He took the beer Wolfe had poured for him, gulped, licked the foam from his lips, and gulped again.
He sat back holding the half-filled glass. “Let me ask you something. If you had your pick of everybody, everybody in or near New York, to be brought in here right now, for you to ask questions of about this case, who would it be?”
“Thank heaven,” Wolfe declared, “I can answer that unequivocally. Madame Zorka.”
The phone rang. It was for Cramer again and he took it at my desk. It was a short conversation this time, and when he disconnected and went back to his chair he had a satisfied grin on his mug.
“Well, well,” he said. “I call that pretty good. No sooner asked for. They’ve got Zorka and I told them to bring her here.”
“Indeed.” Wolfe was filling his glass again. “Where did they find her?”
“In a room at the Brissenden. Registered phone. Arrived at ten minutes past five this morning.”
“I hope,” Wolfe muttered, “that she has something to wear besides that red thing she had on last night.”
“Huh? I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing. Soliloquy – Yes, Fritz?”
Fritz was in again. He had the salver this time, and crossed to Wolfe. Wolfe took the card, read it and frowned.
“The devil,” he said. “Where is he?”
“In the hall, sir.”
“Please put him in the front room, close the door, and come back.”
As Fritz went Wolfe addressed the inspector:
“I don’t suppose you have an errand somewhere else.”
“Neither do I,” Cramer said emphatically. “I’ve told you ten times I like it here. If I once got out you might not let me in again unless I brought a warrant.”
“Very well. Then I’m afraid – Oh, Fritz. Will you please take Mr. Cramer up in the elevator and ask Theodore to show him the orchids?” He smiled at the inspector. “You haven’t been up there for a long while. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”
“I’ll love it,” Cramer declared, and got up and followed Fritz out.
Wolfe handed me the card and I read, “John P. Barrett.”
The sound came of the elevator door clanging, and Wolfe said, “Bring him in.”
Chapter 15
The appearance of Donnybonny’s father in the flesh fitted the sound of his voice on the telephone. He was the kind many people call distinguished-looking and I call Headwaiter’s Dream. He was around fifty, smooth-shaven, with gray eyes that needed to look only once at something, and was wearing $485 worth of quiet clothes. He shook hands with Wolfe in a pleasant manner, as if there could never be any hurry or urgency about anything in the world.
“You’re over here by the river in a corner of your own,” he observed genially as he sat down.
Wolfe nodded. “Yes, I bought this place a long time ago and I’m hard to move. You must excuse me, Mr. Barrett, if I say that I haven’t much time to spare. I’m wedging you in. Another caller kindly went up to my plant rooms for an interlude. Mr. Cramer of the police.”
“Cramer?”
“Inspector Cramer of the Homicide Bureau.”
“Oh.” Barrett’s tone was nonchalant but his eyes, for an instant, were not. “I came to see you on account of some remarks you made last night to my son.
Regarding Bosnian forests, credits held by my firm, and the Donevitch gang. That was your word, I believe – gang.”
“I believe it was,” Wolfe admitted. “Was there something wrong with my remarks?”
“Oh, no. Nothing wrong. May I smoke?”
Permission received, he got a cigarette from a case which boosted his freight loading from the $485 up to around eight hundred berries, lit, and thanked me for the ash tray I provided.
“My son,” he said in a tone of civilized exasperation, “is a little bit green. It’s unavoidable that youth should arrange people in categories, it’s the only way of handling the mass of material at first to avoid hopeless confusion, but the sorting out should not be too long delayed. My son seems to be pretty slow at it. He overrates some people and underrates others. Perhaps I’ve tried to rush it by opening too many doors for him. A father’s conceit can be a very disastrous thing.”
He tapped ashes from his cigarette. He asked abruptly but not at all pugnaciously, “What is it you want, Mr. Wolfe?”
Wolfe shook his head. “Nothing right now. I wanted to see Madame Zorka and your son kindly made that possible.”
“Yes, he told me about that. But what else?”
“Nothing at present. Really.”
“Well.” Barrett smiled. “I understand that as a private investigator you undertake almost any sort of job that promises a fee proportionate to your abilities.”
“Yes, sir, I do. Within certain boundaries I have set. I try to keep my prejudices intact.”
“Naturally.” Barrett laughed sympathetically. “We can’t leave it to anyone else to defend our prejudices for us.” He tapped off ashes again. “My son also tells me that you are engaged in the interests of a young woman named Tormic who is a friend of his. At least – hum – an acquaintance. In connection with the murder of that man Ludlow.”
“That’s right,” Wolfe agreed. “I was originally engaged to clear her of a charge of stealing diamonds from a man named Driscoll. Then Mr. Ludlow got killed, and Miss Tormic needed a little help on that too because she was implicated by circumstances.”
“And was it from this Miss Tormic that you received information which enabled you to put pressure on my son? You did put pressure on him, didn’t you?”
“Certainly. I blackmailed him.”
“Yes. With a threat to disclose certain facts. Did you get those facts from Miss Tormic?”
“My dear sir.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “You can’t possibly be fatuous enough to expect me to tell you that.”
Barrett smiled at him. “There’s always a chance that you might. Especially since there’s no good reason why you shouldn’t. Are you under obligation to defend the interests of anyone except Miss Tormic?”
“Yes. My own. Always my own.”
“That, of course. But anyone else? I should think there would be no impropriety in your telling me if you represent any interest except that of Miss Tormic. For instance, Madame Zorka?”
Wolfe frowned. “I am always reluctant to make a present of information. Just as you are reluctant to make a present of money. You’re a banker and your business is selling money; I’m a detective and mine is selling information. But I don’t want to be churlish. In connection with the activities we are speaking of, I represent no interest whatever except that of Miss Tormic.”
“And, always, your own.”
“Always my own.”
“Good.” Barrett crushed his cigarette in the tray. “That clears the way for us, I should think. Please don’t think I’m fatuous. I’ve made some inquiries and I find you have an enviable reputation for good faith. I have a proposal to make regarding this little project my firm is interested in. This – um – business you mentioned to my son. We need your services. Nothing onerous, and certainly nothing to offend your prejudices.” He pulled a little leather fold from his pocket. “I’ll give you a check now as a retainer. Say ten thousand dollars?”
I thought to myself, what do you know about that; Donny-darling got his briber’s itch honestly, by direct inheritance. Then I grinned, looking at Wolfe. One corner of his mouth was twisted a little out of line, which mean that he was suffering acute pain. It was a situation he had had to face fairly often during the years I had known him, and the torture involved was in direct proportion to the number of ciphers. Ten thousand bucks would have kept a good man, even Ray Borchers, in Central America for a full year, hunting rare orchids, always with the possibility of finding one absolutely new. Or 5000 cases of beer or 600 pounds of caviar…
He said bravely, but with somewhat more breath than the word should require, “No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“If I assure you that you will be expected to do nothing that will interfere with the interest you already represent? And in case my assurance doesn’t satisfy you, if at any time you find your engagements in conflict you may merely return the ten thousand dollars –”
Wolfe’s lip twitched. I turned my head away. But his voice showed that he had it licked: “No, sir. To return that amount of money would ruin my digestion for a week. If I could bring myself to do it, which is doubtful. No, sir. Abandon the idea. I shall accept no commission or retainer from you.”
“Is that – urn – definite?”
“Irrevocable.”
One little vertical crease showed in the middle of Barrett’s forehead. With no other sign of fits, he returned the leather fold to his breast pocket, and then regarded Wolfe with what was probably as close to an open stare as he ever got.