Wolfe Trap

"It was the third of December, according to my notes, at just after nine in the morning, when the tall, slender man stepped up the icy steps on the stoop of our townhouse, rang the bell firmly -- one long, one short -- and then rapped on the glass for good measure. The morning sun had made its weak assault on the prior night's snow, with minimal effect. Fritz had been outside early, I knew, making a run to the fresh groceries stalls down by the water, but he hadn't touched those stairs -- he left by the rear entrance and disappeared into the alleyways that lined the center of the block. Normally, I'd clean off the steps if needed, but I was being lazy that day. Wolfe had no customers expected or desired; further, with the healthy state of our joint bank account, he had not sought nor accepted any since just after Hallowe'en, and would not even contemplate the possibility of more until Little Christmas, if then. Thus, when I heard the one long, one short, I thought of simply ignoring it, letting the caller go away, back to wherever people who don't make appointments go, but this one was insistent; ringing again, and rapping, with what sounded to me like a silver-headed cane. Grumbling slightly, therefore, I put down the paper, walked out to the door with the one-way mirror set behind the delicately barred fretwork, and took my first look at the fellow whom we first came to know as Sir Arthur St. Roger Carville. British, don'cha know."