a niche flanking the church entrance. He was a little squirt, several inches under six feet, but I got enough of him to see that the C I had given him had gone down the drain for a new topcoat, a gray plaid, and a new hat, a classy gray snap-brim. The true Easter-parade spirit, I thought, and grinned at him when I caught his eye. It wasn’t necessary to shove through to him, since he had been well briefed.