“So he’s alive, or he was last •week, and not in the poorhouse, or whatever they call it in England. I’ve made various efforts to find out who Ize was, but without success. Maybe I will soon. In the meantime, I’m writing this down and disposing of it, because, although it may sound far-fetched and even a little batty, the fact is that this is the only thing resembling a legacy that I can leave to you and Clara. After all, I did risk my life that night in Silver City, on the strength of a bargain understood and recorded, and if that Englishman is rolling in it there’s no reason why he shouldn’t pay up. It is my hope and wish that you will make every effort to see that he does, not only for your sake but for our daughter’s sake. That may sound melodramatic, but the things that are going on over here get you that way. As soon as I find out who he is I’ll get this back and add that to it.
“Another thing. If you do find him and get a grubstake out of it, you must not use it to pay that $26,0001 owe those people out in California. You must promise me this. You must, dearest Lola. I’m bestowing this legacy on you and Clara, not them! I say this because \ fenow that you know how much that debt has worried me for ten years. Though 1 wasn’t really responsible for that tangle, it’s true that it would give me more pleasure to straighten that out than anything in the world except to see you and Clara, but if I die that business can die with me. Of course, if you should get such a big pile of dough that you’re embarrassed—but miracles like that don’t happen.
“If something should come out of it, it must be split with the rest of the gang if you can find them. I don’t know a thing about any of them except Harlan Scovil, and I haven’t neard from him for several years. The last address I had for him is in the little red book in the drawer of my desk. One of the difficulties is that you haven’t got the paper that George Rowley signed. Rubber Coleman, by agreement, kept both that and the PLEDGE OF THE RUBBER BAND. Maybe you can find Cole-man. Or maybe Rowley is a decent guy and will pay without any paper. Either sounds highly improbable. Hell, it’s all a daydream. Anyhow, I nave every intention of getting back to you safe and sound, and if I do you’ll never see this unless I bring it along as a souvenir.
“Here are the names of everybody that was in on it: George Rowley. Rubber Coleman (I don’t know his first name). Victor Lindquist. Harlan Scovil ^you’ve met him, go after him first). Mike Walsh (he was a little older, maybe 32 at the time, not one of the Rubber Band). Turtle-back was a good deal older, probably dead now, and that’s all the name I knew for him. And last but by no means least, yours truly, and how truly it would take a year to tell, Gilbert Fox, the writer of these presents.”
Clara Fox stopped. She ran her eyes over the last sentence again, then placed that sheet at the back, folded them up, and returned them to her handbag. She put her hand up and brushed back her hair, and sat and looked at Wolfe. No one said anything.
Finally Wolfe sighed. He opened his eyes at her. “Well, Miss Fox. It appears to be the moon that you want after all.”
She shook her head. “I know who George Rowley is. He is now in New York.”
“And this, I presume”—Wolfe nodded—“is Mr. Victor Lindquist’s daughter.” He nodded again. “And this gendeman is the Mr. Walsh who emptied two guns at Mr. Rowley without hitting him.”
Mike Walsh blurted, “I could have hit him!”
“Granted, sir. And you. Miss Fox, would very much like to have twentysix thousand dollars, no doubt with accrued interest, to discharge debts of your dead father. In other words, you need something a little less than thirty thousand.”
She stared at him. She glanced at me, then back at him, and asked coolly, “Am I here as your client, Mr. Wolfe, or as a suspected thief?”
He wiggled a finger at her. “Neither as yet. Please do not be so foolish as to be offended. If I show you my mind, it is only to save dme and avoid irrelevancies. Haven’t I sat and listened patiently for ten minutes although I dislike being read aloud to?”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“Indeed. I believe it is. Let us proceed. Tell me about Mr. George Rowley.”
But that had to be postponed. I had heard the doorbell, and Fritz going down the hall, and a murmur from outside. Now I shook my head at Clara Fox and showed her my palm to stop her, as the office door opened and Fritz came in and closed it behind him.
“A man to see you, sir. I told him you were engaged.”
I bounced up. There were only two kinds of men Fritz didn’t announce as gentlemen; one he suspected of wanting to sell something, and a policeman, uniform or not. He could smell one a mile off. So I bounced up and demanded, “A cop?”
“Yes, sir.”
I whirled to Wolfe. “Ever since I saw Muir looking at Miss Fox today I’ve been thinking she ought to have a lightning rod. Would you like to have her pinched in here, or out in the hall?”
Wolfe nodded and snapped, “Very well, Archie.”
I crossed quick and got myself against the closed office door, and spoke not too loud to Fritz, pointing to the door that opened into the front room. “Go through that way and lock the door from the front room to the hall.”
He moved. I turned to the others. “Go in there and sit down, and if you don’t talk any it won’t disturb us.”
Walsh and Miss Lindquist stared at me.
Clara Fox said to Wolfe, “I’m not your client yet.”
He said, “Nor yet a suspect. Here. Please humor Mr. Goodwin.”
She got up and went and the others followed her. Fritz came back and I told him to shut that door and lock it and give me the key. Then I went back to my desk and sat down, while Fritz, at a nod from Wolfe, went to the hall for the visitor.
The cop came in, and I was surprised to see that it was a guy I knew. Surprised, because the last time I had heard of Slim Foltz he had been on the Homicide Squad, detailed to the District Attorney’s office.
“Hello, Slim.”
“Hi, Goodwin.” He had his own clothes on. He came on across with his hat in his hand. “Hello, Mr. Wolfe. I’m Foltz, Homicide Squad.”
“Good evening, sir. Be seated.”
The dick put his hat on the desk and sat down, and reached in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “There was a man shot down the street an hour or so ago. Shot plenty, five bullets in him. Killed. This piece of paper was in his pocket, with your name and address on it. Along with other names. Do you know anything about him?”
Wolfe shook his head. “Except that he’s dead. Not, that is, at this moment. If I knew his name, perhaps …”
“Yeah. His name was on a hunting license, also in his pocket. State of Wyoming. Harlan Scovil.”
“Indeed. It is possible Mr. Goodwin can help you out. Archie’?”
I was thinking to myself, hell, he didn’t come for her after all. But I was just as well pleased she wasn’t in the room.
Chapter 5
Slim Foltz was looking at me.
I said, “Harlan Scovil? Sure. He was here this afternoon.”
Foltz got in his pocket again and fished out a little black memo book and a pencil stub. “What time?”
“He got here around four-thirty, a little before maybe, and left at fivetwenty-six.”
“What did he want?”
“He wanted to see Nero Wolfe.”
“What about?”
I shook my head regretfully. “There you’ve got me, mister. I told him he’d have to wait until six o’clock, so he was waiting.”
“He must have said something.”
“Certainly he said something. He said he wanted to see Nero Wolfe.”
“What else did he say?”
“He said there seemed to be very little spittin’ done east of the Mississippi River, and he wanted to know if there were any honest men this side of the mountains. He didn’t say specifically what he wanted to see Mr. Wolfe about We’d never seen him or heard of him before. Oh yes, he said he just got to New York this morning, from Wyoming. By the way, just because that license was in his pocket—was he over six feet, around sixty, blue serge suit with sleeves too short and the lapel torn a little on the right side, with a leathery red face and a cowboy hat.”