Death on Deadline Read Free Page B

slowly.
    “All right, Archie,” he said. “Today is Thursday; I will show my flexibility by forgoing my appointment in the plant rooms if in turn you will call Saul and inform him you are unable to play poker tonight.”
    He had me, of course, and I backed off. For more years than I’m going to admit to here, I have played in a poker game every Thursday night at Saul Panzer’s apartment on East Thirty-eighth near Lexington with Saul, Lon Cohen, Fred Durkin, and one or two others—the cast varies. I think I’ve missed once in the last five years, and that was because of a virus that knocked me so low that Lily Rowan, so she said later, was going to send over a priest to administer last rites.
    Saul Panzer, in case you’re new to these precincts, is a free-lance operative Wolfe uses frequently, but just saying that doesn’t do him justice. Saul isn’t much to look at, what with the stooped shoulders and the permanently wrinkled suits and the usually unshaven face that’s about two-thirds nose. But don’t be fooled by that or by his size, which makes him look like an aging and only slightly overweight jockey. When you buy Saul Panzer’s time—and he doesn’t come cheap—you’re buying the best eyes and legs in Manhattan and probably in the country. He could tail a cheetah from the Battery to the Bronx during the evening rush hour without losing sight of it, or he could worm his way into the vault at that bank down in Atlanta and get back out again with the secret formula for Coca-Cola. And I mean the old—make that classic —formula.
    You’re probably wondering why I’m going on about Saul and his Thursday-night poker game. I could say it’s because this is one of the best parts of my week, which is true, although the real reason is that this story had its beginnings there. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
    It was a Thursday in early May, one of New York’s first bona fide spring days. Five of us sat around the big table in Saul’s dining room. On my left was Lon Cohen, who has an office next door to the publisher of the Gazette and doesn’t have a title I’m aware of, but who knows more about what makes New York tick than the city council and the police department combined. Next to him was Fred Durkin, thick and balding and a little slow, but A-one when it comes to toughness and loyalty, another free-lance operative Wolfe has used regularly through the years. On Fred’s left was Saul, and between Saul and me was Bill Gore, yet another free-lance we use on occasions.
    The game had been going for about an hour and a half. As usual, Saul had the biggest stack of chips, and I was up a little, with Fred and Bill more or less even. Lon, consistently the best player after Saul, hadn’t won a hand, and it was easy to see why. He’d folded at least three times with what I’m sure were the winning cards, and once he stayed in the game with a pair of jacks against Fred’s obvious straight. He was off his game and playing badly, and when we cashed in a little after midnight he was the only loser. “Tough night, Lon,” Fred said as he slipped his profits into his wallet and left humming. For him, it was probably the first winning night in months.
    Because Nero Wolfe’s brownstone on West Thirty-fifth over near the Hudson is more or less on the way home for Lon, we usually share a taxi after poker. “Not your night,” I told him, after we’d flagged a taxi on Lexington. “Seemed like you were a million miles away.”
    “Oh, hell,” Lon said, leaning back against the seat and rubbing his palms over his eyes. “I’ve had a lot on my mind the last few days. I guess it shows.”
    “Care to talk about it?”
    Lon sighed and passed a hand over his dark, slicked-back hair. “Archie, things are up for grabs at the Gazette. Nothing has gotten out about this yet, so what I’m telling you is confidential.” He lowered his voice to almost a whisper, even though a plastic panel separated us from the cabbie.