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.”

“I need it. I need more than sympathy, too.” It was coming through slightly better. “I need help. Will you do me a hell of a favour?”

I made a face. “I might. If I can do it sitting down and it doesn’t cost me any teeth.”

“It won’t cost you a thing. You know my Aunt Louise. Mrs Robert Robilotti.”

“Only professionally. Mr Wolfe did a job for her once, recovered some jewellery. That is, she hired him and I did the job—and she didn’t like me. She resented a remark I made.”

“That won’t matter. She forgets remarks. I suppose you know about the dinner party she gives every year on the birthday date of my Uncle Albert, now resting in peace perhaps?”

“Sure. Who doesn’t?”

“Well, that’s it. Today. Seven o’clock . And I’m to be one of the chevaliers, and listen to me, and I’ve got some fever.