told me on Wednesday, April 26, and repeated on Friday, April 28, that if I find the $500,000 she gave a kidnaper on Tuesday, April 25, or any part of it, I may keep it for my own. Therefore that money belongs to me if I find it. I have engaged you to help me find it, and I have agreed that if you do find it, or any part of it, you are to keep one-fifth of the amount you find as payment for your services. I hereby confirm that agreement.
The refills had come, and I sampled mine as I read it over. Tearing the sheet out, I handed it to Noel and watched his face. He took his time, then looked up. “So what?”
“So you’d have a foot. I don’t really expect you to sign it, I doubt if you have the nerve, you’ve knuckled under too long, but if you did sign it, you wouldn’t have to tell your mother you were going to do so-and-so and stick to it. You could tell her you
He started to read it over again, quit halfway, put his glass down, and extended his hand. “Give me that pen.” I gave it to him, and he signed his name, pushed the paper across to me, picked up his glass, and raised it to eye level. “Excelsior! To freedom!” He put the glass to his mouth and drained it. A piece of ice slipped out and fell to the table, and he picked it up and threw it at the bartender across the room, missing by a yard. He shook his head, tittered, and asked me, “What did your mother do when you told her to go to hell?”
Since I had what I wanted, it would have suited me all right if we had been bounced, but apparently Noel was not a stranger at Barney’s. The barkeep took no action beyond occasional glances in our direction to see if more ice was coming. Noel wanted to talk. The idea seemed to be that I had made a hero of him, and he wanted to know who or what had made a hero of me at the early age of seventeen. I was willing to spend another half-hour and another drink on him, but I suspected that he didn’t want to go home until it was late enough for him to go to bed without stopping in his mother’s room to say good night, and that might mean a couple of hours. So I began looking at my watch and worrying about being late for a date, and at ten o’clock I paid for the drinks and left him.
It was 10:26 when I mounted the stoop of the old brownstone and pushed the button. When Fritz opened the door he aimed a thumb to his rear, toward the office, signifying that there was company. I asked him who, and he told me in what he thinks is a whisper but is actually a kind of smothered croak, “Federal Bureau of Investigation.” I told him, “Rub off all fingerprints and burn the papers,” and went to the office.
You don’t have to believe me, but I would have known after one look at him, even if Fritz hadn’t told me. It’s mostly the eyes and the jaw. An FBI man spends so much time pretending he’s looking somewhere else that his eyes get confused; they’re never quite sure it’s okay to admit they’re focused on you. His jaw is even worse off. It is given to understand that it belongs to a man who is intrepid, daring, dauntless, cool, long-headed, quick- witted, and hard as nails, but it is cautioned that he is also modest, polite, reserved, patient, bland, and never to be noticed in a crowd. No jaw on earth could handle that order. The only question is how often it will twitch, and sideways or up and down.
Wolfe said, “Mr Goodwin. Mr Draper.”
Mr Draper, having got to his feet, waited until my hand was unquestionably being offered, then extended his. Modest and reserved. His left hand went to a pocket, and I told him not to bother, but of course he did. An FBI man draws his credentials automatically, the way Paladin draws his gun. I glanced at it, not to hurt his feelings.
“Mr Draper has been here a full hour,” Wolfe said, with the accent on the ‘full.’ “He has a copy of the statement we signed, and he has asked many questions about details. He has covered the ground thoroughly, but he wanted to see you.”
It looked like another full hour. I went to my desk and sat. Draper, back in the red leather chair, had his notebook out. “A few little questions, Mr Goodwin,” he said. “If you don’t mind?”
“I like big ones better,” I said, “but shoot.”
“For the record,” he said. “Of course you understand that; you’re an experienced investigator. Mr Wolfe says you left the house around half past six Tuesday evening, but he doesn’t know when you returned. When did you?”
I permitted myself a grin, modest, polite, and bland. “Mr Draper,” I said, “I appreciate the compliment. You think I may have tailed Mrs Vail Tuesday night, against her wishes and with or without Mr Wolfe’s consent, and that I may even have got as far as Iron Mine Road without being spotted by one of the kidnapers. As you know, that would have been one for the books, a real honey, and I thank you for the compliment.”
“You’re welcome. When did you return?”
I gave it to him complete, from six-thirty until one o’clock, places, names, and times, going slow enough for him to get it down. When I finished he closed the notebook, then opened it again. “You drive a car, don’t you?”
“Mr Wolfe owns it, I drive it. Sixty-one Heron sedan.”
“Where is it garaged?”
“Curran, Tenth Avenue between Thirty-fifth and Thirty-sixth.”
“Did you use the car Tuesday night?”
“No. I believe I mentioned taxis.”
“Yes. You understand, Mr Goodwin, for the record.” He pocketed the notebook, arose, and got his hat from the stand. “You’ve been very helpful, Mr Wolfe. Thank you very much. I doubt if we’ll bother you again.” He turned and went. I didn’t get up, because an FBI man moves fast and I would have had to jump to get ahead of him to open the door. When I heard it close I went to the hall for a look, came back, got from my pocket the paper Noel had signed, and handed it to Wolfe.
He read it and put it down. “This was called for?”
“It seemed to be desirable. Would you like a report?”
“Yes.”
I sat down and gave it to him-verbatim, all but the last half-hour with Noel, which wasn’t material. When I was through he picked up the paper, read it again, nodded, and said, “Satisfactory.” He put it down. “When
