A man’s voice said, “He wants to play tag.”
I had been too preoccupied to see the man, and anyway he had just stepped from behind a shrub at the end of a terrace. With a glance I saw that he was clad in a green shirt and brick-colored slacks, was about my age or a little younger, and seemed to be assuming a supercilious attitude.
He said, “He wants to play tag.”
I said, “I don’t.”
He said, “If you offend him he’ll bite you. Start past him on the grass and dodge when he goes to touch you. Dodge three times and then let him tag you, and say ‘Mister’ in an admiring voice. That’s all. His name is Mister.”
“I could turn around and go home.”
“I wouldn’t try that. He would resent it.”
“I could sock him one.”
“You might. I doubt it. If you hurt him and my aunt ever catches you... I suppose you’re Archie Goodwin? I’m Larry Huddleston. I didn’t send those letters and don’t know who did or who might. My aunt will be down later, she’s upstairs arguing with Brother Daniel. I can’t invite you in until you get past Mister.”
“Does everyone who comes here have to play tag with this damn overgrown orangutan?”
“He’s not an orangutan; he’s a chimpanzee. He doesn’t often play with strangers. It means he likes you.”
I had to go through with it. I took to the grass, was intercepted, dodged three times, said ‘Mister’ in as admiring a tone of voice as I could manage, and was by. Mister emitted a little squeal and scampered off to a tree and bounded up to a limb. I looked at the back of my hand and saw blood. The nephew asked, not with great concern:
“Did he bite you?”
“No, I fell down and must have scratched it. It’s just a scratch.”
“Yeah, I saw you trip over Moses. I’ll get you some iodine.”
I said it wasn’t worth bothering about, but he took me across the terrace into the house, into a large living room, twice as long as it was broad, with big windows and a big fireplace, and enough chairs and divans and cushions for a good-sized party right there. When he opened a cupboard door in the wall near the fireplace a shelf was disclosed with a neat array of sterilized gauze, band-aids, adhesive tape, and salve....
As I dabbed iodine on the scratch I said, for something to say, “Handy place for a first-aid outfit.”
He nodded. “On account of Mister. He never bites deep, but he often breaks somebody’s skin. Then Logo and Lulu, sometimes they take a little nip—”
“Logo and Lulu?”
“The bears.”
“Oh, sure. The bears.” I looked around and then put the iodine bottle on the shelf and he closed the door. “Where are they now?”
“Having a nap somewhere. They always nap in the afternoon. They’ll be around later. Shall we go out to the terrace? What’ll you have, scotch, rye, bourbon?”
It was a nice spot, the terrace, on the shady side of the house with large irregular flagstones separated by ribbons of turf. I sat there for an hour with him, but about all I got out of it was three highballs. I didn’t cotton to him much. He talked like an actor; he had a green handkerchief in the breast pocket of his shirt, to match the shirt; he mentioned the Social Register three times in less than an hour; and he wore an hexagonal wrist watch, whereas there’s no excuse for a watch to be anything but round. He struck me as barely bright enough for life’s simplest demands, but I admit he might have been a darb at a party. I must say he didn’t turn loose any secrets. He was pretty indignant about the letters, but about all I learned from him was that he knew how to use a typewriter, that Maryella had gone downtown on some errands, and that Janet was out horseback riding with Dr. Brady. He seemed to be a little cynical about Dr. Brady, but I couldn’t get the slant.
When it got five o’clock and his aunt hadn’t come down, he went to inquire, and in a moment returned and said I was to go up. He led me upstairs and showed me a door and beat it. I entered and found I was in an office, but there was no one there. It was a mess. Phone books were heaped on a chair. The blotters had been used since the Declaration of Independence. The typewriter wasn’t covered. I was frowning around when I heard steps, and Bess Huddleston trotted in, with a skinny specimen behind her. His eyes were as black as hers, but everything else about him was shrunk and faded. As she breezed past me she said:
“Sorry. How are you. My brother. Mr. Goldwyn.”
“Goodwin,” I said firmly, and shook brother’s hand. I was surprised to find he had a good shake. Sister was sitting at a desk, opening a drawer. She got out a checkbook, took a pen from a socket, made out a check, tried to blot it and made a smudge, and handed it to brother Daniel. He took one look at it and said:
“No.”
“Yes,” she snapped.
“I tell you, Bess, it won’t—”
“It will have to, Dan. At least for this week. That’s all there is to it. I’ve told you a thousand times—”
She stopped, looked at me, and looked at him.
“All right,” he said, and stuck the check in his pocket, and sat down on a chair, shaking his head and looking thoughtful.
“Now,” Bess turned to me, “what about it?”
“Nothing to brag about,” I told her. “There’s a slew of fingerprints on that letter and envelope, but since you discussed it with your brother and nephew and the girls and Dr. Brady, I suppose they all handled it. Did they?”
“Yes.”
I shrugged. “So. Maryella showed Mr. Wolfe how to make corned beef hash. The secret is chitlins. Aside from that, nothing to report. Except that Janet knows that you think she’s it. Also she wanted that picture.”
“What picture?”
“The snapshot of her you told me to throw in the wastebasket. It caught her eye and she wanted it. Is there any objection to her having it?”
“Certainly not.”
“Is there anything you want to say about it? That might help?”
“No, that picture has nothing to do with it. I mean that wouldn’t help you any.”
“Dr. Brady was requested to call at our office at two o’clock today but was too busy.”
Bess Huddleston went to a window and looked out and came back. “He wasn’t too busy to come and ride one of my horses,” she said tartly. “They ought to be back soon — I thought I heard them at the stable....”
“Will he come to the house?”
“He will. For cocktails.”
“Good. Mr. Wolfe told me to say that there is a remote chance there might be prints on the other letter. The one the rich man got.”
“It isn’t available.”
“Couldn’t you get it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Has he turned it over to the police?”
“Good heavens, no!”
“Okay. I’ve played tag with Mister and had a talk with your nephew. Now if I could see where Janet keeps her stationery, and take a sample from that typewriter. Is that the one?”
“Yes. But first come to Janet’s room. I’ll show you.”
I followed her. It was at the other end of the house, on that floor, one flight up, a pleasant little room and nice and neat. But the stationery was a washout. It wasn’t in a box. It was in a drawer of a writing table with no lock on it, and all you had to do was open the drawer with a metal ring for a puller, which couldn’t possibly have had a print, and reach in and take what you wanted, paper and envelopes both. Bess Huddleston left me there, and after a look around where there was nothing to look for, I went back to the office. Daniel was still there on the chair where we had left him. I ran off some sample lines on the typewriter, using a sheet of Janet’s paper, and was putting it in my pocket when Daniel spoke: