'Yes. So it turned out.' Cabot pulled at his cigarette. 'We chipped in, of course, and did all we could. He was in the hospital two months and had three operations. I don't know where he got a list of our names; I suppose from Andy.
Andy took it hard. Anyway, the day he left the hospital he sent all of us copies of a poem he had written. Thanking us. It was clever. There was only one of us • smart enough to see what kind of thanks • it was. Pitney Scott.'
'Pitney Scott is a taxi-driver.'
Cabot raised his brows. 'You should write our class history, Mr. Wolfe. Pit tooky-to drink in 1930, one of the ' depression casualties. Not, like Mike m Ayers, for the annoyance of other people.
For his own destruction. I see you have him down for five dollars. I'll pay it.' t ^Indeed. That would indicate that you are prepared to accept my proposal.' is ^Of course I am. We all are. But you know that. What else can we do? We are menaced with death, there's no question about it. I have no idea why, if Paul had this in him, he waited so long to get it out – possibly his recent success gave him a touch of confidence that he needed, or money to finance his plans – I don't know. Of course we accept your proposal.
Did you know that a month ago Adier and Pratt and Bowen seriously discussed the notion of hiring a gangster to kill him? They invited me in, but I wouldn't – everyone's squeamishness begins somewhere, and I suppose that was the starting point for mine – and they abandoned the idea. What else can we do?
The police are helpless, which is understandable and nothing against them; they are equipped to frustrate many kinds of men, but not Paul Chapin – I grant him his quality. Three of us hired detectives a month ago, and we might as well have engaged a troop of Boy Scouts.
They spent days looking for the typewriter on which the warnings were written, and never even found it; and if they had found it they would not have been able to fasten it on Paul Chapin.'
'Yes.' Wolfe reached out and pressed the button for Fritz. 'Your detectives called on me and offered to place their findings at my disposal – with your consent.' Fritz appeared, and Wolfe nodded for beer. 'Mr. Cabot. What does Mr. Chapin mean when he says that you killed the man in him?'
'Well… that's poetry, isn't it?'
'It might be called that. Is it merely poetry, or is it also technical information?' I 'I don't know.' Cabot's eyes fell. I watched him and thought to myself, he's actually embarrassed; so there's kinks in your love-life too, huh, smoothie? He went on, 'I couldn't say; I doubt if any of us could. You'd have to ask his doctor.' 3fe la A new voice cut in. Julius Adier and ass-.,-;-;
Alex Drummond had come over a few minutes before and stood listening; Adier, I suppose, because he was a lawyer and therefore didn't trust lawyers, and Drummond since he was a tenor. I never saw a tenor that wasn't inquisitive. At this point Drummond horned in with a giggle:
'Or his wife.'
Wolfe snapped at him, 'Whose wife?'
'Why, Paul's.' „
If I had seen Wolfe astonished only three times in seven years, which is what I would guess, this was the fourth. He even moved in his chair. He looked at Cabot, not at Drummond, and demanded, 'What is this nonsense?'
Cabot nodded. 'Sure, Paul has a wife.'
Wolfe poured a glass of beer, gulped half of it, let it settle a second, and swallowed the rest. He looked around for his handkerchief, but it had dropped to the floor. I got him one out of the drawer where I kept them, and he wiped his lips.
He said, 'Tell me about her.'
'Well…' Cabot looked for words.
'Paul Chapin is full of distortions, let us say, and his wife is one of them. Her name was Dora Ritter. He married her three years ago, and they live in an apartment on Perry Street.'
'What is she like and who was she?'
Cabot hesitated again, differently. This time he didn't seem to be looking for words, he was looking for a way out. He finally said, ‹I don't see – I really don't see that this is going to help you any, but I suppose you'll want to know it. But I'd rather not – you'd better get it from Burton himself.' He turned and called, 'Lorry! Come over here a minute.'
Dr. Burton was with the group at the table, talking and working on a highball.
He looked around, made some remark to
Farrell the architect, and crossed to
Wolfe's desk. Cabot said to him: ' 'Mr. Wolfe has just asked me who Paul's wife was. Maybe I'm being more delicate than the circumstances require, I but I'd rather you'd tell him.'
Burton looked at Wolfe and frowned.
He looked at Cabot, and his voice – sounded irritated: 'Why not you, or anybody? Everybody knows it.' i Cabot smiled. 'I said maybe I was j overdelicate.'
'I think you were.' Burton turned to
Wolfe. 'Dora Ritter was a maid in my employ. She is around fifty, extremely homely, disconcertingly competent, and stubborn as a wet boot. Paul Chapin married her in 1931.'
'What did he marry her for?'
'I am as likely to tell you as he is.
Chapin is a psychopath.'
