The Mother Hunt (19 page)

But he wouldn’t find me in the office, sitting there like patience in the hoosegow. I would be in the hall and he could take it standing up. I wouldn’t poke, I would punch. So when the sound came of the elevator I went out and took position facing its door, and when it jolted to a stop and the door opened, and he stepped out, he found himself confronted. As I opened my mouth the doorbell rang, and we both turned our heads for a look through the one-way glass. It was Inspector Cramer.

O
ur heads jerked back and our eyes met. No words were needed, and no smoke signals. He muttered, “Come,” and started to the rear, and I followed. In the kitchen Fritz was at the sink, sprinkling watercress with ice water. He glanced around, saw the look on Wolfe’s face, and whirled.

“Mr. Cramer is at the door,” Wolfe said. “Archie and I are leaving at the back and don’t know when we’ll return. Certainly not tonight. Don’t admit him. Put the chain bolt on. Tell him we are not here and nothing else. Nothing. If he returns with a search warrant you’ll have to admit him, but tell him nothing. You don’t know when we left.”

The doorbell rang.

“You understand?”

“Yes, but—”

“Go.”

Fritz went. Wolfe asked me, “Pajamas and tooth- brushes?”

“No time. If Stebbins is along he’ll send him around to Thirty-fourth Street on the jump.”

“You have cash?”

“Not enough. I’ll get some.” I hopped. But Fritz was opening the front door to the crack the chain bolt allowed, so I tiptoed to the office, to the safe, got the lettuce from the cash drawer, shut the safe door and twirled the dial, and tiptoed back to the hall. Wolfe was there, starting down the stairs. At the bottom I took the lead, on out, up the four steps, and along the brick walk to the gate with its Hotchkiss lock. Then through the passage to the 34th Street sidewalk. There was no point in stopping for a look around; it wasn’t likely that Cramer had put a man there in advance, but if he had we would soon know it. We turned left. You wouldn’t suppose that a man who does as little walking as Wolfe could stretch his legs without straining, but he can.

He can even talk. “Are we followed?”

“I doubt it. We’ve never done this before. Anyway we wouldn’t be followed, we’d be stopped.”

There was more sidewalk traffic than you would suppose on a July Saturday. We split to let a bee-line arm-swinger through and joined again. Wolfe asked, “Must it be a hotel?”

“No. Your picture has been in the paper too often. We can slow down when we’re around the corner. I have a suggestion. At the beach this morning I had an idea that we might need a dugout, and I asked Mrs. Valdon for a key to her house. It’s in my pocket.”

“Isn’t it under surveillance?”

“Why would it be? They went to the beach yesterday. There’s no one there.”

At the corner we waited for a green light, crossed 34th Street, and were headed downtown on Ninth Avenue. We let up a little. “It’s under two miles,” I said. “Exercise in the open air keeps the body fit and the mind alert. Hackies talk too much. For instance, one
having a bowl of soup at a lunch counter says, ‘Nero Wolfe is out. I just took him to that house on Eleventh Street where that woman’s got that baby.’ Within an hour it’s all over town. We can stop at a bar for a beer break. Say when.”

“You
talk too much. You have seen me tramp through valleys and mountains for days.”

“Yeah, and I’ll never forget it.”

We did stop on the way, at a delicatessen on Sixth Avenue and Twelfth Street, and when we entered the vestibule that had once lodged a baby in a blanket we were both loaded down. Ham, corned beef, sturgeon, anchovies, lettuce, radishes, scallions, cucumbers, oranges, lemons, peaches, plums, three kinds of crackers, coffee, butter, milk, cream, four kinds of cheese, eggs, pickles, olives, and twelve bottles of beer. No bread. If Fritz dies Wolfe will probably never eat bread again. It was ten minutes past seven when I got my arm unloaded enough, in the kitchen, to look at my watch, and it was a quarter to eight by the time I had things put away and Wolfe had dinner laid out on the kitchen table.

His salad dressing, from ingredients in the cupboard, wasn’t as good as Fritz’s, but of course he didn’t have the materials. I washed the dishes and he dried.

There was now no point in punching or even poking. He was an exile from his house, his plant rooms, his chair, and his dining table, and there was only one way he could get back with his tail up. Of course I couldn’t be sent on errands since I was an exile too, but there were Saul and Fred and Orrie, and presumably they were on his mind, where to start them digging, as we left the kitchen. But he asked me where the nursery was. I told him I doubted if he would find any clues there.

“The rug,” he said. “You said there’s a fine Tekke.”

He not only inspected the Tekke, he looked at every rug in the house. Perfectly natural. He likes good rugs and knows a lot about them, and he seldom has a chance to see any but his own. Then he spent half an hour examining the elevator and running it up and down while I looked into the bed problem. A very enjoyable evening, but there was no point in poking. We turned in, finally, in the two spare rooms on the fourth floor. His had a nice rug which he said was an eighteenth- century Feraghan.

Sunday morning a smell woke me—at least it was the first thing I was aware of—a smell I knew well. It was faint, but I recognized it. I got erect and went out to the head of the stairs and sniffed; no doubt about it. I went down three flights to the kitchen and there he was, eating breakfast in his shirt sleeves. Eggs
au beurre noir.
He was playing house.

He said good morning. “Tell me twenty minutes before you’re ready.”

“Sure. Wine vinegar, I presume?”

He nodded. “Not very good, but it will do.”

I went back up.

An hour and a half later, after eating breakfast and cleaning up, I found him in the big room on the second floor, in a big chair he had pulled over to a window, reading a book. I was still determined not to poke. I asked politely, “Shall I go out and get papers?”

“As you please. If you think it safe.”

He wasn’t playing house, he was camping out. You don’t care about newspapers when you’re camping out.

“Perhaps I should ring Mrs. Valdon and tell her where we are.”

“That might be advisable, yes.”

My valve popped open. “Listen,
sir.
There are times when you can afford to be eccentric and times when you can’t. Maybe you can afford it even now, but not me. I quit.”

He lowered the book slowly. “It’s a summer Sunday, Archie. Where are people? Specifically, where is Mr. Upton? We are boxed up here. Will you undertake, using the telephone, to find Mr. Upton and persuade him to come here to talk with me? Supposing you could, would it be prudent?”

“No. But that’s not the only line that’s open. Who squawked to the cops? I might get that on the phone. That would make one less to work on.”

“There isn’t time for that approach. We can’t shave, we can’t change our shirts or socks or underwear. When you go for papers get toothbrushes. I must see Mr. Upton. I have been considering Mrs. Valdon. When you phone her ask her to come this evening, after dark, alone. Will she come?”

“Yes.”

“Another detail I’ve considered. There’s no hurry, but since you’re fuming—can you get Saul?”

“Yes. His answering service.”

“Here tomorrow morning. I am considering Ellen Tenzer’s niece. Anne?”

“Yes.”

“If I properly understood her métier, she replaces office workers temporarily absent?”

“Right.” My brows went up. “I’ll be damned. Of course. It’s certainly possible. I should have thought of it myself.”

“You were too busy fuming. Speaking of fuming, the sturgeon is quite good, and I would like to try it
fume a la Muscovite.
When you go for papers could you get
some fennel, bay leaf, chives, parsley, shallots, and tomato paste?”

“At a delicatessen Sunday morning? No.”

“A pity. Get any herbs they have.”

A licensed private detective, and he didn’t even know what you can expect to find in a delicatessen.

So the Sunday passed pleasantly—newspapers, books, television, all anyone could ask for. The sturgeon was fine, even with replacements for herbs temporarily absent. When I phoned Lucy and told her she had house guests and she was invited to come and spend the night with us, her first thought was sheets. Had there been any on the beds? Told that there had been, she was so relieved that our being fugitives from the law didn’t really matter. Around nine o’clock Saul called, having got the message from the answering service, and I told him where to come in the morning. He had rung the office Saturday evening and again Sunday morning, having heard what had happened to Carol Mardus, and when Fritz had told him we weren’t there and that was all he knew he had of course been a little
fumé
, knowing, as he did, that no limb was too long and narrow for Wolfe to crawl out on if he got peeved enough.

Not knowing if Lucy had another key, I stayed in the kitchen with a couple of magazines after supper, ready to answer the doorbell, but a little after ten o’clock I heard the door open and close and went to the hall to greet her. Needing two hands, or arms, for a satisfactory greeting between detective and client, she let her bag drop to the floor. That accomplished, I picked up the bag.

“I know why you’re down here,” she said. She looked very wholesome in a pale green summer dress and a dark green jacket. A well-tanned skin with a flush is
more striking in town than at the beach. She took the bag. “You thought I might not be—discreet. You
are
conceited, but I like you anyway. Did you mean what you said on the phone? You and Nero Wolfe are actually
hiding?”

I explained enough of the situation for her to get the idea, including what Krug and Bingham had said about Dick being the father of the baby. “So,” I said, “the job you hired Mr. Wolfe for is done. All that’s left now is a couple of murders, and if you want to get us out of your house just pick up the phone. The DA would be glad to send a car for us. It’s been nice to know you. If I’m conceited you’ve helped it along. But first Mr. Wolfe would like to ask you something.”

“Tell me the truth, Archie. Do you really think I might?”

“Certainly. You don’t owe him anything. As for me, I’m not
that
conceited. I’m not actually conceited at all. I merely think it’s common sense to like myself.”

She smiled. “Where is he?”

“One flight up.”

Wolfe left his chair when we entered the big room. An uninvited guest can at least be courteous. After exchanging greetings with him she glanced around, probably surprised that the place wasn’t a mess with two men loose in it overnight. Then she told Wolfe she hoped he had been comfortable.

He grunted. “I have never been more uncomfortable in my life. No reflection on your hospitality is intended; I thank you heartily for the haven; but I’m a hound, not a hare. Mr. Goodwin has described the situation? Chairs, Archie.”

I was already moving two of them up, knowing that
he would stick there with the roomiest one and the reading light. We sat.

Wolfe regarded her. “We’re in a pickle. I ask you bluntly, madam, can you be steadfast?”

She frowned. “If you mean can I hold my tongue, yes, I can. I told Archie yesterday that I would.”

“The police will press you, now that they have connected Carol Mardus with me and therefore with you, and I have decamped. You’re my client and I should be shielding you, but instead you’re shielding me. And Mr. Goodwin. He can thank you on his own behalf and no doubt will; for myself, I am deeply obliged, and I must ask you to extend the obligation. I need to see Manuel Upton as soon as possible. Will you get him here tomorrow morning?”

“Why—yes, if I can.”

“Without telling him I’m here. He once told me that if you wanted a favor from him you could ask him. Very well, ask him to come to see you.”

“And if he comes, what do I say?”

“Nothing. Just get him in the house. If I can’t keep him in with words, Mr. Goodwin can with muscle. Do you like eggs?”

She laughed. She looked at me, so I laughed too.

Wolfe scowled. “Confound it, are eggs comical? Do you know how to scramble eggs, Mrs. Valdon?”

“Yes, of course.”

“To use Mr. Goodwin’s favorite locution, one will get you ten that you don’t. I’ll scramble eggs for your breakfast and we’ll see. Tell me forty minutes before you’re ready.”

Her eyes widened. “Forty minutes?”

“Yes. I knew you didn’t know.”

M
anuel Upton came at a quarter to twelve Monday morning.

There had been a few little developments. The client had admitted to Wolfe, in my hearing, that she didn’t know how to scramble eggs. I had admitted to him, in her hearing, that the scrambled eggs I had just eaten were fully up to Fritz’s very best. He had admitted to her, in my hearing, that forty was more minutes than you could expect a housewife to spend exclusively on scrambling eggs, but he maintained that it was impossible to do it to perfection in less, with each and every particle exquisitely firm, soft, and moist.

The
News
, which I had to go out for, stated that the late Carol Mardus had once been a bosom friend of the late Richard Valdon, famous novelist, but there was no hint that that was anything more than an interesting item in her record which the public had a right to know.

Saul had come at half past nine as arranged, and had been instructed regarding Anne Tenzer. He had reported that he had phoned Fritz at eight o’clock, and had been told that Homicide dicks were holding down the office day and night, in shifts, by authority of a
search warrant, and that one of them was listening in; and Saul had said that he was calling just to say that he had nothing on and was available for an errand if Wolfe had one. He also reported that he had heard from a reliable source—which he wouldn’t name even to us— that a slip of paper with Wolfe’s phone number on it had been found in Carol Mardus’s apartment. So maybe no one had squawked. Maybe Cramer had merely been going to ask Wolfe if he had ever seen or heard of Carol Mardus, but that would have been enough to light the fuse. Saul was given three hundred dollars’ worth of tens and twenties. Anne Tenzer might be broke and appreciate it.