Three of them spoke at once, but Leo Bingham’s baritone smothered the others. That’s a big order, he said. Dick Valdon got around.
Not only that, Julian Haft said, but there’s the question, what’s the procedure? There are eight or nine girls and women in my office Dick had some contact with. What are you going to do with the names we list?
There are four in my office, Willis Krug said.
Look, Manuel Upton croaked. You’ll have to tell us about the allegations.
Wolfe was drinking beer. He put the empty glass down. To serve the purpose, he said, the lists must be all inclusive. They will be used with discretion. No one will be pestered; no offense will be given; no rumors will be started; no prying curiosity will be aroused. Very few of the owners of the names will be addressed at all. Inferences I have drawn from indications in the letters limit the range of possibilities. You have my firm assurance that you will have no cause for regret that you have done this favor for Mrs. Valdon, with this single qualification: if it should transpire that the writer of the letters is one for whom you have regard, she will of course be vexed and possibly frustrated. That will be your only risk. Have some brandy, Mr. Bingham.
Bingham rose and went for the bottle. Payola. He poured. It’s a bribe. He took a sip. But what a bribe! The big smile.
I want to hear about the allegations, Upton croaked.
Wolfe shook his head. That would violate a firm assurance I have given my client. Not discussible.
She’s my client too, Krug said. I was Dick’s agent, and now I’m hers since she owns the copyrights. Also I’m her friend, and I’m against anyone who sends anonymous letters, no matter who. I’ll get the list to you tomorrow.
Hell, I’m hooked, Leo Bingham said. He was standing, twirling the cognac in the snifter. I’ve been bribed. He turned to Wolfe. How about a deal? If you get her from my list I get a bottle of this.
No, sir. Not by engagement. As a gesture of appreciation perhaps.
Julian Haft had removed his balloon-tired cheaters and was fingering the bows. The letters, he said. Were they mailed in New York? The city?
Yes, sir.
Then you have the envelopes?
Yes, sir.
May we see them just the envelopes? You say the writing is disguised, but it might one of us might get a hint from it.
Wolfs nodded. Therefore it would be ill-advised to show them to you. One of you might indeed get a hint of the identity of the writer but not divulge it, and that might complicate the problem for me.
I have a question, Manuel Upton croaked. I’ve heard that there’s a baby in Mrs. Valdon’s house, and a nurse for it. I know nothing about it, but the person who told me isn’t a windbag. Is there any connection between the baby and the letters?
Wolfe was frowning at him. A baby? Mrs. Valdon’s baby?
I didn’t say her baby. I said there’s a baby in her house.
Indeed. I’ll ask her, Mr. Upton. If it is somehow connected with the letters she must be aware of it. By the way, I have advised her to mention the letters to no one. No exceptions. As you gentlemen know, she didn’t mention them to you. The matter is in my hands.
All right, handle it. Upton got to his feet. His weight was just about half of Wolfe’s, but from the effort it took to get it up from a chair it might have been the other way around. From the way you’re handling us, or trying to, you’ll hash it up. I don’t owe Lucy Valdon anything. If she wants a favor from me she can ask me.
He headed for the door, jostling Leo Bingham’s elbow as he passed, and Bingham’s other hand darted out and gave him a shove. Because a guest is a guest, and also because I doubted if he had the vim and vigor to shut the door, I got up and went, passed him in the hall, and saw him out. When I returned to the office Julian Haft was speaking.
… but before I do so I want to speak with Mrs. Valdon. I don’t agree with Mr. Upton, I don’t say you’re handling it badly, but what you ask is rather uh unusual. He put the cheaters back on and turned. Of course I agree with you, Willie, about people who send anonymous letters. I suppose you think I’m being overcautious.
That’s your privilege, Krug said.
To hell with privilege, Bingham said. He flashed the big smile at Haft. I wouldn’t say overcautious, I’d say cagey. You were born scared, Julian.
You have to make allowances. Buyers and sellers. To a literary agent a publisher is a customer, but to a television producer he’s just another peddler.
I have before me a copy of the expense account of the case in the files under V for Valdon. Its second stage, working on the names on the lists furnished by Willis Krug, Leo Bingham, Julian Haft, and the client (we never got one from Manuel Upton) lasted twenty-six days, from June 12 to July 7, and cost the client $8,674.30, not including any part of my salary, which is covered by the fee and is never itemized.
Lucy’s list had 47 names, Haft’s 81, Bingham’s 106, and Krug’s 55. One of Upton’s daughters, married, was on Haft’s and Bingham’s lists, but not on Krug’s. Haft’s married daughter was on Lucy’s list but none of the others. A certain friend of Bingham’s was on nobody’s list; Orrie picked up her name along the way. Of course there were many duplications on the four lists, but there were 148 different names, as follows:
Section Number Status
A 57 Single
B 52 Married, living with husbands
C 18 Divorced
D 11 Widowed
E 10 Married, separated.
Another statistic, those in each section who had babies between December 1, 1961, and February 28, 1962:
Section Number
A 1
B 2
C 0
D 1
E 0.
The one in Section A (single) who had a baby worked in Krug’s office, but everybody knew about it and the baby had been legally given (or sold) to an adoption service. It took Saul nearly two weeks to cinch it that the baby had not got sidetracked somehow and ended up in Mrs. Valdon’s vestibule. The one in Section D (widowed) may have been a problem for her friends and enemies, but not for us. Her husband had died two years before the baby came, but she was keeping it and didn’t care who knew it. I saw it.
The two babies in Section B (married, living with husbands) were really three; one was twins. They were all living with their parents. Fred saw the twins and Orrie saw the single.
Besides the mothers, two girls in Section A, two women in B, two in C, and one in D, had been away from their homes and/or jobs for a part or all of the period. Orrie had to take a plane to France, the Riviera, to settle one of them, and Fred had to fly to Arizona to settle another one.
There has never been a smoother operation since Whosis scattered the dust on the temple floor. Absolutely flawless. Orrie got taken to an apartment-house superintendent by a doorman, but it wasn’t his fault, and Fred got bounced from backstage in a theater, but a bounce is all in the day’s work. As an example of superlative snoopery it was a perfect performance. And when Saul phoned at half past three Saturday afternoon, July 7, to report that he had closed the last little gap in the adoption and had actually seen the baby, and the operation was complete, we were precisely where we had been on June 12, twenty-six days earlier.
With a difference, though. There had been a couple of developments, but we hadn’t done the developing. One, the minor one, was that I was no longer the last person known to have seen Ellen Tenzer alive. That Friday afternoon she had called at the home of a Mrs. James R. Nesbitt on East 68th Street, an ex-patient from her New York nursing days. Mrs. Nesbitt had waited nearly two weeks to mention it because she didn’t want her name to appear in connection with a murder, but had finally decided she must. Presumably the DA had promised her that her name would not appear, but some journalist had somehow got it, and hooray for freedom of the press. Not that Mrs. Nesbitt was really any help. Ellen Tenzer had merely said she needed advice about something from a lawyer and had asked Mrs. Nesbitt to tell her the name of one who could be trusted, and she had done so and had phoned the lawyer to make an appointment. But Ellen Tenzer hadn’t kept the appointment. She hadn’t told Mrs. Nesbitt why she needed a lawyer. Mrs. Nesbitt was added to Saul’s list of names, just in case, but she hadn’t had a baby for ten years and her twenty-year-old daughter had never had one.