The Father Hunt

about a foot back to be discreet. The boy put the file on his desk and I reached and got it.

There were only seven items: four clippings and three typed reports. It hadn't made the front page, but was on page 3 for Saturday, May 27, and the first thing I noticed was that there was no picture of her, so even the Gazette hadn't dug one up. I went through everything. Mrs. Elinor Denovo (so she was Mrs. to the world) had returned her car to the garage where she kept it, on Second Avenue near Eighty-third Street, Friday night after midnight, and told the attendant she would want it around noon the next day. Three minutes later, as she was crossing Eighty-third Street in the middle of the block, presumably bound for her apartment on Eighty-second Street, a car had hit her, tossed her straight ahead, and run over her with two wheels. Only four people had seen it happen: a man on the sidewalk walking east, a hundred feet or more away, a man and woman on the sidewalk going west, the same direction as the car, about the same distance away, and a taxi driver who had just turned his cab into Eighty-third Street from Second Avenue. They all said that the car that hit her hadn't even slowed down, but were unanimous on nothing else. The hackie thought the driver, alone in the car, was a woman. The man coming east said it was a man, alone. The man and woman thought it was two men, both in the front seat. The hackie thought the car was a Dodge Coronet but wasn't sure; the man coming

east said it was a Chewy; the man and woman didn't know. Two of them said the car was dark green, one said it was dark blue, and one said it was black. So much for eyewitnesses. Actually, it was a dark-gray Ford. It was hot. Mrs. David A. Ernst of Scarsdale, who owned it, had gone for it at ten o'clock Friday evening where she had parked it on West Eleventh Street, and it wasn't there. A cop had spotted it Saturday afternoon parked on East 123rd Street, and by Monday the scientists had cinched it that it was the one that had got Elinor Denovo.

By the time the Gazette went to press on Thursday, June first, the date of the last clipping, the police had got nowhere. They didn't even claim that anyone had been invited in for questioning, let alone name a suspect; they only said that the investigation was being vigorously pursued, which was probably true, since they hate a hit-and-run and don't quit until it's absolutely hopeless, and even then they don't forget it.

There was nothing about Elinor Denovo that I didn't already know, except that she was vice- president of Raymond Thome Productions, Inc. Miss Amy Denovo had been interviewed but hadn't said much. Raymond Thome had said that Mrs. Denovo had made valuable contributions to the art of television production and her death was a great loss not only for his company but for the whole television industry and therefore for the country. I thought he should make up his mind whether television was an art or an industry.

I put the file on Lon's desk, waited until he had finished at a phone, and said, 'Many thanks. I was curious about a detail. The latest item is June first. Would you know if there has been any progress since?'

He got at a phone, the green one this time, pressed a button, and in a moment talked, and then waited. While he waited another phone buzzed, and stopped when he pushed a button. In a couple of minutes he told the green phone, 'Yeah, sure.' In another couple of minutes he cradled it, turned to me and said, 'Apparently it's dead. Our last word, more than a month ago, was that we might as well cross it off. They had only one man still on it. But now of course, with Nero Wolfe horning in, it's far from dead. So it was murder. I don't expect you to name

him, even oS the record, but I want enough for a page one box.'

I was on my feet. 'Journalists,' I said, 'are the salt and pepper of the earth. I would enjoy discussing that with you, but I'm on my way to a rustic swimming pool in the middle of a tailor-made glade in the Westchester woods, and I'm twenty hours late. I said it was something trivial, but have it your way. Yes, it was murder, and the driver of the car was the skunk who topped my three aces with four deuces Thursday night. I hope they get him.'

I turned and went.

But down in the lobby I went to a phone booth, dialed a number I didn't have to look up, gave my name, asked if Sergeant Stebbins was around, and after a long wait got his voice:

'Stebbins. Something up, Archie?'

He must have just won a bet or got a raise. He called me Archie only about once in two years, and sometimes he wouldn't even say Goodwin but made it just you. I returned the compliment. 'Nothing with a bite, Purley, just a routine question, but to answer it you may have to look at a file. You may have forgotten it, it was nearly three months ago-a hit-and-run on East Eighty-third Street, a woman named Elinor Denovo-'

'We haven't forgotten it. We don't forget a hit-and-run.'

'I know you don't, I was just being impolite for practice. Someone asked me if you've dug up a lead on it, and of course I didn't know. Have you?'

'Who asked you?'

'Oh, Mr. Wolfe and I were discussing crime and whether cops are as good as they ought to be, and he mentioned this Elinor Denovo. As you know, he misses nothing in the papers. I said you would probably get that one, and I was curious. Of course I'm not asking for any inside dope…'

'There isn't any dope, inside or outside. It's hanging. But we're not forgetting it.'

'Right. I hope you get him. Nobody likes a hit-and-run.'

Walking to Forty-third Street for the car, I had to concede that I had got no relief at all for the itch.

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