The Father Hunt

had been left there by Carlotta Vaughn, alias Elinor Denovo, and Eugene Jarrett.

I wasn't feeling any better as I drove back to town Sunday evening. The weekend had been messy. There is never more than one house guest besides me; it may be anybody from a female poet to a cowboy from the Montana ranch Lily owns; and that time it was Amy Denovo. She gave it a good start only an hour after I arrived. She called me Archie. We were on the terrace. I had finished off the steak Mimi had broiled-they had eaten-and was forking the blueberry pie when Amy got out a cigarette and I lit it, and she said, 'Thank you, Archie.' Of course Lily didn't bat an eye; she wouldn't. But as far as she knew Amy had seen me only three times for a total of about nine minutes, and she didn't have to be a cluster of vagaries to wonder what the score was. Was Amy just being flip, or had I decided to see more of her, not at the penthouse, and taken steps? I couldn't tell her what Miss Denovo had hired Wolfe to do, so I skipped it. But it was there in the air. Between Lily and me it was thoroughly understood that what I did was none of her business unless it touched her-and, naturally, vice versa- but the fact that I had met Miss Denovo at the penthouse put it on the borderline. So it didn't help the weekend.

A couple of other things didn't help either. One of the five guests for lunch Saturday was a woman with a green wig who had positive inside information that President Johnson and Dean Rusk had decided three years ago to kill everybody in China with hydrogen bombs, and that was the real reason for what they were doing in Vietnam.

Of course the only thing to do with such a clunk is to ignore him or her, but she kept it up so loud and long that I finally told her that I had positive inside information that Senator Fulbright had once had an affair with one of Ho Chi Minn's concubines, and that was the real reason he wanted the bombing stopped. That was a mistake. The idea appealed to her and she wanted all the details.

And Sunday afternoon some uninvited people dropped in-a couple I had met there before who had a place over beyond Bedford Village. They weren't so bad, but they had a guy with them who they said had talked them into coming because he wanted to meet me. His name was Floyd Vance and he said he was a public- relations counselor. Evidently he wanted to meet me because he wanted to meet Nero Wolfe. He was drumming up trade. He said that if anybody needed expert handling of his public image a private detective did, and he would like very much to create a presentation to propose to Nero Wolfe. He also said that if we were working on a case and I would tell him about it, he could use that as a basis for the presentation. When he said that I sharpened my eyes and ears a little, and my tongue, thinking he might be making a stab at detective work himself for somebody, for instance Cyrus M. Jarrett, but decided he was just another character who was so dedicated to improving other people's images that he had no time left for his own. I met one once who-no, that's enough for that weekend.

So as I said, I wasn't feeling any better as I drove back to town. Sometimes it's things that take the joy out of life, like a blowout when you're hitting sixty or a button coming off of a shirt when you're in a hurry, but usually it's people. Of course, of the three people who had made that weekend less than perfect Amy was the only one whose contribution would carry over. Lily would do some wondering for a week or so-who wouldn't?-but I certainly wasn't going to explain. When two people who want to get along start needing to have things explained, look out. I would tell the client about her mother's real name when I felt like it.

9

The trouble with putting a box number on an ad instead of your name and address and phone number, especially if it's in three papers, is getting the replies. Phoning at ten o'clock Monday morning and learning that there were some, I went for them, got two at the Times and four at the Gazette, opened them there, and found them so screwy that I bothered to take them home only because I always keep everything connected with a job until it's finished. One was from a man who said Carlotta Vaughn was his grandmother, and maybe a Carlotta Vaughn was, but he didn't mention Elinor Denovo.

When I got back a little after eleven Fritz said there had been no calls, but as I entered the office the phone rang and I crossed to my desk, nodding to Wolfe on the way, and got it.

'Nero Wolfe's office, Archie Goodwin speaking.'

Female voice: 'Good morning. Mr. Jarrett would like to speak to Mr. Wolfe.'

'Good morning. Please put Mr. Jarrett on.'

'Is Mr. Wolfe there?'

'Yes.'

'Please put him on.'

'Now listen.' I motioned to Wolfe. 'Last Friday I got Mr. McCray for Mr. Wolfe and I was forced to put Mr. Wolfe on first You can't have it coming and going. Put Mr. Jarrett on or I hang up.'

'May I have your name, please?'

'Archie Goodwin.'

'Please hold the wire, Mr. Goodwin.'

I timed it: two minutes and twenty seconds. Wolfe bad his phone.

'Eugene Jarrett speaking. Nero Wolfe?'

Me: 'Please hold the wire, Mr. Jarrett.'

Wolfe should have waited at least a minute, but he hates the phone, either holding or talking. 'This is Nero Wolfe. Yes, Mr. Jarrett?'

'I have your letter. I'll come around six.'

'Good. As I said in the letter, I'll appreciate it. I'll expect you.'