'It's a lie! It's absolutely false!'
'I don't believe,' Wolfe interposed, 'that the issue merits such heat. I would like to see not only that letter but also anything else that Dykes wrote-letters, memoranda, reports -or copies of them. I want to know how he used words. I would like that letter to be included if it is available. I don't need a stack of material-half a dozen items will do. May I have them?'
They said he might.
When they had gone I stretched, yawned, and inquired, 'Do we discuss it now or wait till morning?'
'What the devil is there to discuss?' Wolfe shoved his chair back and arose. 'Go to bed.' He marched out to his elevator.
Next day, Friday, I had either bum luck or a double brush-off, I wasn't sure which. Phoning Sue Dondero to propose some kind of joint enterprise, I was told that she was leaving town that afternoon for the weekend and wouldn't return until late Sunday evening. Phoning Eleanor Gruber as the best alternative, I was told that she was already booked. I looked over the list, trying to be objective about it, and settled on Blanche Duke. When I got her I must admit she didn't sound enthusiastic, but probably she never did at the switchboard. She couldn't make it Friday but signed up for Saturday at seven.
We were getting reports by phone from Saul and Fred and Orrie, and Friday a little before six Saul came in person. The only reason I wouldn't vote for Saul Panzer for President of the United States is that he would never dress the part. How he goes around New York, almost anywhere, in that faded brown
cap and old brown suit, without attracting attention as not belonging, I will never understand. Wolfe has never given him an assignment that he didn't fill better than anyone else could except me, and my argument is why not elect him President, buy him a suit and hat, and see what happens?
He sat on the edge of one of the yellow chairs and asked, 'Anything fresh?'
'No,' I told him. 'As you know, it is usually impossible to tell just when a case will end, but this time it's a cinch. When our client's last buck is spent we'll quit.'
'As bad as that? Is Mr. Wolfe concentrating?'
'You mean is he working or loafing? He's loafing. He has started asking people where they were at three-fifteen Monday afternoon, February twenty-sixth. That's a hell of a way for a genius to perform.'
Wolfe entered, greeted Saul, and got behind his desk. Saul reported. Wolfe wanted full details as usual, and got them: the names of the judge, jury foreman, and others, the nature of the case that O'Malley had been losing, including the names of the litigants, and so forth. The information had gone to the court by mail in an unsigned typewritten letter, and had been detailed enough for them to go for the juror after a few hours' checkup. Efforts to trace the informing letter had failed. After an extended session with city employees, the jueer had admitted getting three thousand dollars in cash from O'Malley, and more than half of it had been recovered. Louis Kustin had been defense attorney at the trials of both the juror and O'Malley, and by brilliant performances had got hung juries in both cases. Saul had spent a day trying to get to the archives for a look at the unsigned typewritten informing letter, but had failed.
The bribed juror was a shoe salesman named Anderson. Saul had had two sessions with him and his wife. The wife's position stood on four legs: one, she had not written the letter; r two, she had not known that her husband had taken a bribe; three, if she had known he had taken a bribe she certainly wouldn't have told on him; and four, she didn't know how to typewrite. Apparently her husband believed her. That didn't prove anything, since the talent of some husbands for believing their wives is unbounded, but when Saul too voted for her that was enough for Wolfe and me. Saul can smell a liar through a concrete wall. He offered to bring the Andersons in for Wolfe
to judge for himself, but Wolfe said no. Saul was told to join Fred and Orrie in the check of Dykes's friends and acquaintances outside the office.
Saturday morning a large envelope arrived by messenger. Inside was a note from Emmett Phelps, the six-foot scholar who was indifferent to murder, typed on the firm's letterhead:
Dear Mr. Wolfe:
I am sending herewith, as you requested, some material written by Leonard Dykes.
Included is his letter of resignation dated July 19, 1950, which you said you would like to see. Evidently Mr. O'Malley's statement that he had returned the letter to Mr. Briggs was correct, since it was here in our files. Mr. O'Malley was in the office yesterday and I told him the letter had been found.
Kindly return the material when you have finished with it.
Sincerely, Emmett Phelps
Dykes's letter of resignation was a full page, single-spaced, but all it said was what Corrigan had told us-that on account of the staff gossip that he had informed on O'Malley and so damaged the firm's reputation, and, further, because the new regime might want to make a change, he respectfully submitted his resignation. He had used three times as many words as he needed. As for the rest of the material-memoranda, reports, and copies of letters-it may have shown Wolfe how Dykes used words, but aside from that it was as irrelevant as last year's box score. Wolfe waded through it, passing each item to me as he finished, and I read every word, not wanting to leave an opening for another remark about my powers of observation like the time I had muffed the name of Baird Archer. When I had finished I handed the lot back to him, with some casual comment, and got at my typewriter to do some letters he had dictated.
I was banging away when he suddenly demanded, 'What does this stand for?'
I got up to go and look. In his hand was Dykes's letter of resignation. He slid it across to me. 'That notation in pencil in the corner. What is it?'
I looked at it, a pencil scribble like this:
I nodded. 'Yeah, I noticed it. Search me. Public School 146, Third Grade?'
'The S is lower case.'
