Rex Stout - The Father Hunt

"I doubt," Wolfe said, "if it would help to have Mr. Goodwin and me around. We're in a pickle. I wrote you that I would appreciate it if you would call at my office. I retract that. I don't appreciate it at all."

"I suppose not." He turned and sort of wandered toward the hall, but stopped and swung around. "The pickle you're in is nothing to mine. I thought I had my father plain and clear, and now this! I'm going to see it-I don't know when, but I will. I have to."

I had circled around him and was in the hall, but he didn't see me as he came to the front, where I had the

door open. I shut the door after him, returned to the office, and stood looking down at Wolfe. With his chin down he had to have his eyes wide open to glare at the globe. After ten seconds of that he raised his head to growl at me. "Sit down. Confound it, you know I like eyes at a level."

"Yeah. Shall I get the darts out?"

"No. How much have we spent?"

That was dangerous. That question meant, If I return the retainer and drop it, how much am I out? That hadn't happened often, but it wasn't unthinkable. I went to my chair and sat. "I admit," I said, "that we've never had a tougher one, and it may be too tough even for you, but why can't we just hang on until Eugene sees it? He'll tell us, and we'll check it and hand it to the client, and she'll think-"

"Shut up!"

That was better. There wasn't going to be a battle about

quitting. He scowled at me and demanded, "Do we aban

don that wretch?" ''

I thought that was hitting below the belt, to call a vice-president a wretch just because he couldn't impregnate a woman. "Yes," I said, "any odds you want. Of course I'll see that doctor, but we might as well cross him off now."

"Do we also abandon Mr. McCray?"

I grinned at him. Even in that pickle, that called for a grin. "I'm right with you," I said. "We have never considered McCray; we were considering only Jarretts. You were considering McCray for the first time when I went to let that wretch out, and so was I. He is our only source for the fact that the checks were charged to Cyrus M. Jarrett. We have had no corroboration of it. Might they have been actually charged to McCray? Certainly. Might he have had opportunities to impregnate Carlotta Vaughn during the summer of nineteen forty-four? Certainly. But in that case, Jarrett knew nothing about the checks, and why didn't he just kick me out?"

I waved a hand. "I reported it verbatim. Jarrett said, "Those checks are in the files of the Seaboard Bank and Trust Company. Who told you about them?' The next day, Thursday, why did the name Carlotta Vaughn, just the name, get me to him? Why was he ready with those

places and dates for that summer? His whole reaction, everything he said." I shook my head. "The checks came from Cyrus M. Jarrett. Since you had a good two minutes to consider McCray I'm surprised that you bothered to mention him."

"You saw Mr. Jarrett and I didn't."

"And I have no desire to see him again. Forget McCray."

"Then we're left with nothing."

"We have Saul and Fred and Orrie. And me. And, oh, yes, excuse me, we have you."

He looked at his current book, always there on the desk, picked it up, dropped it, and glared at me.

10

Sixty-eight hours later, at three o'clock Thursday afternoon, Wolfe and I sat in the office with nothing more to say. We still had exactly what we had had Monday at dinnertime, five detectives, counting us.

First, to finish off Eugene Jarrett. At 8:50 Tuesday morning I had got off the elevator at the tenth floor of a building on Park Avenue in the Eighties, given my name to a woman at a desk, and been sent to a big old-fashioned room with twenty chairs distributed around the walls and tables, eight or nine of them occupied by people who didn't look very gay, which wasn't too discouraging because the names of four M.D.s had been on the plaque. At 9:20 another woman had come and ushered me down a hall to a door which she opened. When I entered, a gray-haired man with shaggy black eyebrows and a tired wide mouth, at a desk, writing on a pad, nodded and pointed to a chair, went on writing for a couple of minutes, and then put the pen down and turned to me. He asked if my name was Archie Goodwin and I said yes, and he said that since the information he was to give me was confidential he would like to be sure…

I got my wallet out and showed him things, and he nodded and looked at his wristwatch. "We squeezed you in," he said, "because Mr. Jarrett said it was urgent. He asked me to confirm his statement to you that he is sterile and has been sterile all his adult life. Very well, I do. That is true."

"If you don't mind," I said, "we want it airtight. That's of your personal knowledge? Not hearsay?"

"I wouldn't make such a statement from hearsay. My professional knowledge, yes. Four examinations and analyses, at intervals, in seventeen years. Not only is the sperm count per se too low, but also the percentage of abnormal forms is too high. It is conclusive."

"Thank you. Seventeen years ago was nineteen fifty. What about earlier? Say nineteen forty-four."

He shook his head. "Extremely unlikely. I would accept it as a possibility only on incontrovertible evidence, and even then with reluctance. I have known the family for nearly thirty years, since nineteen forty. If Eugene Jarrett was fertile hi nineteen forty-four only certain infections-mumps is the commonest one-could have caused his present condition, and he has had none of them." He looked at his watch. "Mr. Jarrett didn't tell me what this is about. If it's a paternity suit it's ridiculous. I would be glad to testify."

I thanked him again and went. So much for Eugene Jarrett. But on the way home I stopped in at Doc Vollmer's office, in a house he owns on the same block as the old brownstone, and asked him about the reputation of James Odell Worthington, M.D., and sperm counts and abnormal forms and mumps; and that did finish off Eugene Jarrett.

Cyrus M. Jarrett was finished too, on Wednesday, when Orrie came back from Washington with three notebooks full of details from official records. The places and dates as Jarrett had rattled them off to me all checked, and if he had taken a day off to fly across the Atlantic on a personal errand off the record, where did he get an airplane in wartime?

After dinner Monday evening I had made a trip uptown and spent a couple of hours with the client. The news that her mother's real name was Carlotta Vaughn and that she had come from Wisconsin didn't impress her much; as she had said, she had known her mother all her life. Also, she wasn't too impressed by the news that we had eliminated the Jarretts; she wasn't interested in men who were not her father; what she was after was the man who was her father. I made it plain that we were no longer turning over stones, we were trying to find a stone to turn, and it was anybody's guess how long it would take. She said she should have taken my bet a week ago when

I offered her even money that we would spot her father within three days.

Saul and Fred had kept at their hunt for stones until Tuesday noon, but had been called in when I got seven more replies to the ad and three of them were worth a look. Saul took one, from a shoe-repair man on West Fifty-fourth Street who wrote that Carlotta Vaughn had been a customer of his for several months in 1944. I got his letter at the News. When Saul went to see him, he took along photographs of six other young women, and the shoeman picked Carlotta Vaughn at the first look. He knew nothing of any Elinor Denovo, but he remembered it was during the summer of 1944 that Carlotta Vaughn had been a regular customer for both repairs and shines, because it was that August that his son had been killed in action in France. He couldn't say when he had seen her last, but thought it had been late summer or early fall. He didn't think he had ever had her address, but if so it was gone now. Of course she had probably lived nearby, and after shelling out five hundred dollars to the shoeman, Saul had gone to work on the neighborhood.