Рекс Стаут - The Father Hunt

At 5:30, having finished the dozen or so letters he had given me, I went up to my room to change my shirt, because the walk to the bank and back with the temperature twenty degrees above what it was in that air-conditioned house had worked up a sweat, but I was down again in twenty minutes, so I was there when Wolfe came down. As he reached his desk the doorbell rang.

I believe I mentioned somewhere in my report of the death of a doxy that Avery Ballou’s face was seamy but had no sag. Now, I saw as I opened the door and let him in, it did have a sag. But he was trying to look grim and ready for anything, and that didn’t go very well with the sag. He didn’t walk, he strode, clown the hall and on in. As he sat in the red leather chair, not settled back, after acknowledging Wolfe’s greeting with a nod that wasn’t cordial at all, he rubbed his brow with a palm. I had seen him do that before, more than once, when he had been in a mess.

His hand dropped to grip the chair arm. “I’m not accust—” he began, but it came out hoarse and he stopped. He started over. “I’m not in the habit of getting a peremptory summons from a — from anybody.”

Wolfe nodded. “I suppose not. But I needed to see you. You may remember that I never leave my house on business errands, but there was also the consideration that you would probably prefer not to have Mr. Goodwin or me call at your office. First I’ll—”

“Why do you need to see me?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment. First I’ll relieve your mind. My need has no connection with what happened eighteen months ago, none whatever. No connection with you or your affairs. I am having—”

“Then goddam it, why did—”

“If you please. I am having a rare experience, almost without precedent. I am embarrassed. I need to say something and I am unsure about how to say it. I must ask your help on a problem, and how do I do it without risking misunderstanding?”

“I don’t know. I never saw you at a loss for words. Is that straight? It has nothing to do with me?”

“Yes. It’s my problem. And Mr. Goodwin’s.”

Ballou took a deep breath, settled back in the chair, turned to me, and said, “I could use a drink.”

“Gin on the rocks with lemon peel?” I asked. “There’s fresh mint if you want it.”

“You remember? I’ll be damned. No mint.”

I didn’t move; I didn’t intend to miss the next five minutes. Wolfe, seeing I wasn’t going, pushed a button, and when Fritz came gave him a triple order: gin for the guest, beer for him, and milk for me.

He squinted at Ballou. “It’s difficult. I can’t pretend that you are under any obligation to me. You paid me a substantial sum for the ticklish and knotty job I did for you. You did say that you had to be rescued from that predicament no matter what it cost, but that was merely the desperate squawk of a man under intolerable pressure. The account was settled. You owe me nothing. But the fact remains that Mr. Goodwin and I remain in possession of a secret which you still wish to protect at any cost, and we could support our knowledge with evidence. Then no matter what I say, how I put it, how can I ask you to help me on a problem without risking an indictment for extortion? For blackmail? Not by a jury; by you.”

He compressed his lips and shook his head. “Confound it. Words won’t do it. No words will erase or suspend your awareness that I could divulge that secret. There are no conceivable circumstances in which Mr. Goodwin or I would divulge it, but you know we could, and I can’t open your skull and select those cells and remove them.”

He shook his head some more. “I’ll try another tack. I need your help. I presume to request it solely on the supposition that you may be willing to supply it not to meet any obligation, but to show your continued appreciation for the service I rendered you. If your appreciation has withered or vanished, I make no request.”

“It hasn’t.” The sag was gone, and Ballou had even smiled a couple of times. “It’s too bad you didn’t know how to say it. I’m glad you’re not going to open my skull, I appreciate that, too. What’s your problem?”

That had to wait because Fritz came with the drinks. He served Wolfe’s beer first, the bottle unopened because that’s a rule, and Wolfe got his opener from the drawer, a gold one Marko Vukcic had given him that didn’t work very well. By the time Fritz had served my milk and had gone, Ballou had downed a good half of his gin, but the bottle and ice were there on the stand.

Wolfe licked foam from his lips and eyed Ballou. “Well,” he said, “I did my best. Making the request is much simpler. According to Mr. Goodwin, you are a director of the Seaboard Bank and Trust Company.”

He nodded. “I’m on the board. I’m on several boards. Eight, I think.”

“Indeed. I don’t know much about boards, but I assume a director is on speaking terms with the people who do the work. Now the problem. Twenty-two years ago, in June nineteen forty-five, someone got a bank check from the Seaboard Bank and Trust Company for one thousand dollars, payable to bearer. Call him X. The next month, July, he got another bank check for the same amount, and the next, and the next. That continued through month after month and year after year — two hundred and sixty-four checks in twenty-two years. The last one was in May of this year; there have been none since and there will be none. I need to know who X is. I must ask him something. That’s my problem.”

Ballou took a sip of gin. “What’s the rest of it?”

“There isn’t any ‘rest.’ That’s it.”

“My God. All this performance, getting me here and all your jabber, for something as simple as that?”

“I didn’t know it would be simple.”

“Well, it is. It would be even simpler if the checks were to a specific payee instead of bearer, but it’s still simple, since it was the same amount every month for twenty-two years. All it will take is some digging by a clerk. Goodwin could have asked me on the phone. I’ll call him tomorrow, or someone at Seaboard will.” He took a sip. “You gave me a good scare and I certainly don’t appreciate that, but now that I’m here I might as well say that I still fully appreciate what you did for me when I needed help a hell of a lot more than you do now.” He emptied the glass and put it down. “How’s the detective business?” He turned to me. “I’m surprised at you, Goodwin. He may not have known how simple it was, since he doesn’t get out and around, but you should have. I’ll have someone give you a ring tomorrow.”

He got up, offered Wolfe a shake, and came to give me one too. I escorted him to the front and out, and when I returned to the office told Wolfe, “Not the one he had last year, a new one. It isn’t true that everyone keeps his Rolls Royce forever.”

You may be agreeing with Ballou, that all that performance, scaring him into coming and Wolfe’s long and eloquent speech, which I wouldn’t call jabber, was unnecessary, but you shouldn’t. He didn’t know that X was almost certainly a father who didn’t want to be spotted and might possibly be a murderer, but you do. You may also be thankful that you have seen and heard the last of Ballou except for a brief phone call that would be just routine, but if so you have an unwelcome surprise coming. I got a surprise too, at a quarter past six the next afternoon, Tuesday, when the doorbell rang and I went to the hall and saw Ballou on the stoop.

I had guessed earlier that it hadn’t been quite so simple, when no phone call came. Expecting it, I had stayed in all day, except for a quick trip to the mailbox on the corner, but at four o’clock, having called Raymond Thorne and learned that the copies of the photographs were ready, I told Wolfe I was flipping the switch for the plant rooms for incoming calls and went for a walk. It was even hotter outdoors than the day before and I was glad to get back to the air-conditioned brownstone. The copies were fine, just as good as the originals. At 6:15 Wolfe, at his desk, was looking them over when the doorbell rang and I went. When I told him it was Ballou he grunted, and when I ushered him in the photographs were not in sight.