When I left the house five minutes later, with two samples of Sarah Dacos's hand in my pocket-a nine-word entry on a sheet from a desk calendar and a six-line memo to Mrs Bruner-I was feeling that middle- aged women are the backbone of the country. She hadn't whispered a word. She had fished in a drawer and got the memo and torn the sheet from the calendar, handed them to me, said, a little louder than usual.
'Let me know when there is something I should know,' and picked up one of the papers. What a client.
In the taxi back downtown I inspected the samples, and I was already ninety-per-cent sure when I mounted the two flights at 63 Arbor Street. I went to the bedroom for the photograph, got comfortable in the good sitting chair under the lamp in the living room, and compared. I am not a handwriting expert, but it didn't need one. The person who had written the samples had written the poetry on the back of the photograph. Probably she had also taken the photograph, but that didn't matter. I formed a conclusion. I concluded that Sarah Dacos's memory had failed her when she said that it had not progressed to intimacy.
The immediate question was, should I phone Mrs Althaus for permission to take the photograph, or should I leave it? I decided that leaving it would be too risky; Sarah might get in somehow and find it and take it. I got a sheet of typewriter paper from the desk and folded it, and inserted the photograph. It was almost too wide for my breast pocket, but I eased it in. I looked around a little, from habit, to be sure things were as I had found them, and left with my loot. As I passed the door of Sarah Dacos's apartment on the way down I threw it a kiss. Then it occurred to me that it rated more than a kiss, and I went and took a look at the lock. It was the same make as the one on Althaus's door, a Bermatt, nothing special.
At the same booth where I had phoned Mrs Bruner I rang Mrs Althaus's number, got her, told her I had left everything in order in the apartment, and asked if she wanted the keys returned immediately. She said at my convenience, no hurry.
'By the way,' I said, 'I'm taking one item, if you don't mind-a photograph of a man that was in a drawer. I want to see if someone recognizes it. All right?'
She said I was very mysterious, but yes, I could take it. I would have liked to tell her what I thought of middle-aged women but decided we weren't intimate enough. I dialed another number, told the woman who answered, whose name was Mimi, that I would like to speak to Miss Rowan, and in a moment the familiar voice came.
'Lunch in ten minutes. Come and get it.'
'You're too young for me. I've decided women under fifty are-what are they?'
'Well, jejune's a good word.'
'Too many Js. I'll think of one and tell you this evening. Two things. One, I have to be home at midnight. I'm sleeping in the office and- I'll explain when I see you.'
'Good Lord, has he rented your room?'
'As a matter of fact, he has, for one night. I won't explain that. Hold it a second.' I transferred the receiver to my right hand and used the left to slip the photograph from my pocket. 'Here's some poetry. Listen.' I read it, with feeling. 'Do you recognize it?'
'Certainly. So do you.'
'No I don't, but it seems familiar.'
'It should. Where did you get it?'
'I'll tell you someday. What is it?'
'It's a take-off of the last four lines of the second stanza of Keats's 'Ode on a Grecian Urn.' It's sort of clever, but no one should monkey with Keats. Escamillo, you're a pretty good detective and you dance like an angel, and you have other outstanding qualities, but you will never be a highbrow. Come and read Keats to me.'
I told her she was too jejune, hung up, slipped the photograph back in my pocket, and went out and took my fifth taxi in five hours. The client could afford it.
It was five minutes to two when I put my hat and coat on the rack in the hall, went to the door of the dining room, told Wolfe, who was at the table, that it looked and felt like snow, and proceeded to the kitchen. I don't join Wolfe when I arrive in the middle of a meal; we agree that for one man to hurry with meat or fish while the other dawdles with pastry or cheese is bad for the atmosphere. Fritz put things on my breakfast table and brought what was left of the baked bluefish, and I asked him how he was getting on with the menu for next Thursday's blowout.
'I'm not discussing that,' he said. 'I am not discussing anything, Archie. He was in my room for more than an hour before lunch, talking with the television on loud. If it is so dangerous I will not talk at all.'
I told him we should be back to normal by the time the shad roe started coming, and he threw up his hands and said good God in French.
When I finished and went to the office Wolfe was standing over by the globe, turning it and scowling at it. The man who gave him that globe, the biggest one I have ever seen, couldn't have known what a big help it would be. Whenever a situation gets so ticklish that he wishes he were somewhere else, he can walk over to the globe and pick spots to go to. Wonderful. As I entered he asked if I had anything, and when I nodded he went to his desk and I turned on the radio, took a yellow chair around near his elbow, and reported. It didn't take long, since there had been no conversation to speak of, just the action. I didn't mention the phone call to Lily Rowan because it had been purely personal. Having read the poetry twice, he handed the photograph back to me and said she had an ear for meter.
'I told you she wasn't a sap,' I said. 'Pretty neat, doing that with the last four lines of the second stanza of Keats's 'Ode on a Grecian Urn.' '
His eyes narrowed at me. 'How the deuce do you know that? You don't read Keats.'
I shrugged. 'Back in Ohio in my boyhood days. As you know, I have quite a memory. I don't brag about that, but I have a brag coming about this.' I tapped the photograph. 'We know why she lied. She's involved. Possibly not too deep; it could be that she merely didn't want to admit she was close with him, close enough for
