Рекс Стаут: The Mother Hunt

“Trade secret. I’m not supposed to tell a client about an operation until I have reported to Mr. Wolfe. But they took it fine. You still have a maid and a cook. If we get any ideas I may phone you in the morning.”

“I’m going to have a martini. Won’t you? Or what?”

Having looked at my watch as I left the kitchen, and knowing that Wolfe’s afternoon session with the orchids would keep him up in the plant rooms until six o’clock, and remembering that one of my functions was to understand any woman we were dealing with, and seeing that the gin was Follansbee’s, I thought I might as well be sociable. I offered to make, saying I favored five to one, and she said all right. When I had made and served and sat, on the couch beside her, and we had sampled, she said, “I want to try something. You take a sip of mine and I’ll take a sip of yours. Do you mind?”

Of course I didn’t, since the idea was to understand her. She held her glass for me to sip, and I held mine for her.

“Actually,” I said, “this good gin is wasted on me. I just had a glass of milk.”

She didn’t hear me. She didn’t even know I had spoken. She was looking at me but not seeing me. How was I to understand that? Not wanting to sit and stare at her, I moved my eyes to her shoulder and arm, which weren’t really skinny.

“I don’t know why I suddenly wanted to do that,” she said. “I haven’t done it since Dick died. I’ve never done it with anybody but him. All of a sudden I knew I had to try it, I don’t know why.”

It seemed advisable to keep it professional, and the simplest way was to bring Wolfe in. “Mr. Wolfe says,” I told her, “that nobody ever gets to the real why of anything.”

She smiled. “And upstairs, when you were looking at the baby, I nearly called you Archie. I’m not trying to flirt with you. I don’t know how to flirt. I don’t suppose— You’re not a hypnotist, are you?”

I sipped the martini. “What the hell,” I said. “Relax. Exchanging sips is an old Persian custom. As for calling me Archie, that’s my name. Don’t call me Svengali. As for flirting, let’s discuss it. Men and women flirt. Horses flirt. Parakeets flirt. Undoubtedly oysters flirt, but they must have some special—”

I stopped because she was moving. She left the couch, went and put the glass, still half full, on the bar, turned, and said, “Don’t forget the suitcase when you go,” and walked out.

That took some fancy understanding. I sat and worked on it while I finished the martini, four or five minutes, got up and put my glass on the bar, touching hers to show I understood, which I didn’t, and departed. In the lower hall, on my way out, I picked up the small suitcase which she had helped me pack.

At that time of day getting a taxi in that part of town is like expecting to draw a ten to an eight, nine, jack, and queen, and it was only twenty-four short blocks and four long ones, and the suitcase was light. Anyway I’m a walker. I wanted to make it before Wolfe got down to the office, and did; it was 5:54 when I mounted the stoop of the old brownstone, used my key, entered, went to the office, put the suitcase on my chair, and unpacked. By the time the sound of the elevator came, all the items were spread out on Wolfe’s desk, just about covering it, and when he walked in I was at my desk, busy with papers. When he stopped and let out a growl I swiveled.

“What the devil is this?” he demanded.

I arose and pointed. “Sweater. Hat. Overalls. T-shirt. Undershirt. Blanket. Booties. Rubber pants. Diaper. You have to hand it to her for keeping the diaper. The maid wasn’t there and she didn’t get a nurse until the next day. She must have washed it herself. There are no laundry marks or store labels. The sweater, hat, overalls, and booties have brand labels, but I doubt if they will help. There’s something about one item that might possibly help. If you don’t spot it yourself it may not be worth mentioning.”

He went to his made-to-order chair and sat. “The maid and the cook?”

“We had a conference. They’re out. Do you want it verbatim?”

“Not if you’re satisfied.”

“I am. Of course if we draw nothing but blanks we can check on them.”

“What else?”

“First, there is a live baby. I saw it. She didn’t just dream it. There’s nothing unusual about the vestibule; the door has no lock and it’s only four steps up, anyone could pop in and out; trying to find someone who saw somebody doing so seventeen days ago after dark would be a waste of my time and the client’s money. I didn’t include the cleaning woman in the conference because if the baby was hers it would be a different color, and I didn’t include the nurse because she was hired through an agency the next day. There’s a fine Tekke rug in the nursery, which was a spare bedroom. You are aware that I know about rugs from you, and about pictures from Miss Rowan. There’s a Renoir in the living room, and I think a Cézanne. The client uses Follansbee gin. I am in bad with her because I forgot she’s an Armstead and used a little profanity. She’ll sleep it off.”

“Why the profanity?”

“She jiggled my arm and I spilled gin on my pants.”

He eyed me. “You had better report verbatim.”

“Not necessary. I’m satisfied.”

“No doubt. Have you any suggestions?”

“Yes, sir. It looks pretty hopeless. If we get nowhere in a couple of weeks you can tell her you have discovered that it’s my baby, I put it in the vestibule, and if she’ll marry me she can keep it. As for the mother, I can simply—”

“Shut up.”

I hadn’t decided how to handle the mother question anyway. He picked up the sweater and inspected it. I sat, leaned back, crossed my legs, and looked on. He didn’t turn the sweater inside out, so this was just a once-over and he would go back to it. He put it down and picked up the hat. When he got to the overalls I watched his face but saw no sign that he had noticed anything, and I swiveled and reached to the rack of phone books for the Manhattan Yellow Pages, formerly the Red Book. I found what I was after, under Children’s & Infants’ Wear — Whol. & Mfrs., which filled four and a half pages. I started a hand for the phone, but drew it back. He might spot it the second time around and should have the chance without a tip from me. I got up and went to the hall and up two flights to my room, and at the phone on my bedstand I dialed the number, but got what was to be expected at that time of day, no answer. I tried another number, a woman I knew who was the mother of three young ones, and got her, but she was no help; she said she would have to see the overalls. So it would have to wait until morning. I went back down to the office.

Wolfe had turned his chair and was holding the over-alls up to get the full light, and in his other hand was his biggest magnifying glass. He was examining a button. As I crossed to him I asked, “Find something?”

He swiveled and put the glass down. “Possibly. The buttons on this garment. Four of them.”

“What about them?”

“They seem inappropriate. Such garments must be made by the million, including the buttons. But these buttons were surely not mass-produced. The material looks like horsehair, white horsehair, though I presume it could be one of the synthetic fibers. But there is considerable variation in size and shape. They couldn’t possibly have been made in large quantities by a machine.”

I sat. “That’s very interesting. Congratulations.”

“I suggest you examine them.”

“I already have, not with a glass. Of course you saw that the brand label of the overalls is Cherub. That brand is made by Resnick and Spiro, Three-forty West Thirty-seventh Street. I just dialed their number but got no answer, since it’s after six. A five-minute walk from here in the morning, unless you want me to find Mr. Resnick or Mr. Spiro now.”