Wolfe snorted. "There is still my question. The expense, the time it will take, the slender prospect of success. Also it will be in effect an investigation of the death of Leonard Dykes, not of your daughter. The approach will be oblique in more ways than one. Well, sir? Do we proceed or quit?"
"We proceed." Our client, still our client, put his glasses back on. "If I might - I would like to be assured that our relations are confidential. I wouldn't want my wife or my pastor to know about this - uh - this development."
Wolfe was looking as if he might bellow again, so I put in fast, "They won't, not from us. No one will."
"That's good. Do you want another check?"
Wolfe said we didn't, not just yet. That seemed to dispose of all the issues, but Wellman wanted to ask some questions, chiefly about Rachel Abrams and the building where her office was. Apparently he intended to go up there and poke around, and I was all for it, anything to get him outside before he got to worrying again about virgins, or Wolfe's resentment at having to confer with a client got out of hand.
After showing Wellman out I returned to the office. Wolfe was leaning back, scowling, running a fingertip around a race track on the arm of his chair.
I stretched and yawned. "Well," I remarked, "I suppose I'd better go up and change my clothes. The light brown, you know. They like a soft material that doesn't scratch when they put their head on your shoulder. Meanwhile you can be thinking up my instructions."
"There will be no instructions," he growled. "Confound it, get me something, that's all." He leaned forward to ring for beer.
7
MY REMARK about changing my clothes had of course been a feeble gag. Starting contacts with the personnel in the office of Corrigan, Phelps, Kustin and Briggs would require more elaborate outfitting than a light brown suit, though it was a good shade and a nice soft fabric. As Wolfe had told Wellman, everyone there would certainly be fed up with questions about Leonard Dykes and the name of Baird Archer, and if I had merely gone there and opened fire I would have been bounced.
I did go up to my room though, to think it over away from Wolfe and the phone. The approach was simple. What did we have too much of that girls liked, besides me? That was a cinch: orchids, especially at that time of year, when there were thousands of blossoms and practically all of them would be left on the plants till they wilted. In a quarter of an hour I went down again to the office and announced to Wolfe, "I'm going to need a lot of orchids."
"How many?"
"I don't know. Maybe four or five dozen to start with. I want a free hand."
"You won't get it. Consult me. No Cypripedium Lord Fisher, no Dendrobium Cybele, no -"
"Not gaudy enough anyway. I'll stick to Cattleyas, Brasses, and Laelios."
"You know the rarities."
"Sure. I ought to."
I went out and took a taxi to Homicide on Twentieth Street. There I hit a snag. Purley Stebbins was out to lunch. It would have been useless to try to get what I wanted from any of the riffraff, so I insisted on seeing Cramer and got waved down the hall to his room. He was at his desk, eating pickles and salami and drinking buttermilk. When I told him I wanted to take a look at the Dykes file and make a list of the employees at the law office where he had worked, he said he was busy and had no time to argue and would I please go away.
"Yes, sir," I said politely. "We give you all we have. We connect Dykes and Wellman for you. We tie in Abrams before she's even cold, and hand it over. You still have nowhere to go, but neither have we. Now all I want is a list of names which I could get elsewhere by spending a couple of hours and maybe twenty bucks, but you're too busy. I think it's what you eat. It's your stomach. Good God, look at that lunch."
He swallowed a mixture of pickle and salami he had been chewing, pushed a button, and spoke to the intercom.
"Rossi? I'm sending Goodwin in, Archie Goodwin. Let him take the Leonard Dykes file and make a list of the employees in that law office. That's all he does. Stay with him. Got it?"
A metallic voice crackled, "Right, Inspector."
I got back to Thirty-fifth Street in time for lunch, having stopped at a stationery store for some plain gummed labels. The other things I would need were on hand.
After lunch I went to it. There were sixteen female names on my list. I might have been able to dig out of the file who was what, but it would have been a job, and anyhow I didn't want to discriminate. A filing clerk was just as apt to be my meat as the confidential secretary of James A. Corrigan, the senior partner. As a starter all I needed Was the names, and I went to the office and typed a label for each of them. I also typed, on plain pieces of paper, sixteen times so as not to use carbons:
These orchids are so rare that they cannot be bought. I picked them for you. If you care to know why, phone me at PE 3-1212.
Archie Goodwin
With the labels and typed notes in an envelope in my pocket, I ascended to the plant rooms, got a basket and knife, went to the warm room, and started cutting. I needed forty-eight, three apiece, but took a few extra because some were not perfect, mostly Cattleyas Dionysius, Katadin and peetersi, Brassocattleyas Calypso, fournierae and Nestor, and Laelio-cattleyas barbarossa, Carmencita and St. Gothard. It was quite a collection. Theodore had offered to help, and I had no objection. The only one he tried to talk me out of was Calypso, because they weren't blooming so well, but I was firm.
In the potting room we got out boxes and tissue and ribbon, and Theodore packed them expertly and inserted the typed notes while I pasted on the labels and fought with the ribbon. The damn ribbon was what took time. Wolfe is better at it than either Theodore or me, but this was my party. When the last bow was tied and the sixteen boxes were carefully packed in a large carton, it was twenty minutes to four. Still time. I lugged the carton downstairs, got my hat and coat, went out and found a taxi, and gave the driver the address, on Madison Avenue in the Fifties.
The office of Corrigan, Phelps, Kustin and Briggs was on the eighteenth floor of one of those buildings that think there is nothing like marble in big slabs if you want real class, with double doors for an entrance at the end of a wide corridor. The automatic door-closer was strong enough to push a horse out, and my entry was a little clumsy on account of the carton. In the long anteroom a couple of guys were on chairs, another one was pacing up and down, and back of a rail a three-shades-of-blond sourpuss was fighting it out with a switchboard. Near her, inside the rail, was a table. I took the carton there, put it on the floor by the rail, opened it, and began removing the ribboned boxes and putting them on the table.
She sent me a withering glance. "Mother's Day in February?" she inquired wearily. "Or atom bombs, perhaps?"
I finished my unpacking and then stepped to her. "On one of those boxes," I told her, "you will find your name. On the others there are other names. They should be delivered today. It may possibly make you take a brighter view -"
I stopped because I had lost her. She had left the switchboard and made a beeline for the table. I don't know what it was that she was hoping life had in Store for her, but it must have been something that could be put in a small box, they way she went for it. As she started her eye over the labels, I crossed to the door, pulled it open by getting a firm foothold, and departed.
If that was typical of the reaction of females in that office to ribboned boxes there was no telling how soon I would be getting a phone call, so I told the taxi driver it would be okay if he made it to Thirty-fifth Street in less than an hour, but with the midtown traffic at that time of day it made no difference.
When we had finally made it and I had mounted the stoop and let myself in, I went to the kitchen and asked Fritz, "Any calls?"