and not one of them can be found in any phone directory in the metropolitan area! Or anywhere else. We can find no record anywhere of a man with any of those names. None of Dykes's friends or associates ever heard of a man with one of those names, so they say. I mean, taking the first and last names together, as they are on that list. Of course we haven't checked the whole damn country, but Dykes was a born and bred New Yorker, with no particular connections elsewhere that we know of. What the hell kind of a list of names is that?'
Wolfe grunted. 'He made them up. He was considering an alias, for himself or someone else.'
'We thought of that, naturally. If so, no one ever used it that we can find.'
'Keep trying if you think it's worth it.'
'Yeah. But we're only human. I just thought I'd show it to a genius and see what happened. With a genius you never know.'
Wolfe shrugged. 'I'm sorry. Nothing has happened.'
'Well, by God, I hope you'll excuse me'-Cramer got up. He was sore, and you couldn't blame him-'for taking up your time and no fee. Don't bother, Goodwin.'
He turned and marched out. Wolfe bent over his crossword puzzle, frowned at it, and picked up his pencil.
2
CRAMER'S crack about no fee had of course been deserved. Wolfe hated to start his brain going on what he called work, and during the years I had been on his payroll the occa-sions had been rare when anything but a substantial retainer had jarred him into it. But he is not a loafer. He can't be, since
his income as a private detective is what keeps that old house going, with the rooms on the roof full of orchid plants, with Theodore Horstmann as tender, and Fritz Breriner serving up the best meals in New York, and me, Archie Goodwin, asking for a raise every time I buy a new suit, and sometimes getting it. It takes a gross of at least ten thousand a month to get by. That January and the first half of February business was slow, except for the routine jobs, where all Wolfe and I had to do was supervise Saul Panzer and Fred Durkin and Orrie Cather, and for a little mix-up with a gang of fur hijackers during which Fred and I got shot at. Then, nearly six weeks after the day Cramer dropped in to see what would happen if he showed a piece of paper to a genius, and got a brush-off, a man named John R. Wellman phoned on Monday morning for an appointment, and I told him to come at six that after-noon. When he arrived, a few minutes early, I escorted him to the office and sat him in the red leather chair to wait until Wolfe came down from the plant rooms, sliding the little table near his right elbow, for his convenience if he needed to do any writing, for instance in a checkbook. He was a plump short guy, going bald, without much of a nose to hold up bis rimless glasses. His plain gray suit and haberdashery didn't indicate opulence, but he had told me on the phone that he was a wholesale grocer from Peoria, Illinois, and there had been time to get a report from the bank. We would take his check if that was on the program.
When Wolfe entered, Wellman stood up to shake hands. Sometimes Wolfe makes an effort to conceal his dislike of shaking hands with strangers, and sometimes he doesn't. This time he did fairly well, then rounded the corner of his desk and got bis seventh of a ton deposited in the only chair on earth that really suits him. He rested his forearms on the arms of the chair and leaned back.
'Yes, Mr. Wellman?'
'I want to hire you,' Wellman said.
'For what?'
'I want you to find-' He stopped short, and his jaw muscles began to work. He shook his head violently, took off his glasses, dug at his eyes with his fingertips, put the glasses back on, and had trouble getting them adjusted. 'I'm not under very good control,' he apologized. 'I haven't had enough sleep lately and I'm tired. I want you to find the person who killed my daughter.'
Wolfe shot a glance at me, and I got my notebook and pen. Wellman, concentrating on Wolfe, wasn't interested in me. Wolfe asked him, 'When and where and how did she die?'
'She was run over by a car in Van Cortlandt Park seven-teen days ago. Friday evening, February second.' Wellman had himself in hand now. 'I ought to tell you about her.'
'Go ahead.'
'My wife and I live in Peoria, Illinois. I've been in business there over twenty years. We had one child, one daughter, Joan. We were very-' He stopped. He sat completely still, not even his eyes moving, for a long moment, and then went on. 'We were very proud of her. She graduated from Smith with honors four years ago and took a job in the editorial department of Scholl and Hanna, the book publishers. She did well there-I have been told that by Scholl himself. She was twenty-six last November.' He made a little gesture. 'Looking at me, you wouldn't think I'd have a beautiful daugh-ter, but she was. Everybody agreed she was beautiful, and she was extremely intelligent.'
He got a large envelope from his side pocket. 'I might as well give you these now.' He left his chair to hand Wolfe the envelope. 'A dozen prints of the best likeness we have of her. I got them for the police to use, but they weren't using them, so you can. You can see for yourself.'
Wolfe extended a hand with one of the prints, and I arose to take it. Beautiful is a big word, but there's no point in quibbling, and if that was a good likeness Joan Wellman had been a good-looking girl. There was slightly too much chin for my taste, but the forehead and eyes were all any father had a right to expect.
'She was beautiful,' Wellman said, and stopped and was still again.
Wolfe couldn't stand to see people overcome. 'I suggest,' he muttered, 'that you avoid words like 'beautiful' and 'proud.' The colder facts will serve. You want to hire me to learn who drove the car that hit her?'
'I'm a damn fool,' Wellman stated.
'Then don't hire me.'
'I don't mean I'm a damn fool to hire you. I mean I intend to handle this efficiently and I ought to do
