Might as Well Be Dead

“None whatever. All we got was dead ends.”

“Did your search go beyond your set routine?”

“That depends on what you call routine. It was a clear-cut case and the boy had had a rough deal, and you could say we made a special effort. I’ve still got a good man on it. If you want to send Goodwin down with a letter from Herold we’ll be glad to show him the reports.”

“Thank you. You have no suggestions?”

“I’m afraid not. Good luck.”

Wolfe didn’t thank him again. We hung up.

“Swell,” I said. “He thinks he’s handed you a gazookis. The hell of it is, he’s probably right. So where do we start?”

“Not at the Battery,” Wolfe growled.

“Okay, but where? It may even be worse than we think. What if Paul framed himself for the theft of the twenty-six grand so as to have an excuse to get away from father? Having met father, I would buy that. And seeing the ad asking him to communicate with father-not mentioning mother or sisters, just father-and saying a mistake was made, what does he do? He either beats it to Peru or the Middle East-there’s the Middle East again-or he goes and buys himself a set of whiskers. That’s an idea; we can check on all sales of whiskers in the last month, and if we find-”

“Shut up. It is an idea.”

I stared. “My God, it’s not that desperate. I was merely trying to stir your blood up and get your brain started, as usual, and if you-”

“I said shut up. Is it too late to get an advertisement into tomorrow’s papers?”

“The Gazette, no. The Times, maybe.”

“Your notebook.”

Even if he had suddenly gone batty, I was on his payroll. I went to my desk, got the notebook, turned to a fresh page, and took my pen.

“Not in the classified columns,” he said. “A display two columns wide and three inches high. Headed ‘To P.H.’ in large boldface, with periods after the P and H. Then this text, in smaller type: ‘Your innocence is known and the injustice done you is regretted.’” He paused. “Change the ‘regretted’ to ‘deplored.’ Resume: ‘Do not let bitterness prevent righting of a wrong.’ “ Pause again. “ ‘No unwelcome contact will be urged upon you, but your help is needed to expose the true culprit. I engage to honor your reluctance to resume any tie you have renounced.’ “

He pursed his lips a moment, then nodded. “That will do. Followed by my name and address and phone number.”

“Why not mention mother?” I asked.

“We don’t know how he feels toward his mother.”

“He sent her birthday cards.”

“By what impulsion? Do you know?”

“No.”

“Then it would be risky. We can safely assume only two emotions for him: resentment of the wrong done him, and a desire to avenge it. If he lacks those he is less or more than human, and we’ll never find him. I am aware, of course, that this is a random shot at an invisible target and a hit would be a prodigy. Have you other suggestions?”

I said no and swiveled the typewriter to me.

Chapter 2

AT ANY GIVEN MOMENT there are probably 38,437 people in the metropolitan area who have been unjustly accused of something, or think they have, and 66 of them have the initials P.H. One-half of 66, or 33, saw that ad, and one-third of the 33, or 11, answered it-three of them by writing letters, six by phoning, and two by calling in person at the old brownstone house on West 35th Street, Manhattan, which Wolfe owns, inhabits, and dominates except when I decide that he has gone too far.

The first reaction was not from a P.H. but an L.C.-Lon Cohen of the Gazette. He phoned Tuesday morning and asked what the line was on the Hays case. I said we had no line on any Hays case, and he said nuts.

He went on. “Wolfe runs an ad telling P.H. he knows he’s innocent, but you have no line? Come on, come on. After all the favors I’ve done you? All I ask is-”

I cut him off. “Wrong number. But I should have known, and so should Mr. Wolfe. We do read the papers, so we know a guy named Peter Hays is on trial for murder. Not our P.H. But it could be a damn nuisance. I hope to God he doesn’t see the ad.”

“Okay. You’re sitting on it, and when Wolfe’s sitting on something it’s being sat on good. But when you’re ready to loosen up, think of me. My name is Damon, Pythias.”

Since there was no use trying to convince him, I skipped it. I didn’t buzz Wolfe, who was up in the plant rooms for his morning exercise, to ride him for not remembering there was a P.H. being tried for murder, because I should have remembered it myself.

The other P.H.’s kept me busy, off and on, most of the day. One named Phillip Horgan was no problem, because he came in person and one look was enough. He was somewhat older than our client. The other one who came in person, while we were at lunch, was tougher. His name was Perry Hettinger, and he refused to