I spent most of the weekend prowling around the house, but was allowed to go out occasionally to walk myself around the block, and even made a couple of calls. Saturday afternoon I dropped in at Manhattan Homicide West on Twentieth Street for a little visit with Sergeant Purley Stebbins. Naturally he was suspicious, thinking that Wolfe had sent me to pry something loose, if only a desk and a couple of chairs, but he also thought I might have something to peddle, so we chatted a while. When I got up to go he actually said there was no hurry. Later, back home, when I reported to Wolfe and told him I was offering twenty to one that the cops were as cold as we were, his only comment was an indifferent grunt.
Late Sunday afternoon I spent six bucks of LBA money buying drinks for Lon Cohen at Yaden’s bar. I told him I wanted the total lowdown on all aspects of the Dahlmann case, and he offered to autograph a copy of yesterday’s Gazette for me. He was a great help. Among the items of unprinted scuttlebutt were these: Dahlmann had welshed on a ninety-thousand-dollar poker debt. His wallet had contained an assortment of snapshots of society women, undressed. He had double-crossed a prominent politician on a publicity deal. All the members of his firm had hated his guts and ganged up on him. The name of one of the several dozen women he had played games with was Ellen Heery, the wife of Talbott. He had been a Russian spy. He had got something on a certain philanthropist and been blackmailing him. And so on. The usual crop, Lon said, with a few fancy touches as tributes to Dahlmann’s outstanding personality. Lon would of course not believe that Wolfe wasn’t working on the murder, and almost refused to accept another drink when he was convinced that I had no handout for him.
I gave Wolfe the scuttlebutt, but apparently he wasn’t listening. It was Sunday evening, when he especially enjoys turning the television off. Of course he has to turn it on first, intermittently throughout the evening, and that takes a lot of exertion, but he has provided for it by installing a remote control panel at his desk. That way he can turn off as many as twenty programs in an evening without overdoing. Ordinarily I am not there, since I spend most of my Sunday evenings trying to give pleasure to some fellow being, no matter who she is provided she meets certain specifications, but that Sunday I stuck around. If something did snap on account of the extremely severe tension, as Wolfe had claimed he thought it might, I was going to be there. When I went up to bed, early, he was turning off Silver Linings.
The snap, if that’s the right word for it, came a little after ten o’clock Monday morning, in the shape of a phone call, not for Wolfe but for me.
“You don’t sound like Archie Goodwin,” a male voice said.
“Well, I am. You do sound like Philip Younger.”
“I ought to. You’re Goodwin?”
“Yes. The one who turned down your Scotch.”
“That sounds better. I want to see you right away. I’m in my room at the Churchill. Get here as fast as you can.”
“Comeing. Hold everything.”
That shows the condition I was in. I should have asked him what was up. I should at least have learned if a gun was being leveled at him. Speaking of guns, I should have followed my rule to take one along. But I was so damn sick and tired of nothing I was in favor of anything, and quick. I dived into the kitchen to tell Fritz to tell Wolfe where I was going, grabbed my hat and coat as I passed the rack, ran down the stoop steps, and hoofed it double quick to Tenth Avenue for a taxi, through the scattered drops of the beginning of an April shower.
As we were crawling uptown with the thousand-wheeled worm I muttered to the hackie, “Try the sidewalk.”
“It’s only Monday,” he said gloomily. “Got a whole week.”
We finally made it to the Churchill, and I went in and took an elevator, ignored the floor clerk on the eighteenth, went to the door of eighteen-twenty-six, knocked, and was told to come in. Younger, looking a little less like Old King Cole when up and dressed, wanted to shake hands and I had no objection.
“It took you long enough,” he complained. “I know, I know, I live in Chicago. Sit down. I want to ask you something.”
I thought, my God, all for nothing, he’s got another idea about splitting the pot and yanked me up here to sell it. I took a chair and he sat on the edge of the bed, which hadn’t been made.
“I just got something in the mail,” he said, “and I’m not sure what to do with it. I could give it to the police, but I don’t want to. The ones I’ve seen haven’t impressed me. Do you know a Lieutenant Rowcliff?”
“I sure do. You can have him.”
“I don’t want him. Then there’s those advertising men with Dahlmann at that meeting, that’s where I met them, but I’ve seen them since, and they don’t impress me either. I was going to phone a man I know in Chicago, a lawyer, but it would take a lot of explaining on the phone, the whole mess. So I thought of you. You know all about it, and when you were here the other day I offered you a drink. When I offer a man a drink without thinking, that’s a good sign. I can go by that as well as anything. I’ve got to do something about this and do it quick, and the first thing is to show it to you and see what you say.”
He took an envelope from his pocket, looked at it, looked at me, and handed it over. I inspected the envelope of ordinary cheap white paper, which had jagged edges where it had been torn open. Typewritten address to Mr. Philip Younger, Churchill Hotel. No return address front or back. Three-cent stamp, postmarked Grand Central Station 11:00 PM APR 17 1955. It contained a single sheet of folded paper, and I took it out and unfolded it. It was medium-grade sulphide bond, with nothing printed on it, but with plenty of something typewritten. It was headed at the top in caps: ANSWERS TO THE FIVE VERSES DISTRIBUTED ON APRIL 12TH. Below were the names of five women, with a brief commentary on each. I kept my face deadpan as I ran over them and saw that they were the real McCoy.
“Well,” I said, “this is interesting. What is it, a gag?”
“That’s the trouble—or one trouble. I’m not sure. I think it’s the real answers, but I don’t know. I’d have to go to a library and check. I was going to, and then I thought this is dynamite, and I thought of you. Isn’t that the first—hey, I want that! That’s mine!”
I had absent-mindedly folded the paper and put it in the envelope and was sticking it in my pocket. “Sure,” I said, “take it.” He took it. “It’s somewhat of a problem. Let me think.” I sat and thought a minute. “It looks to me,” I said, “that you’re probably right, the first thing to do is to check it. But the police are probably still tailing all of you. Have you been going to libraries the last few days?”
“No. I decided not to. I don’t know my way around in any library here, and those two women, Frazee and Tescher, have got too big an advantage. I decided to fight it instead.”
I nodded sympathetically. “Then if a cop tails you to a library now, only two days to the deadline, they’ll wonder why you started in all of a sudden, and they’ll want to know. The man I work for, Nero Wolfe, is quite a reader and he has quite a library. I noticed the titles of the books mentioned on that thing, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he has all of them. Also it wouldn’t hurt any for you to consult him about this.”
“I’m consulting you.”
“Yeah, but I haven’t got the library with me. And if a cop tails you to his place it won’t matter. They know he’s representing Lippert, Buff and Assa about the contest, and all the contestants have been there except you.”
‘That’s what I don’t like. He’s representing them and I’m fighting them.”
“Then you shouldn’t have showed it to me. I work for Mr. Wolfe, and if you think I won’t tell him about it you’ll have to take back what you said the other day about not making a fool of yourself for twenty-six years. Crap.”