Rex Stout - The Father Hunt

A reply I got at the Times was from a woman who had been a clerk at Altaian's in 1944 and was now at a nursing home in Fairfield County. Fred took her, and found her so vague that after twenty-four hours he was still trying to find out how she knew that a customer she had waited on several times was named Carlotta Vaughn, since there was no record of any deliveries ever made to her. But she, too, had picked Carlotta Vaughn out of seven pictures, so she got her five centuries.

The third reply that seemed possible, which I got at the Gazette, was from a man named Salvatore Manzoni. I took him. He had been a waiter at Sardi's for fifteen years and still was. In 1944 he had been a waiter at Tufitti's, a restaurant on East Forty-sixth Street which had folded in 1949, and Carlotta Vaughn had dined at one of his tables two or three times a week for several months in 1944, He spotted her picture instantly, and he knew her name was Carlotta Vaughn because she had often reserved a table. What made Salvatore Manzoni a real find was that he had probably actually seen Amy's father hi the flesh, not once but many times, for Carlotta Vaughn

bad always had a male companion, and always the same one. When I heard that, I had a tingle at the bottom of my spine; by God, I was going to get the name, then and there. But I didn't. It wasn't that Salvatore Manzoni couldn't remember it; he had never known it. As far as he knew, a reservation had never been made under the man's name. Possibly it might have been known to someone else at the restaurant, perhaps the owner and manager, Giuseppe Tufitti, who might or might not be still alive.

A description by anyone of a man he saw last week will never make you really see him, and 1944 was twenty-three years ago, and this subject had been mostly sitting at a table when he was under Salvatore Manzoni's eyes, which makes a difference. What I got was: age, early thirties. Height, around six feet. Weight, around a hundred and seventy. Shoulders, maybe square, maybe rounded a little. Head, a little bigger than average. Face, not round, maybe rattier long; not pale, maybe a little tanned. Hair, dark brown. Eyes, brown (just a guess). Nose and mouth and ears and chin, yes, he had them.

If that really shows him to you, you have better sight than I have. It did exclude the Jarretts and Bertram Mc-Cray, but they were already out. I wish I knew if you would really be interested in what we did during the next forty-eight hours. I doubt it, because it was all negative. Wednesday morning Saul and Fred had been put on it too, and also Orrie when he returned from Washington. If we could name and place Carlotta Vaughn's dinner partner for those months of 1944 it was 20 to 1 that we would have Amy's father, which was the job, and we gave it all we had. Detecting can be fun, but it can be a pain not only in the neck but also in the head, the guts, the back, the legs, the feet, and the ass. And often is. It was that time.

So at three o'clock Thursday afternoon Wolfe and I sat in the office with nothing more to say. Saul and Fred and Qrrie were still out pecking at it, but when they called in_ we wouldn't be disappointed because we were expecting nothing. Wolfe had started his second bottle of beer since lunch, which exceeded his quota, and I had just returned from the kitchen with a slug of Irish, which made me a lush trying to drown it. I looked at Wolfe, who had his

eyes closed and Ms jaw clamped, and said, "If you're trying to figure how much you're out, it's three grand plus, not counting me."

He shook his head but didn't open his eyes. "I am making assumptions. I am assuming that Miss Denovo's father murdered her mother; that it is more feasible to find him as a murderer than as a father, since he became a father twenty-two years ago and became a murderer only three months ago; that some recent event supplied the motive for the murder; and that the most likely person to have knowledge of that event is Raymond Thome or someone in his employ who was closely associated with Elinor Denovo." His eyes opened. "I'll start with Mr. Thome."

I put the glass with what was left of the Irish on my desk. "Holy heaven. That's the wildest goose you ever chased."

"Perhaps. Sitting here hour after hour and day after day getting futile reports from you and Saul and Fred and Orrie is affecting my appetite and my palate. This morning I had to read a page twice. Intolerable. Can you have Mr. Thorne here at six o'clock?"

"I can try. Is this just a spasm or do you mean it?"

"I don't have spasms."

"We can discuss that some other time. I have a suggestion. You may remember my saying Monday afternoon that Cramer wouldn't be bothering about a three-months-old hit-and-run unless it had some special kink. It might help to know what it is. I request permission to go and ask him."

"Why should he tell you?"

"Leave that, quoting you, to my intelligence guided by experience."

"You can't give him the client's name."

"Certainly not. But he probably knows it, after that ad."

"Very well. First, Mr. Thorne."

It took nearly an hour to get Raymond Thorne because he was somewhere watching TV cameras make a Raymond Thome production, and when I finally had him he said he couldn't possibly make it at six o'clock. I reminded him that he had told me he would like to help Amy any way he could, and he said he would come at nine. Getting Inspector Cramer was easier and quicker. He was at his

office and would see me. Wolfe had gone up to the plant rooms and I went to the kitchen to tell Fritz I was leaving.

The cop at the top of Homicide South could surely have had a bigger room and a bigger desk and better chairs for visitors than the setup on West Twentieth Street, but Cramer liked to stick to things he was used to, including that old felt hat, which was always there on a corner of his desk when it wasn't on his head, although there was a rack only a step away. I sat on the wooden chair at the end of his desk while he finished with a folder he was going through. When he closed it and turned to me, I said, "I bring hot news. We're working on that hit-and-run. Mr. Wolfe thought we should tell you because we said we weren't."

He put on an act. He demanded, "What hit-and-run?"

"On May twenty-sixth, nineteen sixty-seven, a woman named Elinor Denovo was crossing Eighty-second Street and-"

"Oh, yes. So you're working on it. So Wolfe wants to know something, so he sends you. He can go to hell."

I nodded. "So you would like to know what he wants to know, so you let me in when you're busy. I'll make it brief and answer questions within reason. What we told you was the truth and the whole truth: our only client was and is a woman who wants us to find her father, whom she has never seen. She doesn't know who or what he was or is, and she wants to. We have smoked out three different Grade A leads, but they have all fizzled. Two full weeks, and we have a load of nothing, either for the client or for you. So an hour ago Mr. Wolfe decided that it's easier to find a murderer than a father, therefore the father was the murderer. As you know, that isn't how his mind usually works, but this isn't his mind working, it's a spasm, though he says he doesn't have spasms. It's just that his appetite is letting him down and he's desperate, and he pays me and I have to humor him when he sends me on a sappy errand. I would like to buy a fact. If there is any interesting fact about that hit-and-run that hasn't been published and you'll tell me what it is, off the record, I am authorized to give you Mr. Wolfe's word of honor that if we get anything you might be able to use we'll pass it on to you before we make any use of it our-