“I didn’t exactly get him. He came. He phoned for an appointment at four-twenty-one.”
“What does he want?”
“To talk with you. Since you don’t like a client horning in on a case, I didn’t press him for particulars.”
Thereupon Wolfe paid me a high compliment. He gazed at me with a severely suspicious eye. Obviously he suspected me of pulling a fast one—of somehow, in less than two hours, digging up Albert M. Irby and his connection with Priscilla Eads, and shanghaiing him. I didn’t mind, but I thought it well to be on record.
“No, sir,” I said firmly.
He grunted. “You don’t know what he wants?”
“No, sir.”
He tossed the book aside. “Bring him in.”
It was a pleasure to go for that lawyer and usher him in to the red leather chair, but I must admit that physically he was nothing to flaunt. I have never seen a balder man, and his hairless freckled dome had a peculiar attraction. It was covered with tiny drops of sweat, and nothing ever happened to them. He didn’t touch them with a handkerchief, they didn’t get larger or merge and trickle, and they didn’t dwindle. They just stood pat. There was nothing repulsive about them, but after ten minutes or so the suspense was quite a strain.
Sitting, he put his briefcase on the little table at his elbow. “Right off,” he said, in a voice that could have used more vinegar and less oil, “I want to put myself in your hands. I’m not in your class, Mr Wolfe, and I won’t pretend I am. I’ll just tell you how it stands, and whatever you say goes.”
It was a bad start if he expected any favors. Wolfe compressed his lips. “Go ahead.”
“Thank you.” He was sitting forward in the big chair. “I appreciate your seeing me, but I am not surprised, because I know of your great services in the cause of justice, and that’s what I want, justice for a client. His name is Eric Hagh. I was asked to represent him by an attorney in Venezuela, in Caracas, with whom I had previously had dealings—his name is Juan Blanco. That was—”
“Spell it, please?” I requested, notebook in hand.
He complied and went on to Wolfe, “That was nine days ago, on the sixteenth of this month. Hagh had already sent a communication here to Mr Perry Helmar, on advice of Blanco, but they had decided that he needed representation here in New York, and Blanco sent me all the particulars of the case, with copies of documents.” He tapped the briefcase. “I have them here. If you will just—”
“Later,” Wolfe said hastily. “First, what is wanted?” He looks at documents only when he has to.
“Certainly, certainly.” Irby sure was anxious to please. The dewdrops on his freckled cupola might have been glued on. “One of them is a photostat of a letter, a holograph, dated at Cajamarca, Peru, August twelfth, nineteen forty-six, written and signed by Priscilla Eads Hagh and witnessed by Margaret Caselli. That was the maiden name of Margaret Fomos, who was killed Monday night. In the letter Priscilla Hagh gave her husband, Eric Hagh, a half-interest, without reservation, in all property then hers or to become hers at any time in the future.”
“Any consideration?” Wolfe demanded.
“Uh—none specified.”
“Then it’s highly vulnerable.”
“That may be. That will have to be adjudicated, but it is unquestionably a powerful weapon, and it was given to my client in good faith and accepted in good faith.”
“I’m not a lawyer, Mr Irby.”
“I know you’re not, Mr Wolfe. I came to see you not on a matter of law, but a matter of fact. According to an article in the Times this morning, and in other papers, Miss Eads, formerly Mrs Eric Hagh, was in your house Monday afternoon and evening, and Mr Perry Helmar, the trustee of her property, was here Monday evening. I would deeply appreciate it, very deeply appreciate it, if you will tell me, in your talks with them was any mention made of this document? Of the letter signed by Priscilla Hagh and witnessed by Margaret Caselli?”
Wolfe stirred in his chair. He rested an elbow on its arm, raised a hand, and ran a fingertip along his lower lip, back and forth. “You’d better tell me more about it,” he muttered. “Why did Mr Hagh wait so long to file a claim?”
“I’m eager to, Mr Wolfe, I’m eager to. I have it all from Blanco. But of course it would be improper for me to divulge privileged communications, so I won’t. I can say this, that Hagh first saw Blanco only a month ago, to show him the document and consult him as to the method of putting in his claim immediately after June thirtieth, his former wife’s birthday, when she would come into possession of property worth millions. Blanco got me on the phone, and I checked at this end—chiefly Priscilla’s father’s will, which of course is on record. With that, and with the details supplied by Hagh, Blanco advised him not to wait for June thirtieth, when the property would pass to Priscilla, but to file his claim immediately with the trustee, Perry Helmar, demanding that half of the property be transferred to Hagh instead of Priscilla, and warning Helmar that he would be held responsible for any default.”
Irby raised his shoulders and dropped them. “That may have been good advice for Venezuela. Whether it was for here I don’t say. Anyhow Hagh took it, and a communication was sent to Helmar which Blanco wrote and Hagh signed, and a copy of it was sent to Priscilla. A copy came to me too, with photostats of the basic document and a full report of the situation, and instructions from Blanco that I should proceed with an action to restrain Helmar from making the transfer to Priscilla. I know a little law and I know where to find more, but I couldn’t find any that would do that trick. Even granting that Hagh’s claim was legally valid—”
“I’ll take your conclusion, Mr Irby.”
“Very well. I so advised Blanco. He got no reply from Helmar, and none from Priscilla. I finally got to see Helmar—that was last week, Tuesday—and had a long talk with him, but it was completely unsatisfactory. He took no position at all; I couldn’t pin him down to a thing. I decided that under the circumstances it would not be unethical for me to see Priscilla Eads. I had already phoned to ask her if Helmar was her personal attorney, and she didn’t say yes or no. She refused to see me, but I persuaded her, and called at her apartment Friday afternoon. She admitted that she had signed the document in good faith, but soon afterward had changed her mind and asked Hagh to give it back, and he had refused. She offered to pay a hundred thousand dollars cash in settlement of the claim, and said that if Hagh didn’t accept that he would get nothing unless a court ordered it.”
“She made you that offer?”
“Yes, and I phoned Blanco in Caracas to report it. June thirtieth was only ten days away, and if Blanco’s strategy was sound there was no time to spare. But right there everything died. Blanco called Priscilla’s offer contemptible and wouldn’t discuss it. Helmar and Priscilla were both away over the weekend, and I couldn’t even locate them. Monday morning I started in again, but couldn’t get to either one, and I quit trying. Tuesday morning came the news that Priscilla had been murdered. Yesterday.”
Irby slid back in the chair for the first time. The movement had no effect on the dewdrops. He extended his hands as in appeal. “Think of it!” he pleaded. “The situation!”
Wolfe nodded. “Unsatisfactory.”
“Utterly,” the lawyer agreed. He repeated it. “Utterly. I saw no point in spending nine dollars on a phone call to Caracas; frankly, it seemed quite possible that there would be no reimbursement for outlay. I did try to get in touch with Helmar, but without success until noon today. I finally got him on the phone, and do you know what he does?” Irby slid forward again. “He impeaches the document! He denies she ever signed it! He implies that my client forged it! And only last Friday she admitted to me unequivocally that she wrote it with her own hand and signed it, and Margaret Caselli witnessed it!”
Irby hit the arm of the chair with his fist. “I phoned Blanco in Caracas!” He hit it again. “I told him to put Eric Hagh on the first plane for New York!” He hit it again. “And bring the original document with him!” He hit it again. “And I decided to see you!”
Abruptly and surprisingly he calmed down. The fist opened and was only a chubby little hand. “Of course,” he said, “if millions ever were at stake in this, which is open to question, it is very doubtful if they are now. But even ignoring the Softdown stock, Priscilla’s estate is probably substantial, and I do not grant that the stock must be ignored. Even if title to it passes legally to the five persons named in Eads’ will, that document is still a powerful moral weapon, especially in view of the time and circumstances of Priscilla’s death. And it occurred to me that you can probably speak to the authenticity of the document. She came to consult you that day and spent hours with you. Surely the document was mentioned, and surely she acknowledged that she had signed it. Helmar was here that evening, and he too could have mentioned it and either assumed or acknowledged its validity.”