It was going on noon when, having made three stops en route, I paid off my hackie at the corner of Twenty-ninth and Lexington and walked east. The first stop had been at a drugstore to phone Wolfe and report lack of progress; the second had been at the Salvation Army depot to donate the coat and hat; and the third had been at the restaurant where, according to Lon Cohen, Andreas Fomos was employed as a waiter. Informed that Fomos was taking the day off, I had proceeded to his residence.
Not with any high expectations. My main hope had been to escort Sarah Jaffee to Thirty-fifth Street for a session with Wolfe and Nathaniel Parker, the only lawyer Wolfe has ever sent orchids to, arranging details about the injunction. Having flubbed that one, this stab at Fomos, as instructed by Wolfe, struck me as a damn poor substitute motion. So it was not with any enthusiasm for the errand, but merely as routine through long training, that as I approached the number on East Twenty-ninth Street I cased the area with a sharp and thorough eye, and, focusing on a spot across the street, recognized something. Crossing over, I entered a dingy and cluttered shoe-repair shop, and confronted a man seated there who, at my approach, had lifted a newspaper so as to hide his face from view.
I addressed the newspaper distinctly. “Get Lieutenant Rowcliff. I think I’m going to impersonate an officer of the law. I feel it coming.”
The newspaper came down, disclosing the plump features, not quite puffy yet, of a city employee named Halloran. “You got good eyes,” he said, just stating a fact. “If you mean disrespect for the lieutenant you mentioned, go right ahead.”
“Some other time. Right now I’m working. I was glad to see you because I may be walking into a trap. If I don’t come out in three days, phone Rowcliff. Is this a really serious tail, or are you on him alone?”
“I came in here for a pair of shoestrings.”
I apologized for interrupting, left him, and headed across the street. Apparently Homicide had by no means wrapped it up, since they thought it necessary to keep an eye on Fomos, who, so far as I knew from what I had read in the papers, was involved only in that he had been bereaved; but surely Fomos wasn’t really hot or I would have got a very different reaction from Halloran.
It was a five-story old red brick building. In the row of names under the mailboxes at the right of the vestibule, Fomos was next to the end. I pressed the button, waited half a minute for the click to come, pushed the door open, entered, and made for the stairs. There were three doors on each landing, one at each end and one in the middle. Three flights up, the one at the far end was sporting a big rosette of black ribbon with streamers hanging nearly to the floor. I went to it and pressed the button, and in a moment a gruff deep voice came at me through the wood. “Who is it?”
On the theory that I deserved to take a little something for an hour and a half’s hard work, I called, “A friend of Sarah Jaffee’s! My name’s Goodwin!”
Abruptly the door popped open, wide open, and standing there was Hercules, in white shorts, dazzling white in contrast to his dark skin and his tousled mop of coal-black hair. “I’m in mourning,” he said. “What do you want?”
“You’re Andreas Fomos?”
“I’m Andy Fomos. No one says Andreas. What do you want?”
“I want to ask if you know why Priscilla Eads was going to make your wife a director of Softdown, Incorporated.”
“What?” He cocked his head. “Say that again.”
I repeated it. When he was sure he had it he turned his palms up. “Look,” he rumbled. “I don’t believe it.”
“That’s what Miss Eads told Mrs. Jaffee last week, that she was going to make your wife a director. A week ago today.”
“I still don’t believe it. Look. That Priscilla Eads was mixed up with some bad stars. She went crazy every two years. I have studied the history of it and I had it written down, but the police wanted it and I let them have it. I only met my wife and married her two years ago, but she told me the whole story. The Greenwich Village, the New Orleans, the Peru with a husband, the back here without him and getting even with men, the Reno, the Salvation Army!” His hands went up. “I ask you! My wife was with her through all that. Now you say she was going to make my wife a director — did I say I don’t believe it? Of course I believe it, why not? With that Priscilla Eads I could believe anything; but I don’t know about it. What do you want?”
“We could talk better inside,” I suggested, “if you don’t mind.”
“Are you a reporter?”
“No. I—”
“Are you a cop?”
“No. I work—”
I don’t know how many hundreds of times people have undertaken to close doors on me, but often enough so that my reaction has become routine and automatic — in fact, too automatic. When Andy Fomos jerked aside and started swinging the door to, my foot went out as usual, ready to hold the floor against pressure as usual, but with him usual wasn’t good enough. He was even faster and stronger than he looked, and instead of bringing his weight to it, which would have taken an extra half-second, he used muscle, and plenty. Before I could catch up the door banged shut and the lock clicked, and I was standing there with my nose flattened and a big scar across the polished toe of my second-best Bradley shoes.
I took my time descending the three flights to the ground floor. I was not buoyant. Whenever Wolfe sends me out to bring in something or someone, I like to deliver if possible, but I don’t expect to pass miracles. On this one, though, it was beginning to look as if nothing less than a miracle would do, and this was not merely a matter of satisfying a client and collecting a fee. I was the client, and I had roped Wolfe in. It was up to me. But it wasn’t like the day before, when I had been on my own and could take a notion to roll down to the Softdown building and crash a meeting; now Wolfe was handling it, and no notion of mine would count without his okay. Added to that, as I made the sidewalk and turned right, deciding not to check out with Halloran across the street, was the difficulty that I had nothing remotely resembling a notion. At Lexington Avenue I got a taxi.
I did not like the way Wolfe took it. When I entered the office alone and announced that as far as I knew no company was expected, then or later, he grunted, settled back in his chair, and requested a verbatim report. Throughout the performance, covering all words and actions with both Sarah Jaffee and Andreas Fomos, he was motionless, his eyes closed and his fingers laced at the summit of his belly, and that was all right; that was perfectly normal. But when I had finished he asked not a single question, only muttering at me, “You’d better type it.”
“You mean complete?” I demanded.
“Yes.”
“It’ll take all afternoon and maybe more.”
“I suppose so.”
It was true that it was lunchtime, not a moment to expect him to do any digging in, and I skipped it temporarily. But later, after we had been to the dining room and enjoyed a good meal, during which he furnished me with pointed comments on all of the prominent candidates for the Republican nomination for President, I tried again. As he got comfortable with a magazine in his chair behind his desk I remarked, “I could use a program if you can spare the time.”
He glared, mildly. “I asked you to type that report.”
“Yeah, I heard you. But that was only a stall, and you know it. If you want me to sit here on the back of my lap until you feel like thinking of something to do, just say so. What’s the use of wasting a lot of paper and wearing out the typewriter?”
He lowered the magazine. “Archie. You may remember that I once returned a retainer of forty thousand dollars which a client named Zimmermann had paid me, because he wanted to tell me how to handle his case instead of leaving it to me. Well?” He lifted the magazine. He lowered it again. “Please type the report.” He lifted it again.
It was absolutely true, and it sounded extremely noble the way he put it, but I was not impressed. He simply hated to work and didn’t intend to if he could get out of it. He had given me a chance to get something started, and I had returned empty-handed, and now there was no telling when — or if — he would really get on the job. I sat and looked at him with his damn magazine. It would have been a pleasure to take a gun from the drawer and shoot it out of his hand, and at that angle it would have been quite safe, but I regretfully decided it was inadvisable. Also I decided that nothing I could say or do would budge him right then. I had only two alternatives: take another leave of absence, or obey orders and get busy on the report. I swiveled, pulled the typewriter to me, got paper and twirled it in, and hit the keys.
Three and a half hours later, at six o’clock, several things had happened. I had typed nine pages. Four journalists had called on the phone, and two in person — not admitted. Fritz had asked me to help him move some furniture in the front room so he could roll up the rug to send to the cleaners, and I had obliged. Wolfe had gone up at four o’clock for his two hours in the plant rooms, and soon afterward there had been a phone call — not from a journalist. I do not gush to strangers on the phone when they ask for an appointment with Wolfe, but when I learned that one’s name and the nature of his business it was hard not to. I told him to come at ten minutes to six, and when he arrived, on the dot, I put him in the front room and closed the door that connected with the office.
When Wolfe came down, on schedule, and crossed to his desk, I thought it only fair to give him a chance to show that he had snapped out of it. But no. He sat and rang for beer, and when Fritz brought it he opened a bottle, poured, selected one from the stack of current books on his desk, leaned back, and sighed comfortably. He was going to have a wonderful time until Fritz announced dinner.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said gently. “There’s a man in the front room waiting to see you.”
His head turned, and a frown appeared. “Who?”
“Well, it’s like this. As you explained last night, you had to have some kind of a wedge to start an opening, and this morning I went out to get one and failed. Seeing how disappointed you were, I felt that I must somehow meet the challenge. I have met it. The man in there is a lawyer named Albert M. Irby, with an office on Forty-first Street. I phoned Parker, and he had never heard of Irby but reported back that he is a member of the New York bar in good standing. As for Irby, he says that he is representing Eric Hagh, the former husband of Priscilla Eads, and he would like to talk with you.”
“Where the devil did you get him?” It was a blurt of indignation.
“I didn’t exactly get him. He came. He phoned for an appointment at four-twenty-one.”
“What does he want?”
“To talk with you. Since you don’t like a client horning in on a case, I didn’t press him for particulars.”
Thereupon Wolfe paid me a high compliment. He gazed at me with a severely suspicious eye. Obviously he suspected me of pulling a fast one — of somehow, in less than two hours, digging up Albert M. Irby and his connection with Priscilla Eads, and shanghaiing him. I didn’t mind, but I thought it well to be on record.
“No, sir,” I said firmly.
He grunted. “You don’t know what he wants?”
“No, sir.”
He tossed the book aside. “Bring him in.”
It was a pleasure to go for that lawyer and usher him in to the red leather chair, but I must admit that physically he was nothing to flaunt. I have never seen a balder man, and his hairless freckled dome had a peculiar attraction. It was covered with tiny drops of sweat, and nothing ever happened to them. He didn’t touch them with a handkerchief, they didn’t get larger or merge and trickle, and they didn’t dwindle. They just stood pat. There was nothing repulsive about them, but after ten minutes or so the suspense was quite a strain.
Sitting, he put his briefcase on the little table at his elbow. “Right off,” he said, in a voice that could have used more vinegar and less oil, “I want to put myself in your hands. I’m not in your class, Mr. Wolfe, and I won’t pretend I am. I’ll just tell you how it stands, and whatever you say goes.”
It was a bad start if he expected any favors. Wolfe compressed his lips. “Go ahead.”
“Thank you.” He was sitting forward in the big chair. “I appreciate your seeing me, but I am not surprised, because I know of your great services in the cause of justice, and that’s what I want, justice for a client. His name is Eric Hagh. I was asked to represent him by an attorney in Venezuela, in Caracas, with whom I had previously had dealings — his name is Juan Blanco. That was—”
“Spell it, please?” I requested, notebook in hand.
He complied and went on to Wolfe, “That was nine days ago, on the sixteenth of this month. Hagh had already sent a communication here to Mr. Perry Helmar, on advice of Blanco, but they had decided that he needed representation here in New York, and Blanco sent me all the particulars of the case, with copies of documents.” He tapped the briefcase. “I have them here. If you will just—”
“Later,” Wolfe said hastily. “First, what is wanted?” He looks at documents only when he has to.
“Certainly, certainly.” Irby sure was anxious to please. The dewdrops on his freckled cupola might have been glued on. “One of them is a photostat of a letter, a holograph, dated at Cajamarca, Peru, August twelfth, nineteen forty-six, written and signed by Priscilla Eads Hagh and witnessed by Margaret Caselli. That was the maiden name of Margaret Fomos, who was killed Monday night. In the letter Priscilla Hagh gave her husband, Eric Hagh, a half-interest, without reservation, in all property then hers or to become hers at any time in the future.”
“Any consideration?” Wolfe demanded.
“Uh — none specified.”
“Then it’s highly vulnerable.”
“That may be. That will have to be adjudicated, but it is unquestionably a powerful weapon, and it was given to my client in good faith and accepted in good faith.”
“I’m not a lawyer, Mr. Irby.”
“I know you’re not, Mr. Wolfe. I came to see you not on a matter of law, but a matter of fact. According to an article in the Times this morning, and in other papers, Miss Eads, formerly Mrs. Eric Hagh, was in your house Monday afternoon and evening, and Mr. Perry Helmar, the trustee of her property, was here Monday evening. I would deeply appreciate it, very deeply appreciate it, if you will tell me, in your talks with them was any mention made of this document? Of the letter signed by Priscilla Hagh and witnessed by Margaret Caselli?”
Wolfe stirred in his chair. He rested an elbow on its arm, raised a hand, and ran a fingertip along his lower lip, back and forth. “You’d better tell me more about it,” he muttered. “Why did Mr. Hagh wait so long to file a claim?”
“I’m eager to, Mr. Wolfe, I’m eager to. I have it all from Blanco. But of course it would be improper for me to divulge privileged communications, so I won’t. I can say this, that Hagh first saw Blanco only a month ago, to show him the document and consult him as to the method of putting in his claim immediately after June thirtieth, his former wife’s birthday, when she would come into possession of property worth millions. Blanco got me on the phone, and I checked at this end — chiefly Priscilla’s father’s will, which of course is on record. With that, and with the details supplied by Hagh, Blanco advised him not to wait for June thirtieth, when the property would pass to Priscilla, but to file his claim immediately with the trustee, Perry Helmar, demanding that half of the property be transferred to Hagh instead of Priscilla, and warning Helmar that he would be held responsible for any default.”
Irby raised his shoulders and dropped them. “That may have been good advice for Venezuela. Whether it was for here I don’t say. Anyhow Hagh took it, and a communication was sent to Helmar which Blanco wrote and Hagh signed, and a copy of it was sent to Priscilla. A copy came to me too, with photostats of the basic document and a full report of the situation, and instructions from Blanco that I should proceed with an action to restrain Helmar from making the transfer to Priscilla. I know a little law and I know where to find more, but I couldn’t find any that would do that trick. Even granting that Hagh’s claim was legally valid—”
“I’ll take your conclusion, Mr. Irby.”
“Very well. I so advised Blanco. He got no reply from Helmar, and none from Priscilla. I finally got to see Helmar — that was last week, Tuesday — and had a long talk with him, but it was completely unsatisfactory. He took no position at all; I couldn’t pin him down to a thing. I decided that under the circumstances it would not be unethical for me to see Priscilla Eads. I had already phoned to ask her if Helmar was her personal attorney, and she didn’t say yes or no. She refused to see me, but I persuaded her, and called at her apartment Friday afternoon. She admitted that she had signed the document in good faith, but soon afterward had changed her mind and asked Hagh to give it back, and he had refused. She offered to pay a hundred thousand dollars cash in settlement of the claim, and said that if Hagh didn’t accept that he would get nothing unless a court ordered it.”
“She made you that offer?”
“Yes, and I phoned Blanco in Caracas to report it. June thirtieth was only ten days away, and if Blanco’s strategy was sound there was no time to spare. But right there everything died. Blanco called Priscilla’s offer contemptible and wouldn’t discuss it. Helmar and Priscilla were both away over the weekend, and I couldn’t even locate them. Monday morning I started in again, but couldn’t get to either one, and I quit trying. Tuesday morning came the news that Priscilla had been murdered. Yesterday.”
Irby slid back in the chair for the first time. The movement had no effect on the dewdrops. He extended his hands as in appeal. “Think of it!” he pleaded. “The situation!”
Wolfe nodded. “Unsatisfactory.”
“Utterly,” the lawyer agreed. He repeated it. “Utterly. I saw no point in spending nine dollars on a phone call to Caracas; frankly, it seemed quite possible that there would be no reimbursement for outlay. I did try to get in touch with Helmar, but without success until noon today. I finally got him on the phone, and do you know what he does?” Irby slid forward again. “He impeaches the document! He denies she ever signed it! He implies that my client forged it! And only last Friday she admitted to me unequivocally that she wrote it with her own hand and signed it, and Margaret Caselli witnessed it!”
Irby hit the arm of the chair with his fist. “I phoned Blanco in Caracas!” He hit it again. “I told him to put Eric Hagh on the first plane for New York!” He hit it again. “And bring the original document with him!” He hit it again. “And I decided to see you!”
Abruptly and surprisingly he calmed down. The fist opened and was only a chubby little hand. “Of course,” he said, “if millions ever were at stake in this, which is open to question, it is very doubtful if they are now. But even ignoring the Softdown stock, Priscilla’s estate is probably substantial, and I do not grant that the stock must be ignored. Even if title to it passes legally to the five persons named in Eads’s will, that document is still a powerful moral weapon, especially in view of the time and circumstances of Priscilla’s death. And it occurred to me that you can probably speak to the authenticity of the document. She came to consult you that day and spent hours with you. Surely the document was mentioned, and surely she acknowledged that she had signed it. Helmar was here that evening, and he too could have mentioned it and either assumed or acknowledged its validity.”
He glanced at me and back at Wolfe. “If Mr. Goodwin was present and can also speak, that will clinch it, and in that case I am prepared to make a concrete offer after discussing it with Blanco on the phone. Such assistance in authentication would be of great value to Mr. Hagh, amounting to five per cent of the total sum received by him in settlement of his claim under the terms of the document.”
There were at least two things seriously wrong with it. One, the offer was on a contingent basis, which, while not necessarily disreputable, was against Wolfe’s principles. Two, it was an offer to pay us either for telling the truth, which was rather coarse, or for telling a lie, which was downright vulgar.
“Naturally,” Dewdrop Irby said, with his voice dripping sugary syrup, “the best form would be affidavits, one from each of you. I’ll be glad to draw them, glad and proud, on your information. As for the arrangement for payment to you, I invite your suggestion, with the comment that it is probably inadvisable to put it in writing.”
It was a perfect out for Wolfe, and I fully expected to be told to steer the lawyer to the door, but Wolfe is nothing if not contrary. He snapped a question. “Mr. Hagh is coming to New York?”
“Yes.”
“When will he arrive?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. Three o’clock.”
“I want to see him.”
“Certainly. I want you to. I’ll bring him straight here from the airport. Meanwhile, with the affidavits—”
“No.” Wolfe was blunt. “There will be no affidavits until I have talked with your principal, and then well see. Don’t bring him here from the airport; phone me first. I have in mind a step that you won’t like but will probably have to assent to. I think there should be a meeting of those concerned in this matter, both sides, with you present, that it should take place tomorrow, and that it should be held in this room. I’ll undertake to get Mr. Helmar and his associates here.”
Irby was concentrating so hard he was squinting his eyes into narrow slits. “What makes you think I won’t like it?”
“The fact that lawyers are convinced that no quarrel involving a substantial sum of money should ever be pursued except by lawyers.”
The lawyer would have taken a much worse crack than that without offense. He didn’t even feel it. He shook his head earnestly. “I would welcome such a meeting,” he declared. “But I would want to have some idea of what I was letting myself in for. If I knew that you and Mr. Goodwin were going to state that both Priscilla Eads and Helmar had either implied or acknowledged the authenticity—”
“No,” Wolfe said flatly. “By making me a flagrantly improper offer you have forfeited all right to amenity. You’ll have to take it as it comes.”
And that was the best Irby could get, though he was so stubborn about it that I finally crossed over to pick up his briefcase and hand it to him, and by then it was dinnertime. When I closed the front door and turned after letting him out, Wolfe was emerging from the office, headed for the dining room.
“Are you satisfied?” he barked at me.
“No, sir,” I said politely. “And neither are you.”