SUNDAY MORNING. To the kitchen for breakfast at nine thirty. At ten o’clock, the moment when Sally would be entering the square pushing the carriage, I was starting on my third sour-milk griddle cake with my right hand, while my left hand held the Gazette open to the full page spread entitled WOMEN LOVE BABIES. It’s a matter of taste. In my opinion, WOMEN LIKE BABIES would have been more subtle.
When Lon Cohen said there would be a mob he had overrated something, perhaps the punch of the Gazette. The Sunday crop was twenty-six pictures, seven in the morning and nineteen in the afternoon. I was at the house when Sally returned with the carriage and its cargo a little after five, and helped her remove the films. There had been only two exposures with the camera in the box at the front of the carriage, but we rolled it through and took it. The way we were spending the client’s dough, another couple of bucks was nothing.
Twenty-four hours later we still didn’t know whether we had a picture of the mother or not. All we knew was that Lucy didn’t recognize any of the twenty-six as someone she could name, and Julian Haft, Leo Bingham, and Willis Krug said they didn’t. Wolfe had spoken to each of them on the phone in the morning, asking them to look at some pictures without explaining how we had got them, and when I got the prints from A1 Posner around noon, six of each, I had sent packets by messenger. By five o’clock they had all phoned. Negative from all three. I took a set to Lucy and she gave them a good look. There was one she wasn’t sure about, but the woman she thought it resembled had been on her list and had been eliminated by Saul. She invited me to stay until Sally took the baby on the afternoon outing and returned, and get the day’s crop of films, but I wanted to be at 35th Street to get the reports from Krug and Haft and Bingham.
At twenty minutes past four Haft and Bingham had called but not Krug, and when the phone rang I supposed it would be him. But after the first word of the routine I was interrupted.
Saul, Archie. A booth on University Place.
And?
Maybe a break. Something we thought might happen. At four-oh-four a taxi stopped on the north side of the square, double-parked, and a woman got out. She crossed the street and looked around. The taxi stayed put. She spotted the carriage halfway across the square and headed for it and went right up to it. She didn’t bend over or put a hand on the carriage or in it, but she spoke to Sally. She was there looking less than a minute forty seconds. Orrie’s car was around the corner, but with her hack waiting there was no point to that. She went back to it and it rolled. A Paragon. Do I stick here until five o’clock?
You do not. You find that hackie.
Do you want the number?
Sure. You might get run over or something.
He gave me the taxi’s registration number, and I jotted it down and told him I would be out from 4:45 to 6:00, getting the films from Sally and taking them to Al Posner. When I hung up I sat for a minute, breathing, enjoying it more than I had for weeks. Then I buzzed the plant rooms on the house phone.
Yes?
Congratulations. Your theory that a woman who had a baby six months ago might like to see what it looks like was sound. The idea of having both the men and the cameras was also sound. I’m leaving in ten minutes and thought you might like to know. Two to one we have hooked the mother. Make it three to one.
Please report.
Glad to. I told him. So if she’s the mother we’ve got her. Finding out where the taxi took her may not help much, but of course Saul will know which picture. Congratulations.
Satisfactory, he said, and hung up.
When Krug phoned a few minutes later, as I was getting up to go, to say that he didn’t recognize any of the pictures I had sent him, he was probably surprised that I was so cheerful about it.
Monday’s crop was more than twice as big as Sunday’s, and Sally had changed the films at noon, so there were six rolls. Fifty-four exposures altogether, and one of them was worth its weight in rubies. I got them to 47th Street before six o’clock, but Al couldn’t run them through that evening: two of his men were on vacation and one was home sick, and he was plugged up. I persuaded him to let me in at eight in the morning and took them home with me. While we were at the dinner table Saul phoned. The hackie’s name was Sidney Bergman and he had welcomed a finif. He had picked up the fare on Madison Avenue between 52nd and 53rd Streets, taken her straight to the square, and back to 52nd and Park. He had never seen her before and knew nothing about her. I told Saul to keep an eye out for her at the square in the morning, she might come back for another look, and then come to the office and wait for me.
It was a quarter to twelve Tuesday morning when I got to the office with the prints. I could have made it half an hour sooner, but I had taken the time at the Posart Camera Exchange to make packets for Al to send to Krug and Haft and Bingham. If Lucy didn’t know her, one of them might. Wolfe was at his desk with beer, and Saul was in the red leather chair with wine. A bottle of the Corton Charlemagne was on the stand at his elbow. Apparently they were discussing literature; there were three books on Wolfe’s desk and one in his hand, open. I went and sat and listened. Yep, literature. I got up and started out and was stopped by Wolfe’s voice.
Yes, Archie?
I turned. I hate to interrupt. I approached Saul. Feel thy pictures, mister? I handed them to him.
She didn’t show this morning, he said. His hands were as deft with the prints as they were with a poker deck. A glance at each one was enough until he was about halfway through, when he tilted one for better light, nodded, and held it out. That’s her.
I took it. It was a good clear shot, three-quarter face, angled up as most of them were. Wide forehead, eyes the right distance apart, nose rather narrow, mouth rather wide, chin a little pointed. The eyes were fixed, focused to the right, concentrated.
She could be attractive, I said.
She is, Saul said. She walks straight and smooth.
Details?
Five feet seven. Hundred and twenty pounds. In the upper thirties.
The envelope, please. He handed it to me, and I put the picture in with the others and the envelope in my pocket. I’m sorry I had to interrupt you gentlemen. I have an errand. If you need me you know Mrs. Valdon’s number. I turned and went.
Since Sunday, Lucy’s relations with me had been a little strained. No, that’s not good reporting. Her relations with the world were strained, and I happened to be handy. Her lawyer had phoned her Sunday evening about the Gazette piece, and he had come to the house for a talk Monday afternoon. He thought she was sticking her neck out and he strongly disapproved. Her best friend, Lena Guthrie, disapproved even more strongly, and she had had a dozen phone calls from other friends, not to mention enemies; and from a remark she made Monday afternoon I gathered that Leo Bingham had been one of them.
So there was an atmosphere, and when I arrived Tuesday and was directed by Marie Foltz to the second floor I had the big room to myself for nearly half an hour; and when the client finally came she stopped three paces short and asked, Something new, Archie?
Just the prints, I said. From yesterday.
Oh. How many?
Fifty-four.
I have a headache. I suppose I have to?
Maybe not. I got the envelope from my pocket, shuffled through the prints, and handed her one. Try that one. It’s special.
She gave it a glance. What’s special about it?
I’m betting three to one that she’s the mother. She came in a taxi and had it wait while she spotted the carriage, went and took a good long look, nearly a minute, and went back to the taxi. Do you know her?
Another glance at it. No.
Would you mind taking it to the light to make sure?
I don’t. All right. She went to a lamp on a table and switched it on, and looked, frowning. She turned. I think I’ve seen her somewhere.