You mean I’ll ask them to come to see you?
Yes.
But what will I tell them?
That you have hired me to make an investigation for you, and I wish to talk with them.
But then… She was frowning. Archie told me to tell no one, not even my best friend.
Mr. Goodwin was following instructions. On further consideration I have concluded that the risk must be taken. You say that your husband knew hundreds of people you have never met. I trust that the hundreds’ was an overestimate, but if there are dozens I must have every name. You say you hate it the way it is now. Confound it, madam, so do I. If I had known the job would develop thus a murder, and my involvement, and routine fishing in a boundless sea I wouldn’t have taken it. I must see the three or four men who are best qualified to complete the list of your husband’s acquaintances, and to give me information about him which you do not have. After you and Mr. Goodwin select them, will you get them here?
She was hating it even more. What do I say when they ask what you’re investigating for me?
Say I’ll explain to them. Of course that will be ticklish. Certainly there will be no mention by me of the baby left in your vestibule with that message. That there is a baby in your house is probably more widely known than you suspect, but if one or more of them asks about it I shall say that is immaterial. When I decide precisely what I’ll tell them you will be informed, before I see them, and if you have objections they will be considered. He swiveled to look at the clock. Half an hour till dinner. He swiveled back. You and Mr. Goodwin will decide this evening on the three or four men to be chosen from among your husband’s familiars. I would like to see them either at eleven tomorrow morning or at nine tomorrow evening. You will also compile the list of women’s names. But one question now: will you please tell me where you were last Friday evening? From eight o’clock on?
Her eyes widened. Friday?
He nodded. I have no ground whatever, madam, to doubt your good faith. But I now have to deal with someone who doesn’t flinch from murder, and it isn’t wholly inconceivable that you are a Jezebel. Ellen Tenzer was killed Friday around midnight. Where were you?
Lucy stared. But you don’t… you couldn’t think…
Wildly improbable but conceivable. You should be gratified that I consider it imaginable that you have gulled me by a superb display of wile and guile.
She tried to smile. You have a strange idea of what gratifies people. She looked at me. Why didn’t you ask me this yesterday?
I meant to but forgot.
Do you mean that?
No, but he’s right, it’s a compliment. Think how good you would have to be to make monkeys of him and me. Where were you Friday night?
All right. Friday. She took a moment. I went out for dinner, to a friend’s apartment, Lena Guthrie, but I got home in time for the ten-o’clock feeding the baby. The nurse was there, but I usually like to be there too. Then I went downstairs and played the piano awhile, and then I went to bed. She turned to Wolfe. This is absolute nonsense!
No, he growled. Nothing is nonsense that is concerned with the vagaries of human conduct. If the nurse is there this evening, Mr. Goodwin will ask her about Friday.
There were three men with us in the office at noon the next day, Tuesday, but they were not ex-familiars of the late Richard Valdon. Saul Panzer was in the red leather chair. On two of the yellow chairs fronting Wolfe’s desk were Fred Durkin, five feet ten, 190 pounds, bald and burly, and Orrie Cather, six feet flat, 180 pounds, good design from tip to toe. Each had in his hand some three-by-five cards on which I had typed information which had been furnished by the client, and in his wallet some used fives and tens which I had got from the drawer in the safe.
Wolfe’s eyes were at Fred and Orris, as always when briefing that trio. He knew Saul was getting it. There should be no difficulties or complications, he said. It’s quite simple. Early this year, or possibly late last year, a woman gave birth to a baby. I want to find her. But your present mission is restricted to elimination. Regarding each of the women whose names are on those cards, you are merely to answer the question, could she have borne a baby at that time? When you find one who is not easily eliminated, whose whereabouts and movements during that period need more elaborate inquiry, go no further without consulting me. Is that clear?’ Not very, Orrie said. How easy is easily’?
That’s inherent in the approach I suggest, devised by Archie and me. You will address the woman herself only if you must. In most cases, perhaps all, you can get enough information from others apartment-house staffs, tradesmen, mailmen you know the routines. You will use your own names, and your inquiries are on behalf of the Dolphin Corporation, owner and operator of Dolphin Cottages, Clearwater, Florida. A woman is suing the corporation for a large sum in damages, half a million dollars, for injuries she suffered on Saturday, January sixth, this year, as she was stepping from a dock into a boat. She claims that the employee of the corporation who was handling the boat allowed it to move and her injuries resulted from his negligence. The case will come to trial soon, and the corporation wants the testimony of one Jane Doe (a name from one of your cards). Jane Doe was a tenant of one of the corporation’s cottages from December tenth to February tenth; she was on the dock when the incident occurred, and she told the manager of the cottages that the boat did not move and the boatman was not at fault. Am I too circumstantial?
No, Fred said. Whether he knew what circumstantial meant or not, he thought Wolfe couldn’t be too anything.
The rest is obvious. There is no Jane Doe, and never has been, at the address the Dolphin Corporation has for her, and you are trying to find her. Could she be the Jane Doe on your card? Was she in Florida from December tenth to February tenth? No? Where was she? Wolfe flipped a hand. But you need no suggestions on how to make sure. You will be merely eliminating. Is it clear?
Not to me. Orrie looked up from his notebook, in which he had been scribbling. If the only question is did she have a baby, why drag in Florida and dolphins and a lawsuit? His bumptious tone came from his belief that all men are created equal, especially him and Nero Wolfe.
Wolfe’s head turned. Answer him, Saul.
Saul’s notebook was back in his pocket, with the cards. He looked at Orrie as at an equal, which he wasn’t. Evidently, he said, the chances are that the baby was a bastard and she went away to have it, so was she away? And if she wasn’t, the one thing that anybody would know about what a woman was doing five months ago is that she was having a baby, or wasn’t. The Florida thing is just to get started.
That wasn’t fair, Wolfe’s part in it, since Saul had been given the whole picture five days ago, but the idea was to teach Orrie better manners, and of course Saul had to play up. When they had gone and I returned to the office after seeing them out, I told Wolfe, You know, if you pile it on enough to give Orrie an inferiority complex it will be a lulu, and a damn good op will be ruined.
He snorted. Pfui. Not conceivable. He picked up Silent Spring and got comfortable. Then his chin jerked up and he said politely, You’re aware that I’m not going to ask you what was on that paper that woman handed you yesterday.
I nodded. It had to be mentioned sooner or later. If it had anything to do with my job, naturally I’d report it. I will anyway. It said in longhand: Dearest Archie, Lizzie Borden took an ax, and gave her mother forty whacks. Your loving Lucy.’ In case you wonder Shut up. He opened the book.
We still didn’t know how many would come to the stag party that evening, and it was late afternoon when Lucy phoned that she had booked all four of them. When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at six o’clock the notes I had typed were on his desk. As follows:
MANUEL UPTON. In his fifties. Editor of Distaff, the magazine for any and every woman, circulation over eight million. He had started Richard Valdon on the road to fame and fortune ten years back by publishing several of his short stories, and had serialized two of his novels. Married, wife living, three grown children. Home, a Park Avenue apartment.