But it wasn’t his technique that drew a long low whistle from me; much to the annoyance of Lyon, who when he condescends to purse his lips and blow, manages only a dry whoosh. His expression curdled further. “Indeed. Have we any friendly contacts on the police force?”
“Stoddard’s as friendly as it gets, and you know where he’d admire to put his size thirteen.”
I’m not without resources, however, and got a buddy on the staff of The Habitual Handicapper to call in a couple of markers in Records and Information. When he checked in, Lyon eavesdropped on the extension. “Encouraging,” he said when we hung up; which, coming from him, is a rave. “Please telephone young Mr. Hull and arrange an appointment.”
“Mr. Woodbine, I take it? I’m Jillian Hull.”
Next to a full pardon from the governor, it was the nicest surprise I could have hoped to find on the doorstep. She was on the bright side of thirty, a honey of a honey blonde with her hair pinned back loosely behind cute little ears and blue eyes as big as coat buttons. She came up to my shoulder and I could’ve lifted her in one hand, but I didn’t chance it. She wasn’t smiling.
Neither was Jasper, slumped next to her with his fists in his pockets. “She was there when you called. She made me tell.”
“My nephew’s been through a traumatic time, Mr. Woodbine. Humoring him is one thing, taking advantage of his fantasies in a season of mourning quite another. It may even be criminal.”
I leered; Goodwin grins, but my mouth don’t work that way. The suit she wore fit her too well here and there to back up her pique. “Pardon my not responding, but it wouldn’t be hospitable to make you go through it all again for Lyon. He’s the criminal in charge. I’m just the henchman.”
“Take me to him, please.”
It being a few minutes short of evening business hours, I trotted upstairs and gave him the news in the plant room. He was up to his elbows in sheep manure, but it wasn’t enough of a distraction to keep him from blushing. Nero Wolfe only distrusts the female sex; Claudius Lyon is terrified of it. “Tell her she isn’t invited and turn her out.”
“She’d take Jasper with her. He’s a minor, she’s his guardian. You’d be giving up your curtain-closer.”
He forgot himself and rubbed his nose, leaving a stain. The whole world was going to stink now. “Seat her on the sofa, out of my direct line of sight.”
“She already took the orange chair.”
“Sweet Mr. Moto! They have the rest of the world; why must they lay siege to my one little corner?”
The doorbell rang. I went downstairs and took a slant through the window by the door. The angular figure perched on the stoop sent me bounding back up to the plant room. “It’s Captain Stoddard.”
Lyon, disinfecting himself at the sink, didn’t blush this time; he whitened a shade. Authority of any kind always took the wind out of him. Me, too, but my reasons are well known. Maybe his old man had caught him filching candy when he was little and had a cop friend put him in the clink to teach him a lesson. They say that’s how Hitchcock got started. “Word must have reached him of our inquiries,” he squeaked. “Don’t answer!”
“He’ll just come back madder.”
The ringing stopped and the banging started. Lyon bobbed his head, washing his hands furiously. “I suppose we must let him sit in, for the sake of the door.”
“Got you, Woodbine,” greeted Stoddard when I opened up. “Lyon too. Using police services for private business.”
“Business involves statements and receipts and scratches in a ledger. This is a hobby. And police records are public property.”
I’d cribbed the speech from Lyon. There was more to it, but a steel fist shot out of a coat sleeve and took up the slack in my windpipe. I squeaked — plagiarizing again from the boss.
I never found out how far he intended to take it, because Jillian and Jasper Hull came out of the office to see what all the noise was about. When Stoddard saw them his eyes returned to their sockets and he let go.
When I finished coughing I made introductions and told everyone what he needed to know to that point. We went into the office, where the captain commandeered the orange chair, leaving two of the smaller green ones for the other guests.
Promptly on the hour, the building shook from the elevator rattling in the shaft, but the effect of the maestro’s big entrance was spoiled when it got stuck between the second and first floors. This had happened before, and there was only one way to jar it back into operation. He was loath to do it with an audience. However, after a moment of mulling, the thudding began; pictures danced on the walls, and anyone with half an imagination could picture the chunky little passenger jumping up and down in the car. Finally the mechanism kicked back in with a dry chuckle and the cage settled to ground level. Lyon emerged, vest, lapels, and pocket handkerchief in perfect alignment, but his face as red as the fruit of the Lycopersicum esculentum in the pot he held in both hands.
Jasper stifled a snort as the host made his dignified waddle to his chair; it was the first time I’d seen the little squirt behave like a normal child.
When he was seated, Lyon nodded to each visitor, making eye contact with none. “Thank you for coming. The presence of Ms. Hull and Mr. Stoddard is an unexpected pleasure, however uninvited.”
The two thus named started to talk at the same time. Stoddard found his manners in some cluttered corner and shut his mouth. Jillian Hull said, “I’m glad the police are here. It will make it easier to prefer charges against you for swindling a minor.”
“Mr. Stoddard investigates fraud, which as he can tell you requires an exchange of money. I’m sure young Master Hull will confirm that I’ve declined compensation of any kind.”
Stoddard thumped the arm of his chair with a horned palm. “You don’t have to, as long as you can get the police to do your work for free.”
Lyon swallowed, stifling a squeak. “Hardly free. I pay confiscatory taxes that contribute in no small measure to your department’s budget. The information I obtained there is community property, and was connected only indirectly to my investigation. I conducted it merely to confirm my suspicions. Mr. Woodbine?”
I got up from my desk and handed Jasper the fax we’d received that day from Brooklyn P.D.
“Is that the man you met in the hospital last spring?” Lyon asked.
The boy started bouncing in his seat; there was hope for him yet. “That’s him! That’s my father!” He gave it to his aunt, who looked up from it and nodded. “It looks like a mug shot,” she said.
“It is. The man’s name is Randolph Otto. Currently he’s in the New York State Penitentiary in Ossining, serving a sentence of ten to fifteen years for burglary. It’s his second offense.”
“His name’s William Thew.” Jasper was sullen again.
“The name doesn’t appear among his recorded aliases. I hardly expected it to.” Lyon scowled at the plant on his desk and pinched a leaf, squashing a bug. He wiped his hand and returned the hanky to his pocket. “When you met, it was May, a particularly pleasant month this year. I suspected the man was there for no legitimate purpose when you told me he was wearing a heavy overcoat. In warm weather, bulky coats are useful for one thing only: concealing stolen items. Armed with that supposition, I turned to the police to determine whether they had investigated a complaint of plundering at Brooklyn General during that time. The news that a suspect had been arrested and convicted was a bonus. I congratulate your brother officers, Mr. Stoddard.”
The captain said something inappropriate with a lady and child in the room, or for that matter my Uncle Butt. I’d have made an example of him if my throat weren’t still sore.