Роберт Колби - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 17, No. 4, April 1972

“Right. But suppose he isn’t in Who’s Who? ”

“If he had money, the odds are that he’ll be there. For philanthropy, if nothing else. But if he isn’t, there ought to be a Who’s Who of the business world. By the way, you’ll have to go back six years or more. That’s how long Hector Collier’s been deceased.”

“That done, what next?”

“Get switched to the Periodical Room and ask for the name of a daily newspaper in the St. Paul-Minneapolis area. Then phone the paper and get the morgue. Tell the man in charge that you’re a police reporter and that a man who’s been arrested down here on suspicion of arson gives his name as Charles whatever-you-found-out-in-Who’s-Who. You wonder if they’ve got anything on him up there.”

“Why don’t I just tell them I’m a private detective?”

“I have the feeling you would meet with resistance. Newspapermen help newspapermen. Any questions?”

“Yes. Why don’t you do all of this yourself?”

“Because I have a client waiting in my office and I don’t want to keep him waiting half the morning.”

Back in my office, I ushered the client to a chair.

He was a small man who seemed to look over his shoulder before he sat down. He cleared his throat. “Do you handle divorce, cases?”

“In what way?”

He seemed uneasy. “It’s my wife and I. We just don’t get along. Incompatibility, you know. And, well, we decided on a divorce.”

“Wise under the circumstances,” I said. “Wise.”

“And I heard, that at times, certain arrangements can be made with some private detectives to... well... you know that adultery is grounds for divorce and...”

I could see that we would deal freely with italics. I reached for a sheet of paper. “Your name, please?”

“Andrew Oliphant.”

“Your address?”

“I’m staying at the Alton Hotel.”

“Just what is it that you heard about some private detectives?”

He shifted in his chair. “Well, I heard that some private detectives will actually arrange for the husband to spend the night in a hotel room with some woman and then testify in court to that effect.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps it would be possible to arrange something like that.”

He was relieved. “Good. I’ll pay something in advance. Will one hundred dollars do?”

I carefully studied the red hair, the red mustache, and the blinking eyes. “No,” I said finally, “I’d prefer two hundred.”

His mouth dropped slightly. “Isn’t that a bit steep? I mean for an advance? ”

I smiled. “I prefer a larger advance than most private detectives. However you must remember that it is only an advance and comes out of the final fee. And my final fee is approximately the same as any other detective’s final fee. We have our fair practice code, you know.”

He mulled that over and sighed. “All right. Two hundred it is.” He cleared his throat again. “This woman with whom I am supposed to spend the night? I wouldn’t want to harm anyone’s reputation. I mean, you would provide somebody who wouldn’t mind the... ah... publicity of such a tiling?”

“Of course,” I said. “Which would you prefer? Blonde? Brunette? Redhead?”

“Well... I think blonde will be all right.”

I got to my feet and went to the door. I locked it.

He was instantly alarmed. “Why did you do that?”

“I don’t want anyone to disturb us.” I went back to my desk. “I’d like to see your identification. A driver’s license will do.”

He balked. “I don’t think that is necessary.”

“In that case, I shall have to phone the police.”

Color drained from his face. “The police? What for?”

I gave him a tight smile. “We private detectives have our own little get-togethers and our circulating mimeographs in which we exchange information and lore. So, Mr. Oliphant, or whoever you really are, I am certain that I have heard of you before.” I leaned forward. “You pay your one hundred dollars advance for the arrangement. You spend the night with the girl... and I mean spend... and then you disappear. It was never your intention to get any such thing as a divorce. As a matter of fact, I don’t believe that you are even married?”

He glanced back at the locked door and then slowly hung his head. “No.”

“Now let me see your wallet.”

He meekly handed it over.

I flipped it open and read the name on the driver’s license out loud. “Alistair Folling?”

He nodded.

I made a note of his address. “You may take off your wig and mustache now, and put on your glasses. You’ll ruin your eyes without them.”

When he had done as instructed, I stared at him. He seemed vaguely familiar. I re-read the name. Alistair Folling?

But of course! I was shocked. “You? Alistair Folling? The Book Editor of the Daily Times? Indulging in this carnal... ”

His underlip thrust out with a trace of stubbornness, “I’m only human, you know. A man. And a man needs...” He frowned. “At least I think he does.”

I shook my head sadly. “Why do you find it necessary to go through all this complicated folderol? Couldn’t you just take twenty bucks and find the nearest—”

He broke in. “Because basically I’m a very shy man. I just couldn’t simply approach anyone; and besides, I don’t really know any...” He shrugged.

We fell into silence, each with his own thoughts.

“Mr. Folling,” I said finally. “I am a humanitarian and I cannot stand to see a fellow human being suffer.” I reached for the phone book and turned to the yellow pages. I found the number of Esmeralda’s Massage and dialed.

When I hung up, it was all arranged. “Her name is Flora. She’ll be in room three-one-eight of the Stafford Arms tonight at eight. Bring along a pint.”

“I always do.” He seemed considerably happier. “At first, I thought you might try to blackmail me.”

I regarded him with new interest.

He paled and endeavored to take the foot out of his mouth.

I smiled aggressively. “Are you on friendly terms with the sportswriters on your newspaper?”

His lip curled faintly. “I have spoken to them on occasion.”

“Then, as a favor, I want you to get one of them to go to the Albert Simpson home at two-three-eight-five Windom Avenue. Have him take along a photographer. I want him to write a big story on archery, the Archery Club, and especially the Simpsons. I want pictures of the whole family.”

He was dubious. “Suppose they won’t do it?”

“Sportswriters inevitably write books, don’t they?”

“Inevitably.”

“And when these books are written, they expect a favorable review from their own newspaper?”

“Of course.”

“Then inform the sports staff that if the Simpson story does not appear, you will henceforth assign any books coming from the sports department to a woman reviewer who can’t stand Hemingway.”

He nodded. “That ought to do it.”

At ten o’clock, my phone rang. It was Mrs. Finley. “I saw you this morning, but not last night.”

“I was there,” I said. “Everything is properly witnessed. I suppose Eldon worked on his Ph.D.?”

“For a while. Then we played cards.”

“The rest of the night?”

“Not exactly. Did you know that Eldon sold his blood to a blood bank in order to make ends meet when he was working for his Master’s?”