'Certainly. I used a typewriter at the
Harvard Club.'?
'Oh. You did.' lu'I did indeed. I'll be damned.'
'Yeah. Where do they keep this typewriter?' li 'Why, it's one – it's available to any of the members. I was there last evening when the telegram came from Mr.
Allenby, and I used it to write two or three notes. It's in a little room off the smoking-room, sort of an alcove. A great many of the fellows use it, off and on.'
'Oh. They do.' I sat down. 'Well, this is nice. It's sweet enough to make you sick. It's available to anybody, and ^thousands of them use it.' §BB 'Hardly thousands, but quite a few -' ^ 'Dozens is enough. Have you ever seen Paul Chapin use it?' m / 'I couldn't say – I believe, though -yes, in that little chair with his game leg pushed under – Pm pretty sure I have.'
'Any of your other friends, this bunch?' ‹I really couldn't say.' 'm 'Do many of them belong to the club?'
'Oh, yes, nearly all. Mike Ayers doesn't, and I believe Leo Elkus resigned a few years ago…'
'I see. Are there any other typewriters in the alcove?'
'There's one more, but it belongs to a public stenographer. I understand this one was donated by some club member. They used to keep it in the library, but some of the one-finger experts made too much Inoise with it.'
'All right.' I got up. 'You can imagine how I feel, coming all the way to Philadelphia to get a kick in the pants.
Can I tell Wolfe when you're coming back, in case he wants you?'
He said probably tomorrow, he had to
Iprepare drawings to submit to Mr. |Allenby, and I thanked him for nothing and went out to seek the air and a streetcar to North Philadelphia.
The train ride back to New York, in a smoker filled with the discard from a hundred pairs of assorted lungs, was not what I needed to cheer me up. I couldn't think up anything to keep me awake, and I couldn't go to sleep. We pulled in at the Pennsylvania Station at midnight, and I walked home.
The office was dark; Wolfe had gone to bed. There was no note for me on my desk, so nothing startling had happened. I got a pitcher of milk from the refrigerator I and went upstairs. Wolfe's room was on • the same floor as mine; mine overlooking Thirty-fifth Street, and his in the rear. I thought possibly he was still awake and | would like to hear the joyous news, so I I went towards the back of the hall to see if there was light under his door – not going close, for when he went to bed there was a switch he turned on, and if anyone stepped within eight feet of his door or touched any of his windows a gong went f off in my room that was enough to paralyze you. The slit under his door was • , I .J^l dark, so I went on with my milk, and drank it while I was getting ready for bed.
Friday morning, after breakfast, I was still sitting in the office at eight-thirty. I sat there, first because I was sour on the Hibbard search anyway, and second because I was going to wait until nine o'clock and see Wolfe as soon as he got to the plant-rooms. But at eight-thirty the inside phone buzzed and I got on. It was Wolfe from his bedroom. He asked me if I had had a pleasant journey. I told him that all it would have needed to make it perfect was Dora Chapin for company. He asked if Mr. Farrell had remembered what typewriter he had used.
I told him. 'A thing at the Harvard Club, in a little room off the smokingroom.
It seems that the members all play tunes on it whenever the spirit moves them. The good thing about this is that it narrows it down, it rules out all Yale men and other roughnecks. You can see Chapin wanted to make it as simple as Possible.'
I Wolfe's low murmur was in my ear:
'Excellent.'
'Yeah. One of the facts you wanted.
Swell.'
'No, Archie. I mean it. This will do | nicely. I told you, proof will not be needed in this case, facts will do for us.
But we must be sure beyond peradventure I of the facts. Please find someone willing to favor us who is a member of the Harvard Club – not one of our present clients. Perhaps Albert Wright would do; if not him, find someone. Ask him to go to the club this morning and take you as a | guest. On that typewriter make a copy – no. Not that. There must be no hole for Mr. Chapin to squirm through, should he prove more difficult than I anticipate. In spite of his infirmity, he is probably capable of carrying a typewriter. Do this: – after making arrangements for a host, | purchase a new typewriter – any good one, follow your fancy – and take it with you to the club. Bring away the one that is there and leave the new one; manage it as you please, by arrangement with the steward, by prestidigitation, whatever suggests itself. With, however, the knowledge of your host, for he must be qualified to furnish corroboration, at any future time, as to the identity of the machine you remove. Bring it here.' ^A new typewriter costs one hundred dollars.' ‹I know that. It is not necessary to speak of it.' ^Okay.'
I hung up and reached for the telephone book. N That was how it happened that at ten o'clock that Friday morning I sat in the smoking-room of the Harvard Club with Albert Wright, a vice-president of Eastern Electric, drinking vermouth, with a typewriter under a shiny rubberized cover on the floor at my feet. Wright had been very nice, as he should have been, since about all he owed to Wolfe was his wife and family. That was one of the neatest blackmailing cases… but let it rest. It was true that he had paid Wolfe's bill, which hadn't been modest, but what I've seen of wives and families has convinced '^ that they can't be paid for in cash;
I either they're way above any money price ^hat could be imagined or they're clear out of sight in the other direction. Anyway, Wright had been nice about it. I was saying:
