Chapter 1

In hindsight, it probably wasn't the best idea I ever had. When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms on the roof at precisely 6 p.m. on that raw, cloudy March day, settled into the chair custom made for his seventh of a ton, and rang for beer, the first thing he saw was that day's edition of the Daily Bugle on the desk in front of him. Even by the Bugle's blatantly low standards, this one was a doozy. The front page headline blared, "WHITE SLAVERY RING ARRESTS!" above a photo of a well-endowed, half-dressed young woman.

Wolfe raised his eyes and glared at me. "What is this?" he demanded, his mouth twisting in distaste.

At that moment, the doorbell rang, saving me from having to think of a snappy comeback. I made my way down the front hall and looked through the one-way glass next to the door. On the stoop was Wolfe's six o'clock appointment: J. Jonah Jameson, publisher of the Daily Bugle. I slid back the chain bolt and opened the door to admit him.

As I took his hat and coat, he said, "You're Archie Goodwin." There was no point in denying it, so I admitted it. Jameson needed no introduction. His picture appeared frequently in his own newspaper, and others. With his toothbrush mustache, brush-cut hair, and ever-present cigar, he was immediately recognizable.

"This way," I said, starting down the hall to the office. I opened the office door to let him enter and followed him. "Mr. Jameson," I announced.

Jameson went straight to the red leather chair and sat. He didn't offer to shake hands, apparently aware of Wolfe's aversion to the custom. He glanced to his right and put his stogie – unlit, thank God – in the crystal ash tray on the little table next to the chair. The table was conveniently placed for check writing, if that became necessary. A short phone call to our bank, after Jameson's secretary called to make the appointment, had confirmed he could pay the freight, even if Wolfe decided to soak him. With tax day looming in less than ten days, that was highly likely.

As Jameson took his seat, Fritz Brenner, chef extraordinaire and majordomo of the household, arrived with the beer delivery. Wolfe opened the bottle with his solid gold opener, added the cap to the collection in his desk drawer, and poured beer. While he waited for the foam to reach the optimum level, he turned to Jameson and asked, "I'm having beer. Would you care to join me?"

"What? No," Jameson barked. "This isn't a social call. This is serious business."

That was just bad manners. Jameson didn't know it, but he already had one strike against him.

Wolfe frowned."Get down to it, then," he said, with a slight wave of his hand. Fritz returned to the kitchen.

"Are you familiar with the vigilante known as Daredevil, or the Devil of Hell's Kitchen?" Jameson asked.

"Familiar, no," Wolfe replied, "but I have heard of him, of course." Seeing the foam in his glass had reached precisely the correct level, he picked up the glass and drank.

"Then you probably are aware he has been active in Hell's Kitchen for the better part of six years, with occasional interruptions," Jameson said. "Yet his identity has remained a closely-held secret, presumably known to only a few close associates. I want you to expose him."

"To what end, Mr. Jameson?"

"Why, public safety, law and order, of course. The man's a menace, a criminal."

"Then isn't it a job for the police?"

Jameson scoffed. "The police? Those who aren't corrupt are incompetent. Surely you know that. If they were capable of exposing Daredevil, they would have done it by now. And I have it on good authority that some officers even applaud what he does. It makes their job easier, after all."

Wolfe twisted his lips. "And if I were to discover his identity, what do you propose to do with that information?"

"Publish it in the Bugle, of course. It would be the scoop of the year, maybe the decade." Jameson smiled. "Can you imagine how many newspapers I'd sell?"

"I leave that to you," Wolfe replied dryly. He picked up the newspaper from his desk, then put it down, face down, before he stood and addressed Jameson. "I'll consider the job. I will communicate my decision in due course. Good day, sir." He turned and walked out.

Jameson jumped to his feet. "What?" he exclaimed. "You can't – " he said, but he was talking to a closed door. Having no other target, he turned to me. "Get him back in here," he ordered.

I held out my hands. "Sorry," I said, "I don't work for you, I work for Mr. Wolfe."

Jameson was turning an interesting shade of red. "But, but," he stammered, "Wolfe is the only one who can do this. The police are useless. I've hired other investigators, but they wasted my time and money. I need Wolfe."

I was tempted to tell him, "Well, he doesn't need you, bub," but I held my tongue. The man was still a potential client, after all. I crossed the room to the hallway door and held it open. It took a full minute, but Jameson finally moved. Giving me a venomous look, he marched out of the office and down the hall, not waiting for me to help him with his coat. The door slammed behind him. I made sure it was locked before returning to my desk.

# # # # #

The next morning, I breakfasted in the kitchen as usual, on eggs au beurre noir with Canadian bacon and freshly-baked croissants. Wolfe had breakfast in his room, on a tray brought up by Fritz. Shortly before Wolfe left for his two morning hours in the orchid rooms, I buzzed him to confirm he had no new errands for me. He didn't, so I finished my second cup of coffee, thanked Fritz for the meal, and told him I'd be back in time for lunch. At the front door, I grabbed my coat and hat from the rack, put them on, and stepped out onto the stoop, pulling the door shut behind me.

In case you haven't already guessed it, my name is Archie Goodwin, and I'm a licensed private investigator employed by Nero Wolfe. My official title is Wolfe's "confidential assistant," but that covers a lot of territory. Wolfe never (well, almost never) leaves his house on business, so my job is to round up the people and things he needs to work his genius on. In other words, I do the legwork, and Wolfe does the brain work, when I can get him to work at all. In fact, the last part – badgering Wolfe into working – is the most important part of my job. I also double as his secretary and bookkeeper and supply the necessary muscle to deal with, and sometimes eject, unruly clients and visitors. I have my own room with my own furniture, bought and paid for by me, on the third floor of the brownstone owned and occupied by Wolfe. The rest of the household consists of Fritz, whom you have already met, and Theodore Horstmann, the orchid nurse who tends to the 10,000 plants in the rooftop greenhouse. It's an arrangement that suits me, especially considering that I get to enjoy Fritz's cuisine three times a day.

Yesterday's clouds had been replaced by clear skies, so I decided to walk across town to the offices of the New York Gazette. Lon Cohen was expecting me. I'd called him yesterday to ask for the low-down on the two lawyers who had an appointment to see Wolfe this evening at six. Lon knows everything worth knowing about anyone. Sometimes he knows things about people that even they don't know about themselves.

As I walked, I mulled over the job Jameson wanted to hire Wolfe for. Jameson claimed to want to expose Daredevil for "public safety" and "law and order," but I was pretty damn sure his only interest was in selling newspapers. And to be honest, I didn't like the man. So I wasn't totally on board with the idea of exposing Daredevil for him. I hadn't even tried to goad Wolfe into taking the case. I'd heard people talking about Daredevil and how he'd helped people they knew. It seemed to me the only people he hurt were the criminals he beat up and delivered to the cops, usually the worse for wear. Sure, vigilante justice was illegal, but I could think of a few times Wolfe and I had resorted to stratagems that weren't strictly legal, either. If Wolfe turned down the job, I wasn't going to lose any sleep over it.

When I arrived at Lon's office, two doors down from the publisher's, we spent a few minutes discussing last week's poker game before getting down to brass tacks. I left after an hour, feeling confident I knew everything there was to know about a couple of lawyers named Franklin Nelson and Matthew Murdock.

I made it back to the old brownstone a little before eleven and was already at my desk when I heard Wolfe's elevator descending from the plant rooms. He went to his desk and sat, then wished me a good morning. I reciprocated. "You saw Mr. Cohen, I presume?" he asked. I confirmed it. "Report," he ordered, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes.

I flipped open my notebook and began. "Franklin Nelson and Matthew Murdock, both born and raised in Hell's Kitchen, but didn't meet until they were in college at Columbia. Nelson is from a large family, mostly small businessmen. His father owns a combination butcher shop and delicatessen. An uncle owns a hardware store. Franklin, known as 'Foggy' – " Wolfe made a face at the nickname. " – was the first in the family to attend college, which he did on scholarships. Graduated from Columbia in '42 and immediately enlisted. Shipped out to North Africa in '43 and saw action in Italy. Wounded at Monte Cassino, but not too seriously. Was able to rejoin his unit in Rome. Awarded a Purple Heart. Received a battlefield commission and was honorably discharged in '45 as a First Lieutenant.

"Murdock is a different story. First thing you need to know about him is he's blind."

Wolfe gave me a surprised look. "Blind?" he asked.

"As a bat," I confirmed.

Wolfe shook an admonitory finger at me. "Archie." Then he waved his hand a fraction of an inch. "Continue."

"He lost his sight in an accident at the age of nine. According to Lon, he pushed an old man out of the path of an oncoming truck. He saved the old man, but the truck rolled over and spilled the chemicals it was carrying. The chemicals got into the boy's eyes and blinded him.

"Murdock was raised by his father, a journeyman boxer known as 'Battlin' Jack' Murdock. Apparently he was paid to lose fights as often as he was paid to win them. The mother wasn't in the picture. About a year after his son was blinded, Jack was murdered. The case was never solved, but Lon's sources say he was killed because he didn't lose a fight like he was supposed to. After Jack's death, the boy was raised by the nuns at the St. Agnes Orphanage until he left to go to college.

"He graduated from Columbia in '42. He couldn't serve, of course, so he went to work for Stark Industries, the weapons manufacturer. In '43, he left Stark Industries and took a job at the Valley Forge Army Hospital in Pennsylvania, working with soldiers who were blinded in the war. After the war ended, he returned to New York, and he and Nelson enrolled in law school at Columbia. Murdock graduated at the top of their class, Nelson near the top.

"They hung out their shingle in Hell's Kitchen and practiced as Nelson & Murdock for a couple of years. Then they had some kind of falling-out and dissolved their partnership. Lon doesn't know why. But apparently they patched things up, because they re-formed their partnership about three years ago. The firm is small-time: landlord-tenant problems, some personal injury, some criminal defense, small business disputes, that kind of thing. But they have been involved in a few big cases. They defended the so-called 'Punisher,' that crazy mass murderer who terrified the city a few years ago. No other lawyers would touch the case, but they were able to convince the jury to send him to the loony bin instead of death row. While they were practicing separately, Murdock won a big case for a kid who was paralyzed in a subway accident. Nelson has gained a reputation for representing so-called 'superheroes' like the Negro boss in Harlem, Luke Cage, and Jessica Jones, the female private eye. The firm has also been known to work with Daredevil. Nelson is married, as of two years ago, to a lady lawyer, the former Marci Stahl, on a partnership track at Landman & Zack.

"That's the crop," I concluded.

Wolfe let out a bushel of air all at once. "Satisfactory," he declared.

# # # # #

When the doorbell rang at 6:02 that evening, and I went to the door, I didn't see what I was expecting to see through the one-way glass. Along with the two lawyers on the stoop, there were two females, a blonde and a brunette. I opened the door and invited them all in.

As I took our guests' coats and hats and hung them on the coat rack, it was obvious which lawyer was Murdock. He was the one with the red-tinted dark glasses and white cane. He was about my height, with a mop of dark brown hair that took on a reddish hue when the light hit it. His dark gray suit was nothing special, just some pieces of cloth sewn together. It looked like something a blind man would wear.

There was something unexpected about Murdock. It wasn't his blindness. That was expected. But when he turned his back to me while taking off his coat, I noticed how his suit jacket stretched over his back, a very well-muscled back. I don't have much experience with the blind, none really, but a blind man with muscles like that struck me as, well, unusual. Then, before he started down the hall to the office, he paused for a moment and tilted his head. It reminded me of my uncle's hunting dogs, back in Ohio, when they were trying to pick up a scent. I didn't know what Murdock was doing, but I was pretty sure it wasn't that. When he took hold of the brunette's arm and began walking toward the office, I got a very definite impression that he somehow knew where he was going, even though he'd never set foot in the brownstone before. When he arrived at the door to the office, he did the head tilt again, before entering. Then he moved into the office with a confident step that seemed unusual for a blind man, almost as if he didn't need his sighted guide. My mother had always told me to help the handicapped, but he didn't look or act like someone who needed help.

There was nothing surprising about Nelson, except for the beautifully-made blue pinstripe suit that draped his frame. I would have been happy to make room for one like it in my own closet. He'd put on a few pounds since his Army days, but in that suit, they were well camouflaged. His light brown hair was slicked back from a high forehead. Blue eyes radiated sincerity and intelligence. All in all, someone you could take your legal problems to and be confident he would find a solution.

Wolfe scowled when he saw the two women enter the office. Too bad. He would just have to take it. As far as I was concerned, it was no hardship. Both of them were lookers. I sat at my desk and observed the brunette as she guided Murdock into the office. She had an exotic look to her: Mediterranean or Eurasian, maybe. Under her red pillbox hat, her dark brown, almost black hair flowed loose, brushing her shoulders. She was dressed in a black ensemble with crimson piping that I was almost certain was a Dior. An original, not a copy bought off the rack at Macy's. It reminded me of an outfit I'd seen Lily Rowan wearing recently. This was encouraging. If she was the lawyers' client, she could probably pay Wolfe's fee. As she passed by me, I shivered involuntarily. I couldn't put it into words, but there was something unsettling about her.

I wouldn't say the same about the blonde, introduced by Nelson as "Miss Karen Page, our legal secretary." Tall, almost as tall as the two lawyers, and dressed in a simple skirt and sweater set, definitely not by Dior, at first glance she exuded all-American wholesomeness. But that was only on the surface. The look in her eyes, and the way she carried herself, both told me she was no innocent. She knew the score. Whether that was from working in a law office in a rough neighborhood or something else, I didn't know. She would bear watching, too.

The brunette, whom Murdock introduced as "Miss Elektra Natchios," sat in the red leather chair, with the lawyers in yellow chairs on either side of her. Miss Page took a seat in another yellow chair next to Nelson. Wolfe rearranged his seventh of a ton in his chair and rang for Fritz. "I'm having beer," he told the group, gesturing to the half-empty glass in front of him. "May I offer you refreshments?"

Fritz arrived to take the drink orders: cognac for Miss Natchios, Irish whiskey for Nelson and Miss Page, beer for Murdock. Wolfe gave me a surprised look when Murdock requested a Remmer's. Apparently the lawyers had done their homework, if they knew the brand of beer Wolfe preferred.

After the drinks were delivered, including a second bottle of beer for Wolfe, he poured and waited for the foam to reach its proper level before drinking. Then he asked, "What can I do for you, gentlemen?"

Murdock drank beer and licked the foam from his lips before answering. Of course he couldn't see that the foam in his glass was still too high. "Miss Natchios is the adopted daughter and sole heir of Hugo Kostas Natchios. He made his fortune in shipping before the war. After the Axis occupied Greece in 1941, he represented the Greek government in exile here in New York. Miss Natchios attended Barnard College during the war. Foggy and I made her acquaintance while we were at Columbia."

OK, that explained how a small-time law firm managed to snag a client with big bucks.

"Mr. Natchios returned to Greece after the war but was killed in the civil war there. Miss Natchios's inheritance includes real estate holdings here in the city, specifically, in Hell's Kitchen. They are mostly apartment buildings, which as you surely know are very desirable properties, given the housing shortage since the war."

Wolfe gave an audible sigh and waved his hand slightly, as if to say "get on with it," apparently forgetting the gesture would be lost on Murdock.

"In recent weeks," Murdock continued, "Miss Natchios and her tenants have been subjected to what appears to be a campaign of harassment. Men have entered people's apartments, claiming to be sent by her to do repairs – they weren't – and proceeding to smash up the apartments. Miss Natchios will of course foot the bill for the repairs, but that's not the problem."

As the lawyer talked, I noticed other things about him which didn't fit: a fading but fairly recent bruise on his left cheekbone and the scar left by a nasty cut – bad enough to need stitches – on his forehead. His nose looked like it had been broken more than once. And then there were his knuckles: rough, calloused, and scarred. I knew of only one reason a man's knuckles would look like that. I wasn't the only one who noticed; Wolfe was eyeballing Murdock closely, too.

"These incidents were followed by letters – anonymous, of course – demanding that she sell her properties to something called VWF, Incorporated, or face unspecified consequences. She ignored them. But two nights ago, a bomb exploded at one of her buildings. Fortunately, it was being renovated and was unoccupied. Miss Natchios is concerned – rightly so, in my opinion – that the next attack will be on an occupied building."

"You've notified the police?" Wolfe asked.

"Yes, of course," Murdock replied. "But Miss Natchios has no confidence they will find the culprits. I agree."

"Indeed," Wolfe observed. He turned to the woman in the red leather chair. "Miss Natchios. Have you considered selling the properties?"

"No," she declared. "They are my inheritance. I won't be bullied into selling them."

"Very well," Wolfe replied. "What is it you think I can do?"

Murdock answered for her. "We have been unable to identify the persons behind the entity known as VWF, Incorporated. We want you to identify them and make them stop the harassment."

Wolfe leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Several minutes passed. Nelson and Miss Page exchanged puzzled looks but said nothing. Finally, Wolfe opened his eyes and sighed deeply. "A difficult task, but not impossible. I'll undertake it," he said. "My fee will depend on the results obtained."

"Will a retainer of $10,000 be sufficient?" Miss Natchios asked, reaching into her bag and pulling out a checkbook and pen. The amount drew an audible gasp from Miss Page. Wolfe merely nodded. Miss Natchios wrote the check, then tore it off and stood to hand it to Wolfe. He took the check, glanced at it, and let it fall to the desktop. After a moment, he got to his feet and gave her a curt nod, then addressed the two lawyers, "Mr. Murdock, Mr. Nelson, I assume you have assembled some information on VWF, Incorporated." Murdock nodded. "Mr. Goodwin will need everything you have." Wolfe turned and walked out, leaving surprised expressions on four faces.

"Don't worry, folks," I assured him. "He's like that. Now spill."

They finished giving me the rundown and left a few minutes before it was time for me to join Wolfe at the dinner table. I found him in the kitchen, debating the merits of bay leaf with Fritz for the umpteenth time. It never changed: Fritz was for, Wolfe was against. They broke it off when I walked in.

"Ah, Archie," Wolfe said, "they've gone?" I told him they had. "Satisfactory. Before we dine, please call Saul Panzer and ask him if he can be here at nine this evening." I reminded Wolfe I was taking Lily Rowan to the Flamingo after dinner. "You may go," he said, "I'll see Saul myself."

If you haven't already met him, allow me to introduce Saul Panzer. Don't be fooled by his small stature, big ears, and the faded cloth cap he insists on wearing. He's the best operative, bar none, in the city. He is Wolfe's first choice for jobs when I'm not available, and for errands Wolfe doesn't want me to know about. When he keeps me in the dark about what Saul is doing, it's almost always something dodgy that he knows I wouldn't approve of. Apparently this was one of those times, but I had no idea what he was up to.

I spent most of dinner trying to puzzle out what Wolfe had planned for Saul. I barely tasted Fritz's leek and potato soup, the poached salmon with dill sauce, or the apricot tarts. And I tuned out while Wolfe held forth on Edward R. Murrow's broadcast of a few days ago, slamming Senator Joe McCarthy. By the time I finished my coffee, I was no closer to an answer. I pushed my chair away from the table and took my leave, hoping that a few turns on the Flamingo's dance floor with Miss Rowan would take my mind off the problem.

# # # # #

In the morning, I had just sat down at the little table in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. I traversed the hall and saw Saul Panzer through the one-way glass. I opened the door and told him, "Sorry, bud, we're not buying."

"Good thing I'm not selling, then," he retorted, pushing his way past me. Once inside, he added, "He's expecting me," and headed for the stairs and Wolfe's room.

I retreated to the kitchen and tried to enjoy my breakfast of shirred eggs, Fritz's homemade sausage, and freshly-baked scones. I was taking the first sip of my second cup of coffee when I heard Saul's footsteps in the hall, followed by the sound of the front door closing. A few minutes later came the sound of Wolfe's elevator ascending to the plant rooms. So that was how it was going to be. I finished my coffee, thanked Fritz for my breakfast, and went to the office, where I spent the next two hours bringing the plant records up to date and typing my notes from yesterday evening.

When the elevator descended precisely at eleven, I thought I was prepared for anything – except, as it turned out, what Wolfe actually did. After he greeted me as usual with, "Good morning, Archie," and sat down at his desk, he said, "Your notebook, please, Archie." I complied. "A letter to Mr. Jameson, to be delivered by hand. One carbon. 'Dear Sir: After due consideration, I find I am unable to undertake the engagement we discussed regarding the vigilante known as "Daredevil." I must therefore decline your offer.' The usual closing."

I turned to my typewriter and hit the keys. I can't say I was sorry Wolfe had turned down Jameson's job, especially now that we had another paying client, but I wasn't looking forward to Jameson's reaction. It wasn't going to be pretty.

When the doorbell rang at ten minutes to four and I went to answer it, I wasn't surprised to see Jameson on the stoop. He looked agitated and was holding a piece of paper in his right hand: Wolfe's letter. He had no appointment, and I considered letting him stay out there to stew. But we'd have to deal with him sooner or later, and it looked like it was going to start raining, any minute now. So I opened up. He shouldered past me, not stopping to take off his coat, and double-timed it down the hall. I followed. In the office, he made a beeline for Wolfe, crumpled the paper, and threw it down on Wolfe's desk. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

Wolfe looked at Jameson as if he'd just thrown a bay leaf in his beer. He marked his place in his current book, The Course of Empire, by Bernard DeVoto, and put it down. Then he turned to me. "Archie, Mr. Jameson's coat." That stopped Jameson in his tracks. He allowed me to take his coat, which I put on the couch. I wasn't about to take it to the coat rack in the hall and leave Jameson alone with Wolfe in the office. Then Wolfe addressed Jameson. "Sit down, please. I like eyes at my level."

Jameson grumbled but complied. "I asked, what is the meaning of this?" he repeated, gesturing toward the crumpled paper.

"I would have thought it was self-evident," Wolfe replied calmly. "I'm not taking the job."

"But, but, why, you can't, I mean, you have to," Jameson spluttered.

"Pfui. Your wanting me to take the job does not obligate me to do so."

"But why?"

"I don't owe you an explanation, either," Wolfe told him, "but I'll give you this. You want to expose Daredevil to create a few days' sensation and sell newspapers. My self-esteem does not permit me to undertake so cheap and tawdry a job."

"But the man's a criminal, a thug who beats up people," Jameson protested. "It's only a matter of time until he kills someone."

Wolfe pursed his lips. "Perhaps," he conceded. "But I've read the accounts of his exploits, some in your own newspaper. The people he's helped say he's a hero. Some even say he's doing God's work. I don't know what's in his mind, or in his heart. But I cannot, in good conscience, expose him."

Jameson leaned forward in the red leather chair. "You know who he is, don't you?" he asked, his eyes gleaming.

"Know?" Wolfe asked. "Conjecture, surmise, perhaps. But certain knowledge? No." He stood and gave Jameson a curt nod. "And now I have another engagement. Good day, sir." He turned and walked out. I checked the clock on my desk. Four o'clock on the dot. He was right on time for his date with the orchids.

"Wait! Stop!" Jameson yelled. It was futile. He was yelling at empty air. Then he wagged a finger at me. "You haven't heard the last of this."

I shrugged and got up to hand him his coat, before heading to the kitchen for a glass of milk.

Author's note: Some of the characters have views on women, disability, and other topics that are consistent with the time period or the Nero Wolfe canon or both, and they express their views in language typical of the period. Their views are not my views.

In the time period when this story takes place, Elektra would not have attended Columbia, which did not admit women as undergraduates until 1983. She would have attended Barnard College, the women's college affiliated with Columbia University, one of the so-called "Seven Sisters."

In the early 1950s, Tax Day in the U.S. was March 15th. It was moved to April 15th in 1955.

During World War II, Valley Forge General Hospital was one of two Army hospitals specializing in the treatment and "social rehabilitation" of soldiers who had suffered blinding eye injuries.