by Rex Stout
"Yeah, I've seen him." I drank coffee. "And heard him. God only knows. It might be for any one of a thousand reasons, including blackmail, that a man might send a
woman a grand every month for twenty-two years, but we decided to take Elinor's letter without salt, and there it is, this money is from your father. She couldn't have meant it came direct from Amy's father because it didn't, unless we crack Jarrett's alibi, and we won't. But she knew it came from Jarrett. Even if there was no understanding or arrangement, the checks were Seaboard Bank and Trust Company, and she knew they were from Jarrett. So this money is from your father really meant this money was sent to me by Cyrus M. Jarrett because a certain man was your father. Then all we have to do is tell Saul and Fred, while Orrie checks the alibi, to pick up Jarrett twenty-two years ago and find out what certain man he would feel obligated to that much and that long."
"His son."
"Oh, sure. The son comes first and foremost. You stole my line. I was going to stand up and say, 'Even a baboon could feel like that about a son, and Jarrett has got one,' and walk out." I stood up. "You have Saul's number if anything happens this evening. Eugene Jarrett might drop in for a chat."
I walked out.
8
When Wolfe came down to the office from the plant rooms at eleven o'clock Friday morning, Saul Panzer ($10 an hour and worth double that), Fred Durkin ($8 an hour and worth it), and Orrie Cather ($8 an hour and usually worth it) were on three of the yellow chairs facing me, with notebooks in their hands. They had been there an hour. Saul, wiry and a little undersized all but his ears and nose, could have occupied about any spot in life that appealed to him, but he had settled for free-lance operative years ago because he could work only when he wanted to, make as much money as he needed, be outdoors a lot, and wear his old wool cap from November 1 to April 15. A reversible cap like that, light tan on one side and plaid on the other, and not there at all if you stick it in a pocket, can be a help when you're tailing. Fred, shorter than me but some broader, was apt to fool you. Just when you decided that it was too bad that some of his muscle power couldn't be traded in for brain power, he might get a wedge in where it was hard to see a crack. It was too bad that Orrie knew how good-looking he was. A mirror can be a handy tool, either your own or one on a wall, but not if you're more interested in checking on your hair than in the subject.
They got up when Wolfe entered, and when, after shaking hands around because he hadn't seen them for weeks, he went to his desk, they shifted their chairs to face him. I told him that they had been briefed and given expense money and that we had discussed Orrie's assignment, checking Jarrett's alibi. Wolfe looked at Saul and asked, "Comments?"
Saul closed Ms notebook. "I could make a few dozen. Who couldn't? But if we want to place her from March to October nineteen forty-four, the snag is that we don't know when she switched from Carlotta Vaughn to Elinor Denovo. To place someone that long ago is always tough, and that makes it a lot tougher."
"But you think that should be tackled first?"
"For Fred and me, yes. Of course the son is the best bet, or rather, he's the only bet as it stands now, but that's for you and Archie. McCray. Ballou told Archie that he wanted to meet you."
Wolfe tightened his lips. Paying four grown men and paying them well, or the client was, and he had to work. He growled. "Archie. Get Mr. McCray. I'll talk."
You would think that getting through to a vice-president would be easier and quicker than to a president, but it wasn't. Some underling positively wouldn't put Mr. McCray on until Mr. Wolfe was on, and when they were both on, voice to voice, Wolfe got clogged too. He was polite enough, saying how he would appreciate it if Mr. McCray would come at three o'clock, but McCray wasn't even sure he could come at six, and wouldn't Monday do? He wanted to get away for the weekend, but finally agreed to make it at six or a little after.
The trio stayed until lunchtime. I got a Washington call through to a three-star general at the Pentagon who hadn't forgotten something Wolfe had once done for him, strictly private, and he told Wolfe he would be glad to see Orrie Cather and give him any assistance that security would permit. Most of the hour and a half was spent on Saul's and Fred's program. All they would have were the two names and the photographs; they didn't even know if during those long-gone months she had slept among eight million others in New York or in some suburb-or even in Wisconsin. We had the names of only four people who had known her then: the Jarretts, father and son and daughter, and Bertram McCray. The daughter lived in Italy, and McCray had told me that all he knew about Elinor Denovo after she moved out of the Jarrett house was that he had seen her there three or four times during those six or seven months. It's hard to start when you have nowhere to start from. The best we could do was
three feeble stabs: Fred, with photographs, would go the rounds of shops, from dry cleaners to drugstores, in the neighborhood of the Jarrett houses, town and country; Saul would try anything that occurred to him, from old telephone directories to the charge-account records of mid-town stores; and I would put an ad in all New York papers.
After lunch I did that, taking it to an agency instead of phoning it in, because it was to be a display, not a classified, two columns wide and three inches high. Wolfe had drafted it:
$500
will be paid for any verifiable information regarding the whereabouts
and movements of CARLOTTA VAUGHN
alias
ELINOR DENOVO between April 1,1944 and October 1, 1944 Box
Wolfe had drafted it, but not without an argument. He wanted to make it six inches high, not three, with the bottom half a reproduction of the three-quarters-face photograph. My objection was that that would bring us stacks of answers from people who would grab at any chance to collect five hundred dollars and I would have to spend a week or so following some of them up on a-million-to-one odds, and a good percentage of them would develop into pests. I won. Another objection, from Saul, not me, was that we would be hooked by people who had seen her in circumstances that wouldn't help, for instance, servants who had been at Jarrett's then, but Wolfe overruled that one. It might cost five or ten grand, but there was plenty in the twelve savings banks. Of course another objection was that Raymond Thome wouldn't like it, with its public implication that there was something about the past of
Elinor Denovo that needed to be investigated, but that was just mentioned, not argued.
At the agency, Green and Best, they said four inches high would be better than three, but I won that argument too.
It was 6:08 when Bertram McCray arrived. He looked as if he needed a weekend; his whole face was pinched, not just the corner of an eye, and his feet dragged as he walked down the hall. It's enough to wear a man out, helping to decide what to do with a couple of billion dollars' worth of other people's money. After presenting him to Wolfe and motioning him to the red leather chair, I asked if he would like to have a drink and he said no, he was going to drive eighty miles. He sat and blinked at Wolfe and said he hoped it wouldn't take long. "I don't want to be blunt," he said, "but I've had a hard week and I want some air. I didn't ask you on the phone, but I assume it's about Jarrett."
Wolfe nodded. "We've been balked. It's highly probable that he is not the father of Elinor Denovo's daughter."
"What?" McCray's mouth stayed open. "But… why? He sent those checks."
"Yes, that's established, thanks to Mr. Ballou and you. But the daughter was born on the twelfth of April, nineteen forty-five, so she was conceived the preceding summer, and Mr. Jarrett says he spent it abroad on a mission for the Production Allotments Board. He spent the month of July in an army hospital in Naples. He says."
"My God." McCray looked at me. "Didn't I tell you that?"
I shook my head. "And I didn't ask you. I should have, but I didn't. I apologize. So Mr. Wolfe is asking you now. Jarrett told me that he went to England in late May nineteen forty-four and then to Egypt and Italy and Africa, and came back on September sixth. We're ch
ecking it, and maybe you can help. He called me a liar. Can you call him one?"
"I can call him anything, but…" He looked at Wolfe. "Are you sure about the date? The birth?"
"Yes. That can't be challenged. Mr. Goodwin has seen the birth certificate."
"Then I guess we… you… my God. He was out
of the country all that summer. I can check the exact dates he left and returned, but does that matter?"
"No. But we need to know if Elinor Denovo, then Car-lotta Vaughn, was also out of the country that summer, however briefly. Can you help on that?"
"Of course not. I didn't… I only saw her three or four times after she moved out; I barely spoke to her." He sounded peevish and looked peevish. "You could have told me this on the phone." He looked at his watch. "An hour wasted."
"Possibly not." Wolfe cocked his head. "You're vexed, Mr. McCray, and so are we. Mr. Goodwin and I can't be charged with making an unwarranted assumption. The checks, certainly, but other circumstances too, supplied by you-that Carlotta Vaughn left Jarrett's in the spring of nineteen forty-four but did not end their association. It was an acceptable conjecture that he had provided other quarters for her if their relations had taken a course which he preferred not to pursue in his home. We don't have to abandon that conjecture now; we can merely adapt it. You told Mr. Goodwin yesterday that you had once thought it possible that something was developing between Carlotta Vaughn and Mr. Jarrett's son. He was twenty years of age and I presume he was away at college, but not in the summer months, and other quarters for her could have been provided by him. For the only son of a wealthy man that wouldn't have been difficult. I don't need to waste more of your time by expounding the obvious, that the checks sent by Mr. Jarrett, if not for a daughter, might have been for a granddaughter. I invite your opinion."
McCray was frowning. He turned the frown on me and demanded, "Did I say that?"
I nodded. "I can repeat it to the letter if you want it."
"I don't. I must have been babbling."
"No, you weren't babbling. I was asking you about her relations with everybody, including you, that was all. I asked if you remembered anything specific and you didn't."
"Of course I didn't." He turned to Wolfe. "It's ridiculous. He sent her money for twenty4wo years because his son… absolutely ridiculous. Anyway, there's a reason… No. He wouldn't… No." He pursed his lips,
eyed Wolfe, then me, and back at Wolfe. "I want to make one thing plain. Two things. When Mr. Ballou asked me about those checks and I learned they had been charged to Cyrus Jarrett and delivered to him, I had no objection to that information being passed to you. I was perfectly willing to supply routine information-that's all it was, routine-that would make trouble for Cyrus Jarrett. God knows he has made enough trouble for me. But I wouldn't supply information that would make trouble for his son even if I had any, and I haven't. I have high regard for Eugene Jarrett, not only as a brother officer of our bank, but as a friend. I'll tell you this-anybody could tell you this-for ten years Eugene Jarrett and his father haven't been on speaking terms. My opinion of his father is mild compared to his. Of course with him it's more personal, fattier and son; you know how deep that can go. If Cyrus Jarrett continued sending money to that woman-Carlotta Vaughn or Elinor Denovo-for the past ten years, it wasn't on account of his son, that's sure."
He put his palms on the chair arms and levered himself to his feet. "I'm going," he said. "You can forget Eugene Jarrett. But if I had any more information that would help with his father you'd be welcome to it. Frankly, I would like to see him get hurt, really hurt, and so would other people I could name, and he did send those checks for twenty-two years. Was it blackmail? Did she know something that would hurt? If so I hope you dig it up. Frankly, I would help if I could. Do you…" He hesitated. "If it needs any financing…"
"It doesn't. I have a client."
"Well, then…" He turned and started out, so slow, his feet dragging, that I didn't have to hurry to beat him to the hall and on to the front. At the door he thought he had something to say, but decided not to. His car, down at the curb, was a 1965 Imperial.
In the office Wolfe was pulling at his earlobe, his eyes, closed. I went to my desk and sat, and said, "If you want my opinion, we wasted not only Ms time but ours too. I don't buy his slant on the son, even if they hate each other's guts. His obligation was to the mother, not the father. Damn it, it's got to be the son. Who else?"
He grunted and his eyes opened. "What if our basic as-
sumption is false? What if the payments had no connection with the birth?"
"We're sunk. We bow out. But in that case there wasn't just one lie in Elinor's letter, the whole damn letter was a lie, and I don't believe it. If the payments had nothing to do with Amy, why did Elinor keep it, every century of it, for her?"
"Women are random clusters of vagaries."
"Who said that?"
"I did."
"Not that random."
His shoulders went up and down. "Have you time for a letter before you leave? To be mailed now?"
"No. But I might as well start making up for the boner I pulled." I got my office notebook from a drawer. "Miss Rowan will feed me no matter what time I come. She's the understanding type."
"Pfui." He would never forget the time she had called him Pete and he had had Houri de Perse perfume sprinkled on him. "Have you Eugene Jarrett's home address?"
I nodded. "I got it this morning. I thought Saul might need it."
"To him at his home, special delivery. Dear Mr. Jar-rett: On behalf of a client I need information regarding the activities and associates of Miss Carlotta Vaughn during the years nineteen forty-three and nineteen forty-four, comma, when she was in your father's employ, comma, and I have been told that you may be able to supply some details. Period. I shall appreciate it if you will kindly call at my office, comma, at the above address, comma, on Monday, comma, at eleven in the morning, comma, or at either two-thirty or six in the afternoon. Period. I hope that one of those hours will be convenient for you. Sincerely yours."
"Why not offer him nine in the evening too?"
"As you know, I don't like to work after dinner. But I suppose… Very well. Add it."
I pulled the typewriter around and got out paper and carbon.
An hour later, as I headed north on the Henry Hudson Parkway, keeping to sixty, I wasn't on a perch either professionally or personally. Professionally, the client was
being neglected. I had phoned her Friday morning that it was very unlikely that Jarrett was her father, and told her why, and that was all. She deserved to know that she had been right about Denovo, that her mother's real name was Carlotta Vaughn; at least we could give her that for the eight days we had been on it. Personally, there I was bound for a swimming pool in a glade while Orrie was in Washington digging into army records and Saul and Fred were poking into holes that were probably empty. I should have been doing something brilliant, like finding a mattress somewhere with hairs from two human heads on it which a scientist would prove had been left there by Carlotta Vaughn, alias Elinor Denovo, and Eugene Jarrett.
I wasn't feeling any better as I drove back to town Sunday evening. The weekend had been messy. There is never more than one house guest besides me; it may be anybody from a female poet to a cowboy from the Montana ranch Lily owns; and that time it was Amy Denovo. She gave it a good start only an hour after I arrived. She called me Archie. We were on the terrace. I had finished off the steak Mimi had broiled-they had eaten-and was forking the blueberry pie when Amy got out a cigarette and I lit it, and she said, "Thank you, Archie." Of course Lily didn't bat an eye; she wouldn't. But as far as she knew Amy had seen me only three times for a total of about nine minutes, and she didn't have to be a cluster of vagaries to wonder what the score was. Was Amy just being flip, or had I decided to see more of her, not at the penthouse, and taken steps? I couldn't tell her what Miss Denovo had hired Wolfe to do, so I skipped it. But it was there in the air. B
etween Lily and me it was thoroughly understood that what I did was none of her business unless it touched her-and, naturally, vice versa-but the fact that I had met Miss Denovo at the penthouse put it on the borderline. So it didn't help the weekend.
A couple of other things didn't help either. One of the five guests for lunch Saturday was a woman with a green wig who had positive inside information that President Johnson and Dean Rusk had decided three years ago to kill everybody in China with hydrogen bombs, and that was the real reason for what they were doing in Vietnam.
Of course the only thing to do with such a clunk is to ignore him or her, but she kept it up so loud and long that I finally told her that I had positive inside information that Senator Fulbright had once had an affair with one of Ho Chi Minn's concubines, and that was the real reason he wanted the bombing stopped. That was a mistake. The idea appealed to her and she wanted all the details.
And Sunday afternoon some uninvited people dropped in-a couple I had met there before who had a place over beyond Bedford Village. They weren't so bad, but they had a guy with them who they said had talked them into coming because he wanted to meet me. His name was Floyd Vance and he said he was a public-relations counselor. Evidently he wanted to meet me because he wanted to meet Nero Wolfe. He was drumming up trade. He said that if anybody needed expert handling of his public image a private detective did, and he would like very much to create a presentation to propose to Nero Wolfe. He also said that if we were working on a case and I would tell him about it, he could use that as a basis for the presentation. When he said that I sharpened my eyes and ears a little, and my tongue, thinking he might be making a stab at detective work himself for somebody, for instance Cyrus M. Jarrett, but decided he was just another character who was so dedicated to improving other people's images that he had no time left for his own. I met one once who-no, that's enough for that weekend.
