“There were three of them dismantling the place,” Saul continued. “And by God, they were even taking the freight elevator apart, piece by piece, for whatever the parts were worth as scrap metal. Well, I snuck out of my hiding place and was just about to blow the whistle on them when one guy fell four floors, probably sixty feet, down the elevator shaft. The idiot had unbolted a section of the floor from the walls — while he was in the thing!”
“Of course that finished him,” I put in.
Saul shook his head. “Incredibly, not even a broken bone. Some poor homeless creature had found his way into the building weeks earlier and had hauled three old mattresses in with him. He’d piled them at the bottom of the shaft and had been sleeping on them until he apparently found himself a better place to bunk. He left the mattresses behind, though, and this other guy fell, screaming all the way, onto the pile. He bounced a couple of times and ended up with a bunch of bruises and a burglary charge. If there’s a moral, it got by me.
Wolfe damn near chuckled, although not quite. He both likes Saul Panzer and esteems him. A comment here about Sauclass="underline" You wouldn’t grade him high on looks; he’s not much bigger than a jockey, and his face is mostly nose, and what isn’t nose is ears. He always needs a shave, regardless of the time of day. His clothes never seem to fit quite right, and the closest thing he makes to a fashion statement is a flat wool cap that he wears except when the mercury goes above seventy Fahrenheit. All that might make you take Saul lightly, which would be a big mistake.
He is a free-lance operative, the best in New York — possibly in the world — at a number of things, including tailing people who don’t want to be tailed and finding people who don’t want to be found. Saul charges top dollar and gets far more business than he can handle, although he almost never says no to Wolfe, who has been throwing work his way for years without complaints.
I knew why Wolfe wanted to sign Saul on this time, of course. The three of us were in the office with coffee after dinner, and I had also poured generous snifters of Remisier brandy for Saul and me. Wolfe sipped from his Wedgwood cup and set it deliberately in its saucer. “We need to locate an individual,” he told Saul. “A woman. She is said to be in the New York area, but as Archie discovered this afternoon, she has no telephone listing. This problem may be too mundane for you, especially given your crowded docket. If so, I understand completely.”
Wolfe was laying it on. As I mentioned, he esteems Saul, but he is not above using flattery, which is okay, because Saul knows exactly what Wolfe is doing, and Wolfe knows that Saul knows it, and Saul knows that Wolfe — well, you get the idea. Anyway, we had all been through this dance before. Saul, who always does have plenty of business, took a sip of the brandy, licked his lips, and nodded appreciatively. “Lon Cohen has mentioned more than once that this is the finest cognac in the world. He and I don’t agree on everything — especially on the value of bluffing in poker — but I can’t quarrel with his assessment of this nectar. Tell me about the woman.”
Wolfe rang for beer and adjusted his bulk. “Her name is Clarice Wingfield, although it is conceivable she may be using the surname of her ex-husband, which is Avery.”
“Or she may be using a completely manufactured moniker,” Saul observed. “What else you got?”
Wolfe turned toward me. “A snapshot, taken three or four years ago,” I said, pulling it from my center desk drawer. “Also, according to her cousin back in the Midwest, Clarice is a frustrated artist.” I gave Saul the rest of the Indiana scenario, including Clarice Wingfield’s interest in art, and then quickly filled him in on our commission from Horace Vinson.
With his eyes roving around the room, Saul looked like he was daydreaming while I talked, but I knew better; he heard every word, picked up every inflection. When I was done, he finished the last of his brandy. “I’ll start in the morning,” he said. “I assume that you’ve tried Missing Persons?”
“No, sir,” Wolfe replied, “but the question begs response. Archie shall undertake that tomorrow, as well as showing Miss Wingfield’s photograph to others who might have seen her with Mr. Childress.”
It is always heartening to be among the first to learn what my role will be. I threw a snarl Wolfe’s way, but either he didn’t notice or he was too busy concentrating on the bubbles that rose like spiraling strands of pearls in his beer glass.
“Do you see the need to utilize Fred?” he asked Saul. Fred Durkin is another free-lance operative we frequently hire. Fred is not as bright as Saul, not by light-years, and he is not as effective. But put him down as brave, loyal, and hard working.
Saul looked at his cap, which was perched on his knee. “Maybe, but for now, I think it will work best if I give it a go alone,” he responded. “If you like, I can get a couple of quick copies made of that snapshot and have the original back here first thing in the morning. I’d like to carry one with me, and keep another in reserve in case Fred gets brought in.”
Wolfe allowed as to how that was a capital idea, so I handed Saul the photo of Clarice Wingfield, then refilled his snifter with some of that cognac Lon Cohen swears is the finest in the world. Saul smiled his thanks and we retired to the front room for some gin rummy. That smile was even wider when he left the brownstone ninety minutes later; he had seventeen dollars in his pocket that hadn’t been there when he walked in.
Fourteen
When I came down to breakfast in the morning, Fritz was waiting for me with the first of what would be several hot-cakes, hot coffee, and a sealed envelope. “Mr. Panzer was here more than an hour ago; he told me you would be expecting this,” he said, thrusting the envelope at me.
Saul is a morning person. But he’s also a night person. In fact, I’ve often wondered how little sleep the guy can get by on. I asked him about that once, and he responded that after five hours of shuteye, he’s ready for anything except acid rock music, and even some of that he can tolerate, although apropos of nothing, I happen to know he prefers Chopin to any other, maker of melody, past or present.
Inside the envelope was the photograph of Clarice Wingfield that Belinda Meeker had given me, along with one copy and a piece of lined notebook paper with a scribbled message asking when I was available for another gin rummy session. I threw the note in the wastebasket, slipped the two pictures into my billfold, and sat down to compare Fritz’s breakfast to the Old Skillet’s effort. Fritz won, of course, but it wasn’t a runaway.
After putting away life-sustaining portions of apricot omelet and hotcakes with bacon and honey, I carried a cup of coffee into the office and, settling in at my desk, punched the buttons on the phone. Horace Vinson’s secretary answered crisply and, hearing my name, she put me through immediately to the editor.
“Ah, I was hoping you’d call this morning. Got anything yet?” Vinson asked anxiously.
I gave my standard response to that standard client question. “Nothing concrete. Did Childress ever mention a cousin of his to you? Her name is Clarice Wingfield.”
“No, I can’t say that he did,” Vinson responded after a slight pause. “But Charles rarely discussed his pre-New York years, at least with me. Why?”
“Just a long shot.” I thanked him and said he’d be hearing from us as soon as something was worth hearing. He wanted to string out the conversation, but I insisted that I had pressing duties related to the case, which was more or less true.
It was a splendid morning, spring in Manhattan at its absolute blue-skies-and-soft-breezes best, and I would have liked nothing more than to take a long, leisurely stroll Downtown. But I reminded myself that the faster I could keep events moving, the more likely that Wolfe wouldn’t lose interest in the proceedings and begin feeling sorry for himself by dwelling on such mundane matters as his nonfunctioning elevator. So I walked only as far as Ninth Avenue, where I flagged a southbound cab. “One Police Plaza,” I told the driver, giving him the immodest address of the blocky, brick headquarters building, which sits behind the Municipal Building on Centre Street near the approach ramps to the Brooklyn Bridge.