that should be left for a secondary formula.
For instance, my character, a study of which, a posteriori, would show it to be probable that I would commit murder for the sake of a sound but revolutionary formula. One detail of that would be my personal finances. My salary as an assistant professor is barely enough to live on endurably, but I paid ten dollars a week for that Track Almanac.” “Do you gamble? Do you bet on horse races?” “No. I never have. I know too much-or rather, I know too little. More than ninety-nine per cent of the bets placed on horse races are outbursts of emotion, not exercises of reason. I restrict my emotions to the activities for which they are qualified.” Savarese waved a hand. “That starts us in the other direction, toward a negative certainty, with its conclusion that I did not kill Orchard, and we might as well go on with it. Items: “I could not have managed that Orchard got the poison. I was seated diagonally across from him, and I did not help pass the bottles. It cannot be shown that I have ever purchased, stolen, borrowed, or possessed any cyanide. It cannot be established that I would, did, or shall profit in any way from Orchard's death.
When I arrived at the broadcasting studio, at twenty minutes to eleven, everyone else was already there and I would certainly have been observed if I had gone to the refrigerator and opened its door. There is no evidence that my association with Orchard was other than as I have described it, with no element of animus or of any subjective attitude.” Savarese beamed. “How far have we gone? One-in-one-thousand?” “I’m not with you,” Wolfe said with no element of animus. “I’m not on that road at all, nor on any road. I'm wandering around poking at things. Have you ever been in Michigan?” For the hour that was left before orchid time Wolfe fired questions at him, and Savarese answered him briefly and to the Point. Evidently the professor really did want to compare Wolfe's technique with that of the police, for, as he gave close attention to each question as it was asked, he had more the air of a judge or referee sizing something up than of a murder suspect, guilty or innocent, going through an ordeal. The objective attitude.
He maintained it right up to four o'clock, when the session ended, and I escorted the objective attitude to the front door, and Wolfe went to his elevator.
A little after five Saul Panzer arrived. Coming only up to the middle of my ear, and of slight build, Saul doesn't even begin to fill the red leather chair, but he likes to sit in it, and did so. He is pretty objective too, and I have rarely seen him either elated or upset about anything that had happened to him, or that he had caused to happen to someone else, but that day he was really riled.
“It was bad judgement,” he told me, frowning and glum. “Rotten judgement. I'm ashamed to face Mr Wolfe. I had a good story ready, one that I fully expected to work, and all I needed was ten minutes with the mother to put it over. But I misjudged her. I had discussed her with a couple of the bellhops, and had talked with her on the phone, and had a good chance to size her up in the hotel lobby and when she came outside, and I utterly misjudged her. I can't tell you anything about her brains or character, I didn't get that far, but she certainly knows how to keep the dogs off. I came mighty close to spending the day in the pound.” He told me all about it, and I had to admit it was a gloomy tale. No operative likes to come away empty from as simple a job as that, and Saul Panzer sure doesn't. To get his mind off of it, I mixed him a highball and got out a deck of cards for a little congenial gin. When six o'clock came and brought Wolfe down from the plant rooms, ending the game, I had won something better than three bucks.
Saul made his report. Wolfe sat behind his desk and listened, without interruption or comment. At the end he told Saul he had nothing to apologize for, asked him to phone after dinner for instructions, and let him go. Left alone with me, Wolfe leaned back and shut his eyes and was not visibly even breathing. I got at my typewriter and tapped out a summary of Saul's report, and was on my way to the cabinet to file it when Wolfe's voice came: “Archie.” “Yes, sir.” “I am stripped. This is no better than a treadmill.” “Yes, sir.” “I have to talk with that girl. Get Miss Fraser.” I did so, but we might as well have saved the nickel. Listening in on my own phone, I swallowed it along with Wolfe. Miss Fraser was sorry that we had made little or no progress. She would do anything she could to help, but she was afraid, in fact she was certain, that it would be useless for her to call Mrs Shepherd at Atlantic City and ask her to bring her daughter to New York to see Wolfe. There was no doubt that Mrs Shepherd would flatly refuse. Miss Fraser admitted that she had influence with the child, Nancylee, but asserted that she had none at all with the mother. As for phoning Nancylee and persuading her to scoot and come on her own, she wouldn't consider it. She couldn't very well, since she had supplied the money for the mother and daughter to go away.
“You did?” Wolfe allowed himself to sound surprised. “Miss Koppel told Mr Goodwin that none of you knew where they had gone.” “We didn't, until we saw it in the paper today. Nancylee's father was provoked, and that's putting it mildly, by all the photographers and reporters and everything else, and he blamed it on me, and I offered to pay the expense of a trip for them, but I didn't know where they decided to go.” We hung up, and discussed the outlook. I ventured to suggest two or three other possible lines of action, but Wolfe had set his heart on Nancylee, and I must admit I couldn't blame him for not wanting to start another round of conferences with the individuals he had been working on. Finally he said, in a tone that announced he was no longer discussing but telling me: “I have to talk with that girl. Go and bring her.” I had known it was coming. “Conscious?” I asked casually.
“I said with her, not to her. She must be able to talk. You could revive her after you get her here. I should have sent you in the first place, knowing how you are with young women.” “Thank you very much. She's not a young woman, she's a minor. She wears socks.” “Archie.” “Yes, sir.” “Get her.”
CHAPTER Nine
I had a bad break., An idea that came to me at the dinner table, while I was pretending to listen to Wolfe telling
