He hung up and turned to me. I spoke first, on my feet. “So they want you at the DA’s office. Don’t tell them I said so, but they’d rather keep a murder in the file till hell freezes over than have the squad crack it. If they want my name they know where to ask.”
I marched to the door, opened it, and was gone.
There were still no PD cars out in front. After turning left on Court Street and continuing two blocks, I was relieved to find the cab still there, with its passenger perched on the seat looking out at the scenery. If the hackie had gone off with him to sell him, or if Stebbins had happened by and hijacked him, I wouldn’t have dared to go home at all. He seemed pleased to see me, as he damned well should have been. During the drive to Thirty-fifth Street he sat with his rump braced against me for a buttress. The meter said only six dollars and something, but I didn’t request any change. If Wolfe wanted to put me to work on a murder merely because he had got infatuated with a dog, let it cost him something.
I noticed that when we entered the office Jet went over to Wolfe, in place behind his desk, without any sign of bashfulness or uncertainty, proving that the evening before, during my absence, Wolfe had made approaches, probably had fed him something, and possibly had even patted him. Remarks occurred to me, but I saved them. I might be called on before long to spend some valuable time demonstrating that I had not been guilty of impersonating an officer, and that it wasn’t my fault if murder suspects mistook me for one.
Wolfe put down his empty beer glass and inquired, “Well?”
I reported. The situation called for a full and detailed account, and I supplied it, with Wolfe leaning back with his eyes closed. When I came to the end he asked no questions. Instead, he opened his eyes, straightened up, and began, “Call the-”
I cut him off. “Wait a minute. After a hard morning’s work I claim the satisfaction of suggesting it myself. I thought of it long ago. What’s the name of the Institute in Pittsburgh where they have shows of pictures?”
“Indeed. It’s a shot at random.”
“I know it is, but it’s only a buck. I just spent ten on a taxi. What’s the name?”
“Pittsburgh Art Institute.”
I swiveled for the phone on my desk, got the operator, and put in the call. I got through to the Institute in no time, but it took a quarter of an hour, with relays to three different people, to get what I was after.
I hung up and turned to Wolfe. “The show ended a week ago yesterday. Thank God I won’t have to go to Pittsburgh. The picture was lent by Mr. Herman Braunstein of New York, who owns it. It was shipped back to him by express four days ago. He wouldn’t give me Braunstein’s address.”
“The phone book.”
I had it and was flipping the pages. “Here we are. Business on Broad Street, residence on Park Avenue. There’s only one Herman.”
“Get him.”
“I don’t think so. He may be a poop. It might take all day. Why don’t I go to the residence without phoning? It’s probably there, and if I can’t get in you can fire me. I’m thinking of resigning anyhow.”
He had his doubts, since it was my idea, but he bought it. After considering the problem a little, I went to the cabinet beneath the bookshelves, got out the Veblex camera, with accessories, slung the strap of the case over my shoulder, told Wolfe I wouldn’t be back until I saw the picture, wherever it was, and beat it. Before going I dialed Talento’s number to tell him not to bother to keep his appointment, but there was no answer. Either he was still engaged at the DA’s office or he was on his way to Thirty-fifth Street, and if he came during my absence that was all right, since Jet was there to protect Wolfe.
A taxi took me to the end of a sidewalk canopy in front of one of the palace hives on Park Avenue in the Seventies, and I undertook to walk past the doorman without giving him a glance, but he stopped me. I said professionally, “Braunstein, taking pictures, I’m late,” and kept going, and got away with it. After crossing the luxurious lobby to the elevator, which luckily was there with the door open, I entered, saying, “Braunstein, please,” and the chauffeur shut the door and pulled the lever. We stopped at the twelfth floor, and I stepped out. There was a door to the right and another to the left, and I turned right without asking, on a fifty-fifty chance, listening for a possible correction from the elevator man, who was standing by with his door open.
It was one of the simplest chores I have ever performed. In answer to my ring the door was opened by a middle-aged female husky, in uniform with apron, and when I told her I had come to take a picture she let me in, asked me to wait, and disappeared. In a couple of minutes a tall and dignified dame with white hair came through an arch and asked what I wanted. I apologized for disturbing her and said I would deeply appreciate it if she would let me take a picture of a painting which had recently been shown at the Pittsburgh Institute, on loan by Mr. Braunstein. It was called “Three Young Mares at Pasture.” A Pittsburgh client of mine had admired it, and had intended to go back and photograph it for his collection, but the picture had gone before he got around to it.
She wanted some information, such as my name and address and the name of my Pittsburgh client, which I supplied gladly without a script, and then led me through the arch into a room not quite as big as Madison Square Garden. It would have been a pleasure, and also instructive, to do a little glomming at the rugs and furniture and other miscellaneous objects, especially the dozen or more pictures on the walls, but that would have to wait. She went across to a picture near the far end, said, “That’s it,” and lowered herself onto a chair.
It was a nice picture. I had half expected the mares to be without clothes, but they were fully dressed. Remarking that I didn’t wonder that my client wanted a photograph of it, I got busy with my equipment, including flash bulbs. She sat and watched. I took four shots from slightly different angles, acting and looking professional, I hoped; got my stuff back in the case; thanked her warmly on behalf of my client; promised to send her some prints; and left. That was all there was to it.
Out on the sidewalk again, I walked west to Madison, turned downtown and found a drugstore, went in to the phone booth, and dialed a number.
Wolfe’s voice came. “Yes? Whom do you want?”
I’ve told him a hundred times that’s a hell of a way to answer the phone, but he’s too damn pigheaded.
I spoke. “I want you. I’ve seen the picture, and I wouldn’t have thought that stallion had it in him. It glows with color and life, and the blood seems to pulsate under the warm skin. The shadows are transparent, with a harmonious blending-”
“Shut up! Yes or no?”
“Yes. You have met Mrs. Meegan. Would you like to meet her again?”
“I would. Get her.”
I didn’t have to look in the phone book for her address, having already done so. I left the drugstore and flagged a taxi.
There was no doorman problem at the number on East Forty-ninth Street. It was an old brick house that had been painted a bright yellow and modernized, notably with a self-service elevator, though I didn’t know that until I got in. Getting in was a little complicated. Pressing the button marked “Jewel Jones” in the vestibule was easy enough, and also unhooking the receiver and putting it to my ear, and placing my mouth close to the grille, but then it got more difficult.