to ask a favour of you. I want some confidential information. What amount of money is involved, weekly let us say, in the radio programme of Miss Madeline Fraser?” “Oh.” There was a pause. Richard's voice had been friendly and even warm. Now it backed off a little: “How did you get connected with that?” “I'm not connected with it, not in any way. But I would appreciate the information-confidentially. Is it too much for me?” “It's an extremely unfortunate situation, for Miss Fraser, for the network, for the sponsors-every one concerned. You wouldn't care to tell me why you're interested?” “I'd rather not.” Wolfe was brusque. “I’m sorry I bothered you-” “You're not bothering me, or if you are you're welcome. The information you want isn't published, but everyone in radio knows it. Everyone in radio knows everything. Exactly what do you want?” “The total sum involved.” “Well…let's see…counting air time, it's on nearly two hundred stations…production, talent, scripts, everything…roughly, thirty thousand dollars a week.” “Nonsense,” Wolfe said curtly.
“Why nonsense?” “It's monstrous. That's over a million and a half a year.” “No, around a million and a quarter, on account of the summer vacation.” “Even so. I suppose Miss Fraser gets a material segment of it?” “Quite material. Every one knows that too. Her take is around five thousand a week, but the way she splits it with her manager, Miss Koppel, is one thing everyone doesn't know-at least I don't.” Richards's voice had warmed up again.
“You know, Mr Wolfe, if you felt like doing me a little favour right back you could tell me confidentially what you want with this.” But all he got from Wolfe was thanks, and he was gentleman enough to take them without insisting on the return favour. After Wolfe had pushed the phone away he remarked to me: “Good heavens. Twelve hundred thousand dollars!” I, feeling better because it was obvious what he was up to, grinned at him.
“Yes, sir. You would go over big on the air. You could read poetry. By the way, if you want to hear her earn her segment, she's on every Tuesday and Friday morning from eleven to twelve. You'd get pointers. Was that your idea?” “No.” He was gruff. “My idea is to land a job I know how to do. Take your notebook. These instructions will be a little complicated on account of the contingencies to be provided for.” I got my notebook from a drawer.
CHAPTER Two
After three tries that Saturday at the listed Manhattan number of Madeline Fraser, with don't answer as the only result, I finally resorted to Lon Cohen of the Gazette and he dug it out for me that both Miss Fraser and her manager, Miss Deborah Koppel, were weekending up in Connecticut.
As a citizen in good standing-anyway pretty good-my tendency was to wish the New York Police Department good luck in its contacts with crime, but I frankly hoped that Inspector Cramer and his homicide scientists wouldn't get Scotch tape on the Orchard case before we had a chance to inspect the contents. Judging from the newspaper accounts I had read, it didn't seem likely that Cramer was getting set to toot a trumpet, but you can never tell how much is being held back, so I was all for driving to Connecticut and horning in on the weekend, but Wolfe vetoed it and told me to wait until Monday.
By noon Sunday he had finished the book of poems and was drawing pictures of horses on sheets from his memo pad, testing a theory he had run across somewhere that you can analyse a man's character from the way he draws a horse. I had completed Forms 1040 and 1040-ES and, with cheques enclosed, they had been mailed. After lunch I hung around the kitchen a while, listening to Wolfe and Fritz Brenner, the chef and household jewel, arguing whether horse mackerel is as good as Mediterranean tunny fish for vitello tonnato-which, as prepared by Fritz, is the finest thing on earth to do with tender young veal. When the argument began to bore me because there was no Mediterranean tunny fish to be had anyhow, I went up to the top floor, to the plant rooms that had been built on the roof, and spent a couple of hours with Theodore Horstmann on the germination records. Then, remembering that on account of a date with a lady I wouldn't have the evening for it, I went down three flights to the office, took the newspapers for five days to my desk, and read everything they had on the Orchard case.
When I had finished I wasn't a bit worried that Monday morning's paper would confront me with a headline that the cops had wrapped it up.
CHAPTER Three
The best I was able to get on the phone was an appointment for 3 p.m., so at that hour Monday afternoon I entered the lobby of an apartment house in the upper Seventies between Madison and Park. It was the palace type, with rugs bought by the acre, but with the effect somewhat spoiled, as it so often is, by a rubber runner on the main traffic lane merely because the sidewalk was wet with rain. That's no way to run a palace. If a rug gets a damp dirty footprint, what the hell, toss it out and roll out another one, that's the palace spirit.
I told the distinguished-looking hallman that my name was Archie Goodwin and I was bound for Miss Eraser's apartment. He got a slip of paper from his pocket, consulted it, nodded, and inquired: “And? Anything else?” I stretched my neck to bring my mouth within a foot of his ear, and whispered to him: “Oatmeal.” He nodded again, signalled with his hand to the elevator man, who was standing outside the door of his car fifteen
