Рекс Стаут: The Father Hunt

There was nothing about Elinor Denovo that I didn’t already know, except that she was vice-president of Raymond Thorne Productions, Inc. Miss Amy Denovo had been interviewed but hadn’t said much. Raymond Thorne had said that Mrs. Denovo had made valuable contributions to the art of television production and her death was a great loss not only for his company but for the whole television industry and therefore for the country. I thought he should make up his mind whether television was an art or an industry.

I put the file on Lon’s desk, waited until he had finished at a phone, and said, “Many thanks. I was curious about a detail. The latest item is June first. Would you know if there has been any progress since?”

He got at a phone, the green one this time, pressed a button, and in a moment talked, and then waited. While he waited another phone buzzed, and stopped when he pushed a button. In a couple of minutes he told the green phone, “Yeah, sure.” In another couple of minutes he cradled it, turned to me and said, “Apparently it’s dead. Our last word, more than a month ago, was that we might as well cross it off. They had only one man still on it. But now of course, with Nero Wolfe horning in, it’s far from dead. So it was murder. I don’t expect you to name him, even off the record, but I want enough for a box.”

I was on my feet. “Journalists,” I said, “are the salt and pepper of the earth. I would enjoy discussing that with you, but I’m on my way to a rustic swimming pool in the middle of a tailor-made glade in the Westchester woods, and I’m twenty hours late. I said it was something trivial, but have it your way. Yes, it was murder, and the driver of the car was the skunk who topped my three aces with four deuces Thursday night. I hope they get him.”

I turned and went.

But down in the lobby I went to a phone booth, dialed a number I didn’t have to look up, gave my name, asked if Sergeant Stebbins was around, and after a long wait got his voice:

“Stebbins. Something up, Archie?”

He must have just won a bet or got a raise. He called me Archie only about once in two years, and sometimes he wouldn’t even say Goodwin but made it just you. I returned the compliment, “Nothing with a bite, Purley, just a routine question, but to answer it you may have to look at a file. You may have forgotten it, it was nearly three months ago — a hit-and-run on East Eighty-third Street, a woman named Elinor Denovo—”

“We haven’t forgotten it. We don’t forget a hit-and-run.”

“I know you don’t, I was just being impolite for practice. Someone asked me if you’ve dug up a lead on it, and of course I didn’t know. Have you?”

“Who asked you?”

“Oh, Mr. Wolfe and I were discussing crime and whether cops are as good as they ought to be, and he mentioned this Elinor Denovo. As you know, he misses nothing in the papers. I said you would probably get that one, and I was curious. Of course I’m not asking for any inside dope...”

“There isn’t any dope, inside or outside. It’s hanging. But we’re not forgetting it.”

“Right. I hope you get him. Nobody likes a hit-and-run.”

Walking to Forty-third Street for the car, I had to concede that I had got no relief at all for the itch.

You would suppose that at ten minutes to ten Monday morning, as I sat in a taxicab headed uptown, with the box on the seat beside me and the breast pocket of my jacket bulging with envelopes containing letters to twelve savings banks because I never lug a brief case if I can help it, my mind would be on the morning’s program, but it wasn’t. It was on the hour just past, or part of it, instead of the one just ahead. I don’t like to have people bellow at me, particularly not Wolfe.

Also I had had only six hours’ sleep, a full two hours less than I need and nearly always get. Getting home after midnight Sunday, I had decided against typing twelve letters before turning in, and so had to set the alarm for seven o’clock. When it went off I opened one eye to glare at it, but I knew I would have to hustle, much as I hate hustling before breakfast, and in six minutes, maybe seven, I was on my feet. At 7:45 I was at the little table in the kitchen where I eat breakfast, on the last swallow of orange juice, and Fritz was crossing to me with the grilled ham and corn fritters, and at 8:101 was in the office at the typewriter. At 9:15 I finished the twelfth letter and had started folding and putting them in envelopes when the doorbell rang, and I went to the hall for a look through the one-way glass in the front door, and saw a big burly male with a big round red face topped by a big battered broad-brimmed felt hat. The hat alone would have been enough. Inspector Cramer of Homicide South must be the only man in New York who wears such a hat on a hot sunny day in August.

Nuts, I thought, let him ring. But it must be just for me, since he knew Wolfe was never available before eleven o’clock, so I went and opened the door and said, “Good morning and greetings, but I’m busy and I’m in a rush. I really mean it.”

“So am I.” It was gruff, but it always is. “I’m just stopping by on my way down. Why did you call Stebbins on that hit-and-run?”

“What the hell, I told him why.”

“I know you did. Also I know you and I know Wolfe. Discussing crime my ass. All right, discuss it with me now. I want to know why you’re working on that hit-and-run.”

“I’m not. Mr. Wolfe isn’t.” I glanced at my wrist. “I would like to ask you in for some give and take, you know I enjoy that, but I’ve got a date. Except for what was in the papers, I know absolutely nothing about that hit-and-run, and neither does Mr. Wolfe. No one has consulted with me about it. The only client we’ve got is a girl who can’t find her father and wants us to.” I glanced at my wrist. “Damn it, I’ll be late.” I started the door around. He opened his mouth, clamped it shut, about-faced, and started down the seven steps of the stoop. His PD car was there, double-parked. By the time he reached it I was back in the office.

Time was short, but it was quite possible that Cramer would phone while I was gone, and Wolfe didn’t know about my call to Purley Stebbins. He is not to be disturbed short of an emergency when he is up in the plant rooms, but he had to be told, so I took the house phone and pushed a button, and after a wait his voice came.

“Yes?”

“Me in a hurry. Cramer was here just now, stopping on his way downtown. I haven’t had a chance to tell you that Saturday afternoon I rang Stebbins and—”

“I’m busy!” he bellowed and hung up.

I assumed he had just found a thrip on a favorite plant or dry rot on a pseudobulb, but as I said, I do not like to be bellowed at. If Cramer called they could discuss crime. When the letters were in the envelopes and in my pocket I still had a chore left, ringing Mortimer M. Hotchkiss, the vice-president who bossed the Thirty-fourth Street branch of the Continental Bank and Trust Company. That didn’t take long; he was always glad to be of service to a depositor — not me, Nero Wolfe — whose balance never went below five figures and sometimes hit six. That done, I got the box from the safe and was off. Nothing was in it but the money; the letter was on a shelf with some other classified items.

At the Eighty-sixth Street branch I found that Hotchkiss had been prompt. I was only six steps inside when a man at a desk got up and motioned me over and asked if I was Mr. Goodwin, and then took me inside the rail and along an aisle to a door at the front. He opened it and bowed me in, and there was Amy Denovo on a chair facing a big glass-topped desk. Behind the desk was a middle-aged banker with a whiny dome and rimless cheaters. As I crossed he rose and offered a hand, saying that it was a pleasure, Mr. Goodwin, a real pleasure, which was par, since Hotchkiss was a vice-president and he wasn’t I said, “Mr. Atwood?” and he said yes and told me to sit, but after telling Amy good morning I put the box on the desk, fished the key from my pocket and used it, and opened the lid wide. Then I sat. Atwood had started to, but was up again, staring at the contents of the box. It rated a stare, even from a banker.