office.
When Wolfe came down, on schedule, and crossed to his desk, I thought it only fair to give him a chance to show that he had snapped out of it. But no. He sat and rang for beer, and when Fritz brought it he opened a bottle, poured, selected one from the stack of current books on his desk, leaned back, and sighed comfortably. He was going to have a wonderful time until Fritz announced dinner.
'Excuse me, sir,' I said gently. 'There's a man in the front room waiting to see you.'
His head turned, and a frown appeared. 'Who?'
'Well, it's like this. As you explained last night, you had to have some kind of a wedge to start an opening, and this morning I went out to get one and failed. Seeing how disappointed you were, I felt that I must somehow meet the challenge. I have met it. The man in there is a lawyer named Albert M. Irby, with an office on Forty-first Street. I phoned Parker, and he had never heard of Irby but reported back that he is a member of the New York bar in good standing. As for Irby, he says that he is representing Eric Hagh, the former husband of Priscilla Eads, and he would like to talk with you.'
'Where the devil did you get him?' It was a blurt of indignation.
'I didn't exactly get him. He came. He phoned for an appointment at four-twenty-one.'
'What does he want?'
'To talk with you. Since you don't like a client horning in on a case, I didn't press him for particulars.'
Thereupon Wolfe paid me a high compliment. He gazed at me with a severely suspicious eye. Obviously he suspected me of pulling a fast one-of somehow, in less than two hours, digging up Albert M. Irby and his connection with Priscilla Eads, and shanghaiing him. I didn't mind, but I thought it well to be on record.
'No, sir,' I said firmly.
He grunted. 'You don't know what he wants?'
'No, sir.'
He tossed the book aside. 'Bring him in.'
It was a pleasure to go for that lawyer and usher him in to the red leather chair, but I must admit that physically he was nothing to flaunt. I have never seen a balder man, and his hairless freckled dome had a peculiar attraction. It was covered with tiny drops of sweat, and nothing ever happened to them. He didn't touch them with a handkerchief, they didn't get larger or merge and trickle, and they didn't dwindle. They just stood pat. There was nothing repulsive about them, but after ten minutes or so the suspense was quite a strain.
Sitting, he put his briefcase on the little table at his elbow. 'Right off,' he said, in a voice that could have used more vinegar and less oil, 'I want to put myself in your hands. I'm not in your class, Mr. Wolfe, and I won't pretend I am. I'll just tell you how it stands, and whatever you say goes.'
It was a bad start if he expected any favors. Wolfe compressed his lips. 'Go ahead.'
'Thank you.' He was sitting forward in the big chair. 'I appreciate your seeing me, but I am not surprised, because I know of your great services in the cause of justice, and that's what I want, justice for a client. His name is Eric Hagh. I was asked to represent him by an attorney in Venezuela, in Caracas, with whom I had previously had dealings-his name is Juan Blanco. That was-'
'Spell it, please?' I requested, notebook in hand.
He complied and went on to Wolfe, 'That was nine days ago, on the sixteenth of this month. Hagh had already sent a communication here to Mr. Perry Helmar, on advice of Blanco, but they had decided that he needed representation here in New York, and Blanco sent me all the particulars of the case, with copies of documents.' He tapped the briefcase. 'I have them here. If you will just-'
'Later,' Wolfe said hastily. 'First, what is wanted?' He looks at documents only when he has to.
'Certainly, certainly.' Irby sure was anxious to please. The dewdrops on his freckled cupola might have been glued on. 'One of them is a photostat of a letter, a holograph, dated at Cajamarca, Peru, August twelfth, nineteen forty-six, written and signed by Priscilla Eads Hagh and witnessed by Margaret Caselli. That was the maiden name of Margaret Fomos, who was killed Monday night. In the letter Priscilla Hagh gave her husband, Eric Hagh, a half-interest, without reservation, in all property then hers or to become hers at any time in the future.'
'Any consideration?' Wolfe demanded.
'Uh-none specified.'
'Then it's highly vulnerable.'
'That may be. That will have to be adjudicated, but it is unquestionably a powerful weapon, and it was given to my client in good faith and accepted in good faith.'
'I'm not a lawyer, Mr. Irby.'
'I know you're not, Mr. Wolfe. I came to see you not on a matter of law, but a matter of fact. According to an article in the
Wolfe stirred in his chair. He rested an elbow on its arm, raised a hand, and ran a fingertip along his lower lip, back and forth. 'You'd better tell me more about it,' he muttered. 'Why did Mr. Hagh wait so long to file a claim?'
'I'm eager to, Mr. Wolfe, I'm eager to. I have it all from Blanco. But of course it would be improper for me to divulge privileged communications, so I won't. I can say this, that Hagh first saw Blanco only a month
