Champagne for One

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If it hadn’t been raining and blowing that raw Tuesday morning in March I would have been out, walking to the bank to deposit a couple of cheques, when Austin Byne phoned me, and he might have tried somebody else. But more likely not. He would probably have rung again later, so I can’t blame all this on the weather. As it was, I was there in the office, oiling the typewriter and the two Marley .38’s, for which we had permits, from the same can of oil, when the phone rang and I lifted it and spoke.

“Nero Wolfe’s office, Archie Goodwin speaking.”

“Hello there. This is Byne. Dinky Byne.”

There it is in print for you, but it wasn’t for me, and I didn’t get it. It sounded more like a dying bullfrog than a man.

“Clear your throat,” I suggested, “or sneeze or something, and try again.”

“That wouldn’t help. My tubes are all clogged. Tubes. Clogged. Understand? Dinky Byne—B-Y-N-E.”

“Oh, hallo. I won’t ask how you are, hearing how you sound. My sympathy.”

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