Wolfe and I hung up. The mother hunt was over. Forty-five days.
He eyed me. How much of that woman’s money have we spent?
Around fourteen grand.
Pfui. Tell Fred and Orrie they’re no longer needed. And Miss Corbett. Tell Mrs. Valdon she can return to the beach. Return the cameras.
Yes, sir.
Confound it! It could be so simple! But for that woman.
The dead one. Yeah.
But she gave you a drink of water.
Nuts. If we emptied the bag for Cramer now, including the message, the only question would be should we demand separate trials. Not only you and me, also the client. I could ring Parker and ask him which is worse, withholding evidence or conspiring to obstruct justice.
He tightened his lips and took a deep breath, and another one. Have you a suggestion?
I have a dozen. I have known for two days we would soon be facing this, and so have you. We can tackle Carol Mardus just on the mother angle, no mention of Ellen Tenzer, just what she did with her baby, and see what happens. There’s a chance, a damn slim one but a chance, that she simply got rid of the baby, which isn’t hard to do, and she didn’t know what had happened to it, and that piece in the Gazette about Mrs. Valdon merely made her curious. Or suspicious. Second suggestion: we could take a stab at the rest of the commitment to the client. You were to learn the identity of the mother. Done. You were also to demonstrate the degree of probability that Valdon was the father. Before we tackle Carol Mardus head on we might do a routine job on her and Valdon in the spring of last year.
He shook his head. That would take time and more money. You will see Carol Mardus.
No, sir. I was emphatic. You will. I saw Ellen Tenzer. I have seen Mrs. Valdon twenty times to your once. I’ll do the chores, but it’s your name on the billhead. In the morning?
He scowled at me. Another woman to deal with. But he couldn’t deny that I had a point. When that was settled I had another one, that there was no hurry about telling the client that the mother hunt was definitely over; it would be better to wait until we had had a talk with the mother herself.
Before I went up to bed I rang Fred Durkin, and Orrie Cather, and Sally Corbett, to tell them the operation was finished to Wolfe’s satisfaction, not to mention mine. Also I considered dialing the number of Carol Mardus’s apartment on 83rd Street, to invite her to drop in tomorrow morning, but decided not to give her a night to sleep on it.
I learned Friday morning that she had slept on it. I was intending to ring her at her office around ten o’clock, but at ten minutes to nine, when I was in the kitchen dealing with bacon and corn fritters with honey, the phone rang. I got it there in the kitchen and used the routine, and a woman’s voice said she would like to speak with Mr. Wolfe. I said he wouldn’t be available until eleven o’clock, and I was his confidential assistant, and perhaps I could help.
She said, You’re Archie Goodwin?
Right.
You may have heard my name. Carol Mardus.
Yes, Miss Mardus, I have.
I’m calling to ask… A pause. I understand that inquiries are being made about me. Here in New York and also in Florida. Do you know anything about it?
Yes. They’re being made at Mr. Wolfe’s direction.
Why does he… Pause. Why?
Where are you speaking from, Miss Mardus?
I’m in a phone booth. I’m on the way to my office. Does that matter?
It might. And even if you’re in a booth I’d rather not discuss it on the phone. I shouldn’t think you would, either. You went to a lot of trouble and expense to keep the baby strictly private.
What baby?
Now really. It’s much too late for that. But if you insist on an answer Mr. Wolfe will be free at eleven o’clock. Here at his office.
A longer pause. I could come at noon.
That will be fine. Speaking for myself, Miss Mardus, I look forward to seeing you.
As I hung up and returned to the corn fritters I was thinking, I certainly do. Long time no find.
When I had finished the second cup of coffee and gone to the office and done the chores, I buzzed the plant rooms on the house phone. If he didn’t hear from me, Wolfe would be expecting to see her in the red leather chair when he came down, since he had told me to have her there at eleven o’clock, and he would appreciate knowing he would have an extra hour before he would have to dig in and work. He did. When I told him she had saved him a dime by calling herself and she would arrive at noon, he said, Satisfactory.
I could use the extra hour too. Telling Fritz I was leaving on an errand, I went to Eleventh Street, told Lucy the Washington Square caper had been suspended and I would report at length later, removed the cameras from the baby carriage, took them to Al Posner, and told him to send a bill.
When the doorbell rang at ten minutes past noon said I went to the front, and at long last saw the mother in the flesh, my first impression was what the hell, if Richard Valdon played marbles with this when he had Lucy he was cuckoo. If she had been twenty years older it wouldn’t have been stretching it much to call her a hag. But when I went to my desk and sat after steering her to the office and the red leather chair, I stared at her. It was a different face entirely that was turned to Wolfe. It had sugar and spice and everything nice only nice may not be the right word exactly. She merely hadn’t bothered to turn it on for the guy who opened the door. Also it wasn’t exactly sugar in her voice as she told Wolfe how much she enjoyed being in his house and meeting him. Obviously the I dare you in both her voice and her eyes wasn’t rigged; it had been built in, or born in.
Wolfe was leaning back, regarding her. I can return that compliment, madam, he told her. It gratifies me to meet you. I have been seeking you for six weeks.
Seeking me? I’m in the phone book. I’m on the masthead of Distaff. The voice and eyes implied that she would have loved to hear from him.
Wolfe nodded. But I didn’t know that. I knew only that you had borne a baby and disposed of it. I had to. You didn’t know I had borne a baby. You couldn’t have.
I do now. While you were carrying it, the last four months, you were a guest at the home of Mrs. Arthur P. Jordan in Sarasota, Florida. You entered the Sarasota General Hospital on January sixteenth, as Clara Waldron, and the baby was born that night. When you boarded an airplane at Tampa, for New York, on February fifth, still as Clara Waldron, the baby was with you. What did you do with it and where is it now?
It took her a moment to find her voice, but it was the same voice almost. I didn’t come here to answer questions, she said. I came to ask some. You’ve had a man making inquiries about me here in New York and then in Florida. Why?
Wolfe pursed his lips. There’s no reason to withhold that, he conceded. He turned. The picture, Archie?
I got one of the prints from a drawer and went and handed it to her. She looked at it, at me, at the print again, and at Wolfe. I’ve never seen this before. Where did you get it?
There were cameras attached to the baby carriage in Washington Square.
That fazed her. Her mouth opened, hung open a long moment, and closed. She looked at the print again, got its edge between thumbs and forefingers, tore it across, tore again, and put the pieces on the stand at her elbow.
We have more, Wolfe said, if you want one for a memento.
Her mouth opened and closed again, but no sound came.
Altogether, Wolfe said, the cameras took pictures of more than a hundred people, but yours was of special interest because you arrived at the square in a cab, expressly for the purpose of looking at the baby in that particular vehicle, having seen a picture of it, and the nurse, in a newspaper. You said My God, she blurted. That’s why she did that. You did it.
I suggested it. You said you didn’t come to answer questions, but it will simplify matters if you oblige me. Do you know Mr. Leo Bingham?