was poisoned with arsenic in his portion of the first course, served to him by Carol Annis, who was subsequently convicted of first-degree murder.
Yesterday a Times reporter, remembering that former occasion, telephoned Mr Hewitt and asked him if any of the Ten for Aristology (aristology means science of dining) had shown any reluctance to attend the affair next Thursday, and Mr Hewitt said no. When the reporter asked him if he would keep his fingers crossed he said, 'How can I? I couldn't handle my knife and fork.'
It will certainly be an excellent meal.
Setting the date definitely, Thursday the fourteenth, was the detail I had been hottest about when discussing it with Wolfe Thursday night. I said it should be left open, that the item in the paper could say something like 'some evening this month.' Wolfe said that Hewitt, when phoning his fellow aristologists, would have to name a date. I said he could tell them it would have to be indefinite because it would depend on when Fritz could get something shipped by air from France. Gourmets love things shipped by air from France. But Wolfe had insisted, and now we were stuck with it, only five days to go.
So I hadn't liked the roundabout approach to Sarah Dacos, but it was obviously the best bet, and right after breakfast I had phoned Mrs Althaus to ask if she could give me ten minutes.
She had said yes, and I had gone, of course ignoring the tail problem. The more they saw me working the Althaus angle, the better. I told her there had been some developments which we would tell her about when we had figured them out, and it might help if she would let me take a look at everything that had been in her son's apartment, at least what was left of it. She said everything was left. The lease had nearly a year to go, and they hadn't tried to sublet. They hadn't removed anything, and as far as she knew the police hadn't either; they hadn't asked for permission to. I promised to take nothing without her permission if she would let me go and have a look, and she went and got the keys without phoning the lawyer or even her husband.
Perhaps I appeal more to middle-aged women than to young ones, but don't try to tell Wolfe that.
So at 10:35 Saturday morning I entered the apartment of the late Morris Althaus, shut the door, and sent my eyes around. It wasn't bad at all if you ignored the pictures. As Sarah Dacos had said, the wall-to-wall carpet was thick. There was a big couch with a coffee table in front of it, a good sitting chair near a lamp, four other chairs, a small table with a metal object on it that might have been created by some kid handy with tools out of junk stuff he found in the garage, a large desk with nothing much on it besides a telephone, and a typewriter on a stand. Most of one wall had bookshelves, full, nearly to the ceiling. The less said about the pictures on the other walls the better. They would have been fine for a guessing game-have a party and everybody guesses what they are-if you could find someone who knew the answers.
I put my hat and coat on the couch and toured. Two closets in the living room. There was a bathroom, a small kitchen, and a bedroom with a single bed, a chest of drawers, a dresser, two chairs, and a closet full of clothes. On the dresser were framed photographs of his father and mother, so he hadn't resigned from the family, only from Peggy Pilgrim. I returned to the living room and started looking. With the tan drapes drawn it was dim, and I turned the lights on. The dust was thick on everything, but I was there legally and properly, so I didn't bother to put gloves on.
Of course I didn't expect to find anything obvious, pointing straight at anyone or anything in particular, since the cops had been through it, but they had had no one specffically in mind, and I did have: Sarah Dacos. No doubt you would like very much to have a complete inventory of everything in the place, especially the contents of the drawers and closets, but it would take too much space. I mention only one item, the 384 pages of the unfinished novel. I read a page and a half of it. To read it through to see if there was a girl in it who reminded me of Sarah Dacos would have taken all day.
The only other item I mention was in the bottom drawer of the chest in the bedroom. Along with a lot of other miscellaneous articles there were a dozen or so photographs. There was none of Sarah Dacos, but there was one of Althaus, lying on his side on the couch in the living room, with nothing on but his skin. I hadn't seen him naked before, since in the pictures of him in the Gazette file he had been decent. He had been in pretty good shape, muscles visible and belly flat, but the back of the photograph was more interesting than the front. Someone had written a poem on it, or part of one. I have since been allowed to reproduce it, so I can show it here:
Bold lover, ever, ever shalt thou kiss,
And win the willing goal, and never leave;
She will not fade, and Thou shalt have they bliss,
Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair
I haven't read all the poetry in the world, but Lily Rowan has a shelf of it and on certain occasions wants me to read some aloud to her, and I was pretty sure I had read that, but there was something wrong with it. I tried to place it but couldn't. Anyway, the point was, who had written it? Not Althaus; I had seen his hand on various items. Sarah Dacos? If so, I had something. I had plenty. I put it on top of the chest and spent another hour looking, but drew a blank.
I had promised Mrs Althaus I would take nothing without her permission, but I was tempted. I could take the photograph, not out of the house, but just one flight down, knock at Sarah Dacos's door, and if she was there, as she might be on a Saturday, display it and ask her, 'Did you write that?' It was a real temptation, so quick and direct. But it was too damned direct. I would have to stick to the roundabout. I left the apartment and the house, found a phone booth, dialed Mrs Bruner's number and got her, and told her I wanted to come and ask her something. She said she would be there until one o'clock. It was only twenty past twelve. I went out and got a taxi.
She was in her office, at her desk with some papers, expecting me. She asked if Miss Dacos had come as arranged, saying she had rather expected her to phone, but she hadn't. I said yes, she had come, and had been very cooperative. I emphasized the 'very,' since it was possible that the room was bugged. Then I sat, leaned forward to her, and whispered, 'Do you mind if we whisper?'
She frowned. 'It is so ridiculous!'
'Yes,' I whispered, 'but it's safe. You don't need to say much. I only want a sample of Miss Dacos's handwriting. Anything-a memo, a note to you. I know this seems even more ridiculous, but it isn't. Don't ask me to explain because I can't. I'm following instructions. Either you trust Mr Wolfe to do the job and do it right or you don't.'
'But why on earth-' she began, but I showed her a palm.
'If you don't want to whisper,' I whispered, 'just give me what I asked for and I'll go.'
