Chapter 1

As nights in July go, it was as pleasant as New York offers, although my positive mood as I walked across town may have been because of my successful session with the cards at Saul Panzer’s apartment on East Thirty-Eighth Street. A group of us play low-stakes poker there every Thursday, and I usually finish the games with my wallet somewhat lighter than when I start.

Saul is normally the big winner, although Lon Cohen of the New York Gazette usually comes away in the black, too. Tonight, though, both Saul and Lon were losers for a change, while Bill Gore did slightly better than break even, Fred Durkin had decent winnings, and I was eighty dollars to the good—my biggest payday in recent memory.

I smiled as I relived the well-concealed heart flush I was dealt in seven-card stud. Saul held a not-so-well-hidden jack-high straight, and he kept raising me, to his ultimate dismay. The biggest pot of the night, by far, rolled my way when the cards came down. Now, normally, I take a taxi home after these games, but the combination of the beautiful weather and the exhilaration of victory propelled me to walk the thirteen blocks west and then slightly south to the old brownstone on Thirty-Fifth Street that I have called home for more than half of my life. And besides, I needed the exercise.

My spirits were so high that I even violated a personal rule and gave a fin to a limping panhandler who was working the corner of Park and Thirty-Seventh. I had a good idea where he would spend the Abe, but at the moment, I didn’t particularly care. All was well with the world.

As I entered the final block of my walk, I was vaguely aware of a car approaching from behind. Probably a cab hauling a late-night reveler home, I thought as I dug into my pocket for the front-door key. But before I could reach it, two gunshots pierced the night stillness, and I thought I heard an impact against one of the walls to my left. Instinctively, I dropped to the sidewalk as the car—it was not a cab, but rather a dark-colored Dodge or Plymouth sedan—roared away, tires squealing as it turned at the intersection and tore away into the night.

So much for my long-held perception that I possessed a sixth sense when it came to detecting approaching danger. I never saw it coming.

Slowly, I got to my feet and brushed off my pants. An upstairs window opened in one of the brownstones across the street that filled the usually peaceful stretch of West Thirty-Fifth Street. “What was that?” a hoarse female voice demanded. “Who’s out there? What happened? You—are you all right?”

I ignored her and climbed the front steps, holding my keys with a shaking hand. But before I could reach the door, it swung open.

“Archie, what is happening?” said Fritz Brenner, clad in a bathrobe, his brow furrowed. “The shots …?”

“That’s what they were, no doubt about it,” I said, swallowing hard and wishing I had something—anything—to drink. “Is Wolfe awake?”

Fritz shook his head. “You know him, Archie; he could sleep right through a hurricane.”

“Well by all means, let him sleep through this, too. And don’t tell him about it when you take him breakfast in his room. We wouldn’t want to interfere with his digestion,” I said, adding, “I’ll fill him in after eleven, when he’s finished his session with the orchids.”

“Was someone shooting at you, Archie?” Fritz looked as shaken as I felt.

“I hardly think so,” I said, trying, without much success, to appear calm. “Maybe it was some joy-riders who’d had themselves a snootful,” I added, not believing my own words.

“But Archie, we haven’t had any gunshots along here for years. Not since—”

“I know,” I said, cutting him off. “Not since Arnold Zeck’s crew machine-gunned the plant rooms.”^*

“But that was some time ago,” Fritz said. “Maybe I should stay up and keep watch on the street.”

“You will do no such thing. Nobody’s coming back to shoot up the neighborhood,” I said with a bravado I did not feel. “You need your sleep, and so do I.”

With that, Fritz bowed his head and, with a mournful expression, turned to go downstairs to his room while I went upstairs to mine.

^* “The Second Confession,” by Rex Stout