"My fare's number is in that block, officer." "Can't help it. Closed. Up or down." He yanked the wheel, and we swung to the curb. I paid him, got out, and held the door, and Wolfe emerged. He stood a moment to take a deep breath, and we headed east. Ten paces along there was another cop, and a little farther on still another. Ahead, in the middle of the block, was a convention: police cars, spotlights, men working, and a gathering of citizens on the sidewalk across the street. On our side a stretch of the sidewalk was included in a roped-off area. As we approached it a cop got in the way and commanded, "Cross over and keep moving."

"I came here to look at this," Wolfe told him. "I know. You and ten thousand more. Cross over." 16 "I am a friend of the man who was killed. My name is Nero Wolfe." "Yeah, and mine's General MacArthur. Keep moving." It might have developed into an interesting conversation if I hadn't caught sight, in one of the spotlights, of a familiar face and figure. I sang out, "Rowcliff!" He turned and peered, stepped out of the glare and peered some more, and then approached. "Well?" he demanded. Among all the array of Homicide personnel that Wolfe and I have had dealings with, high and low. Lieutenant Rowcliff is the only one of whom I am dead sure that our feelings are absolutely reciprocal. He would like to see me exactly where I would like to see him. So, having summoned him, I left it to Wolfe, who spoke. "Good evening, Mr. Rowcliff. Is Mr. Cramer here?" "No." "Mr. Stebbins?" "No." "I want to see the spot where Mr. Vukcic died." "You'll be in the way. We're working." "So am I." Rowcliff considered. He would have loved to order a couple of the help to take us to 17 the river and dump us in, but the timing would have been bad. Since it was unheard of for Wolfe to leave his house to work as a matter of routine, he knew this was something extraordinary, and there was no telling how his superiors might react if he let his personal inclinations take charge.