Rex Stout - The Father Hunt

"Well. The angle most important to us is your honor. Four days ago I said to Cramer, '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 ourselves.' I added, 'At least two minutes before,' but that didn't cancel the commitment. We now have these items: One: Carlotta Vaughn became pregnant in the summer of nineteen forty-four and almost certainly wasn't married. Two: she spent the entire summer of nineteen forty-four in close association with Floyd Vance. Three: on Monday, May twenty-second, nineteen sixty-seven, four days before Carlotta Vaughn, who was then Elinor Denovo, died, Floyd Vance tried to see her and was chased by the receptionist, and he had been trying to see her before. I'd hate to undertake to tell Cramer that those three items, taken together, are not something he might be able to use. Of course your honor is your lookout, but I mortgaged it."

He grunted. "My lookout and my responsibility. Go on." "Then the angle that may interest me more than it does you. My honor isn't involved, but my feelings are, because I got my ass kicked twice by Cyrus M. Jarrett and I would like to return the compliment. What kind of a connection was there, and is there, between Jarrett

and Vance that caused Jarrett to start sending checks to Carlotta Vaughn, alias Elinor Denovo, two weeks after her baby was born and to keep on sending them until her death? That could be another item that Cramer might be able to use, but that's not why / want to know. Also, of course, Miss Denovo would like to know. I believe in satisfying the client. I also believe in satisfying me. All right, I withdraw my brag; the job is not finished. It's your move."

I expected him to start the lip act, but he merely cocked his head. "The point," he said, "is that we don't know which of two alternative situations faces us. If he is the father but not a murderer, establishing it will be dim- cult if not impossible. He did that many years ago. But if ‹he is also a murderer the situation is much simpler; he did :, that only three months ago. We'll resolve that and then decide how to proceed. Can you get him here this evening?"

"For what? Do I ask him if he still wants to meet you?"

"That would do to start. If he says no, tell him I want to meet him. Tell him I want to ask him why he didn't reply to the advertisement requesting information about Carlotta Vaughn, alias Elinor Denovo."

I had noted the listing of Vance's home phone, but got the directory to check on the number, and found that my memory had it right. It was a quarter to seven when I dialed, and if he ate out I would probably get no answer. But after two rings I got a hello.

"Mr. Floyd Vance, please?"

"I'm Floyd Vance."

"I'm Archie Goodwin. I work for Nero Wolfe. You may remember that we met at Lily Rowan's place, and you-"

"I remember."

"And you said you would like to meet Nero Wolfe to make a proposal. I reminded Mr. Wolfe of that just now when we were discussing something, and he decided he would also like to meet you. Could you come this evening, say at nine o'clock?"

Silence. Five seconds. "This is short notice."

"I know. It's not as urgent as a five-alarm fire, but if it's not too inconvenient… the address is-"

"I know the address." Silence. "You say nine o'clock?"

"Right. Or later if that would suit you better." "Don't be so goddam polite. I'll be there around nine." As I hung up, the doorbell rang, and I went, expecting Saul, and it was. I opened the door only a couple of inches and said through the crack, "You may not want to come in. No champagne. There are angles."

It was my fault. When Saul had phoned I had just got home, so pleased with myself and wanting to spread joy around that I had not only invited him to dinner but had also told him I would have a bottle of Dom Perignon ready to open. Then the angles had made it obvious that putting champagne in the refrigerator would be premature and I hadn't gone to the kitchen. Not that Saul needed any explanations or apologies; that long dry spell had got on his nerves too.

Anyway, along with the clams and broiled turtle steaks he drank more than half of a bottle of Montrachet, so all he missed was bubbles.

With coffee, in the office after dinner, we settled the program. When Vance arrived Saul would go to the front room, and as soon as the guest was in the office and seated he would leave, to go to 490 Lexington Avenue and collect likely objects for fingerprints. Since he had seen the lock he knew which keys to take from the assortments in the cabinet, and after he made his selections he helped me prepare the props in the office. We did a thorough wiping job on twelve objects: the stand by the red leather chair, two ash trays-one on the stand and one on the corner of Wolfe's desk-two photographs of Elinor Denovo in a drawer of Wolfe's desk, four glasses of different kinds, since we didn't know what he would drink, two books of matches-one on the stand and one on Wolfe's desk-and every inch of the red leather chair. Now and then I took a second for a glance at Wolfe, for comic relief. He sat with his fingers laced at the summit of his center mound, scowling at us. He knew darned well that what we were doing was a lot more important than anything he could possibly be thinking, and it hurt. He would have loved to take the position, and hold it, that he could solve any problem on earth or in outer space by leaning back and closing his eyes and working his lips. The trouble was that the little chores Saul and I did for

him were nearly always done somewhere else, but that time it was going on right there in his office, before his eyes. I was surprised that he didn't get up and go to the kitchen.

Amy's father rang the doorbell at ten after nine. As I went to admit him Saul headed for the connecting door to the front room, and as I took him to the office and to the red leather chair I did something that I had done many times although I had learned long ago that it was absolutely useless. For a spectator in a courtroom to try to decide from a man's looks if he's guilty or not is natural and he has to pass the time somehow, but for a working detective it's pure crap. So I did it again. I looked at Vance's purled eyes, flabby cheeks, thin hair, saggy shoulders, down to his brown shoes that needed a shine, actually hoping to get a slant on the question, Did he kill Elinor Denovo? Nuts.

By the time I got to nuts Wolfe was saying, "… not that I scorn all trite expressions; some of the finest words and phrases in the language were once vulgarisms and are well worn. But a faddish cliche like 'image' as now abused is an abomination. You told Mr. Goodwin that my 'public image' needs expert handling and you would like to meet me. If you have some proposal to make I'll listen as a matter of courtesy, but don't call my repute my image."

"To hell with your courtesy. Shove it." Vance's voice was not as I remembered it. I had thought he was a fairly smooth talker that Sunday, but now the words came out blurry. He went on, "I've learned something about you since I talked with Goodwin. You don't give a damn about your public image. Did you get me here just to tell me you don't like cliches? Do I go home now?"

Wolfe nodded. "That's your question, why I got you here. My question is, Why did you come? I doubt if either of us expects a candid answer. In fact, Mr. Vance, I'm in some confusion about my objective. One possibility is that I would like to know why you prevailed on your friends to drive you to Miss Rowan's so you could meet Mr. Goodwin. Another possibility is that I would like to know why you made several attempts to see Mrs. Elinor Denovo last May. Still another is that I want to