In five seconds Fritz's voice came. "Yes."

He claims that he is not copying Wolfe, that Wolfe says "Yes?"

and he says "Yes."

I said, "You're up and dressed."

"Yes. I took his breakfast."

"Did he eat?"

"Yes."

"My god, you're short and sweet."

"Not sweet, Archie. Neither is he. Are you?"

"No. I'm neither sweet nor sour. I'm done. How about Theodore?"

"He came and went up. I told him he wouldn't come."

"Ill be down, but don't bother with breakfast. I'll eat the second section of the Times. With vinegar."

"It's better with ketchup."

He hung up.

But when I finally made it down to the kitchen the stage was set. Tools and cup and saucer and the toaster and butter dish were on the little table, and the Times was on the rack, and the griddle was on the range. On the big center table was a plate of slices of homemade scrapple. I got a glass and went to the refrigerator for orange juice, poured some, and took a sip.

"As far as I'm concerned," I said, "you and I are still friends. You're the only friend I've got in the world. Let's go somewhere. Switzerland? That ought to be far enough. Have there been phone calls?"

"There have been rings, four, but I didn't answer. Neither did he."

He had turned the heat on under the griddle. That thing on the door of that room, NEW YORK POLICE DEPARTMENT, how long will it Stay?"