Prisoner's Base

the afternoon, and an hour later, refusing to see reporters, had issued a statement regarding his own visit to Wolfe and the 'cruel deception' that had been practiced on him. The statement had been carried by the evening papers. It did not say, but clearly implied, that if Wolfe had not concealed from Helmar the presence of Priscilla in his house she would not have been killed. Lon's paper, the Gazette, would give it a box on page three. When Lon mentioned that detail he paused and cocked his head at Wolfe, inviting comment, but got none.

Priscilla Eads's life had been complicated by a series of phases she had gone through. After her father's death when she was fifteen, her home had been with the Helmars, but she had spent most of the time away at school, where she had made a brilliant record, including two years at Smith. Then suddenly, a few months before her nineteenth birthday, she had quit in the middle of a semester, announced to friends that she intended to see the world, rented an apartment in Greenwich Village, hired a maid and cook and butler, and started giving parties. In a few months she had had enough of the Village, but Lon's information on her next move was a little vague. The way a Gazette man had got it, her maid had decided she must go to New Orleans to see her sick mother, and Priscilla, glad of any excuse to get away from the Village, and particularly from her guardian, Perry Helmar, who was pestering her to return to college, bought plane tickets to New Orleans for herself and her maid, and off they went.

Probably in New Orleans, but anyhow somewhere around there, she had met Eric Hagh. On this Lon was even vaguer, but it was definite that she had met him, married him, and gone off with him to some part of South America where he had something to do with something. It was also definite that three months later she had suddenly appeared in New York, accompanied by the maid she had gone away with, but not by a husband; bought a house in the woods not far from Mount Kisco; and started in on men. For two years she had raised some miscellaneous hell with men, apparently with the idea that the higher you jacked up an expectation the more fun it was to watch it crash when you jerked it loose. In time that lost its appeal, and she moved to Reno, stayed the prescribed time, got her divorce, returned to New York, and joined the Salvation Army.

At that detail I had given Lon a stare, thinking that surely he had pulled it out of a hat. Priscilla Eads as I had known her, in the peach-colored dress and tailored jacket, was mighty hard to picture as a consecrated tambourine shaker. But obviously Lon was dealing it straight, with no fancy touches for effect.

Priscilla had actually stuck with the Salvation Army for nearly two years, in uniform, working seven days a week, giving up all her old friends and habits, and living modestly if not frugally. Then abruptly-she had always been abrupt-she had quit the Army, moved to a duplex apartment on East Seventy-fourth Street, and begun to take an active interest, for the first time, in the affairs of Softdown, Incorporated. That had aroused feelings in various quarters. It was known that there had been friction between her and her former guardian, Perry Helmar, still the trustee of the property soon to become hers. Specifically, it was known that some months ago she had fired Daphne O'Neil, told her to leave the premises and not come back, and had been overruled by the officers of the corporation, supported by Helmar, who was legally in control. There was no record of any threat or mortal attack.

The events of Monday night were pretty well timetabled. According to the driver of the taxi I had put Priscilla into, she had told him to take her to Grand Central Station. Arrived there, she said she had changed her mind; she wanted to ride around Central Park. He obliged. When, after a leisurely winding trip clear to the north end and back down to Central Park South, she had said she was thinking something over and wanted to do another lap, he had got prudent and mentioned money, and she had handed him a ten. When they were completing the second circuit, she gave him an address, 618 East Seventy-fourth Street, and he drove her there, arriving shortly after one o'clock. He helped her with the luggage, out of the cab and through the entrance door, which she opened with her key, and then returned to his cab and drove off.

It was generally believed, by both the cops and the press, that the murderer had been in her apartment waiting for her, and that he had got in with the key which the maid, Margaret Fomos, had in her bag. So he had already killed Margaret Fomos to get the bag, not necessarily planning it that way. He might have counted on getting it at smaller cost but had been recognized by her; and she, having been with Priscilla for years, could have recognized anyone who had known Priscilla well.

I filled half a notebook with the stuff Lon Cohen gave us that evening, but I guess the above samples will do for this record. After escorting him to the front, I returned to the office and found Wolfe with his chin on his chest and his eyes closed. Not opening them, he asked what time it was, and I told him ten-thirty.

He grunted. 'Too late to expect a welcome from people. What time is it in Venezuela?'

'My God, I don't know.'

I started to cross to the big globe over by the bookshelves, but he beat me to it. Anything for an excuse to consult the globe. He ran his finger along a meridian, starting at Quebec and ending at the equator. 'Several degrees east. An hour later, I suppose.' He twirled the globe, looking disappointed.

I thought it was pure fake and I resented it. 'You're right near the Panama Canal,' I suggested. 'Go on through to the other ocean. Try Galapagos. It's only half-past nine there.'

He ignored it. 'Get your notebook,' he growled. 'If I'm saddled with this thing, I am. Your program for the morning.'

I obeyed.

Chapter 7

Probably my conception of a widow was formed in my early boyhood in Ohio, from a character called Widow Rowley, who lived across the street. I have known others since, but the conception has not been entirely obliterated, so there is always an element of shock when I meet a female who has been labeled widow and I find that she has some teeth, does not constantly mutter to herself, and can walk without a cane.

Mrs. Sarah Jaffee was not visibly burdened with any handicaps whatever. She was probably more than one-third the age Widow Rowley had been, but not much. That much, along with the shock, took only one good glance as she admitted me to her sixth-floor apartment on East Eightieth Street, and the glance also furnished another mild shock. Although it was ten in the morning of a pleasant and sunny June day, there in her foyer was a man's topcoat thrown carelessly over the back of a chair, and on a polished tabletop was a man's felt hat. I kept my brows down, merely remarking to myself, as she led me though a large and luxurious living room, that since I had phoned for permission to come, and so was expected, it might have been supposed that a widow would have taken the trouble to tidy up a little.

When, beyond the living room, we came upon a table in an alcove with breakfast tools in place for two, I will not say that I blushed, but I felt that I had not been properly briefed.

'I was in bed when you phoned,' she said, sitting and picking up a spoon. 'I assume you've had