staffs, tradesmen, mailmen you know the routines. You will use your own names, and your inquiries are on behalf of the Dolphin Corporation, owner and operator of Dolphin Cottages, Clearwater, Florida. A woman is suing the corporation for a large sum in damages, half a million dollars, for injuries she suffered on Saturday, January sixth, this year, as she was stepping from a dock into a boat. She claims that the employee of the corporation who was handling the boat allowed it to move and her injuries resulted from his negligence. The case will come to trial soon, and the corporation wants the testimony of one Jane Doe (a name from one of your cards). Jane Doe was a tenant of one of the corporation's cottages from December tenth to February tenth; she was on the dock when the incident occurred, and she told the manager of the cottages that the boat did not move and the boatman was not at fault. Am I too circumstantial?
No, Fred said. Whether he knew what circumstantial meant or not, he thought Wolfe couldn't be too anything.
The rest is obvious. There is no Jane Doe, and never has been, at the address the Dolphin Corporation has for her, and you are trying to find her. Could she be the Jane Doe on your card? Was she in Florida from December tenth to February tenth? No? Where was she? Wolfe flipped a hand. But you need no suggestions on how to make sure. You will be merely eliminating. Is it clear?
Not to me. Orrie looked up from his notebook, in which he had been scribbling. If the only question is did she have a baby, why drag in Florida and dolphins and a lawsuit? His bumptious tone came from his belief that all men are created equal, especially him and Nero Wolfe.
Wolfe's head turned. Answer him, Saul.
Saul's notebook was back in his pocket, with the cards. He looked at Orrie as at an equal, which he wasn't. Evidently, he said, the chances are that the baby was a bastard and she went away to have it, so was she away? And if she wasn't, the one thing that anybody would know about what a woman was doing five months ago is that she was having a baby, or wasn't. The Florida thing is just to get started.
That wasn't fair, Wolfe's part in it, since Saul had been given the whole picture five days ago, but the idea was to teach Orrie better manners, and of course Saul had to play up. When they had gone and I returned to the office after seeing them out, I told Wolfe, You know, if you pile it on enough to give Orrie an inferiority complex it will be a lulu, and a damn good op will be ruined.
He snorted. Pfui. Not conceivable. He picked up Silent Spring and got comfortable. Then his chin jerked up and he said politely, You're aware that I'm not going to ask you what was on that paper that woman handed you yesterday.
I nodded. It had to be mentioned sooner or later. If it had anything to do with my job, naturally I'd report it. I will anyway. It said in longhand: Dearest Archie, Lizzie Borden took an ax, and gave her mother forty whacks. Your loving Lucy.' In case you wonder Shut up. He opened the book.
We still didn't know how many would come to the stag party that evening, and it was late afternoon when Lucy phoned that she had booked all four of them. When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at six o'clock the notes I had typed were on his desk. As follows:
MANUEL UPTON. In his fifties. Editor of Distaff, the magazine for any and every woman, circulation over eight million. He had started Richard Valdon on the road to fame and fortune ten years back by publishing several of his short stories, and had serialized two of his novels. Married, wife living, three grown children. Home, a Park Avenue apartment.
JULIAN HAFT. Around fifty. President of the Parthenon Press, publisher of Valdon's novels. He and Valdon had been close personally for the last five years of Valdon's life. Widower, two grown children. Home, a suite in Churchill Towers.
LEO BINGHAM. Around forty. Television producer. No business relations with Valdon, but had been his oldest and closest friend. Bachelor. Gay-dog type. Home, a penthouse on East 38th Street.
WILLIS KRUG. Also around forty. Literary agent. Valdon had been one of his clients for seven years. Documentary widower; married and divorced. No children. Home, an apartment on Perry Street in the Village.
Whenever an assortment of guests is expected after dinner, Wolfe, on leaving the table, doesn't return to the office and his favorite chair. He goes to the kitchen, where there is a chair without arms that will take his seventh of a ton with only a little overlap at the edges. The only time he has been overruled about the furniture in his house was when he bought a king-size armchair for the kitchen and Fritz vetoed it. It was delivered, and he sat in it for half an hour one morning discussing turnip soup with Fritz, but when he came down from the plant rooms at six o'clock it was gone. If he or Fritz ever mentioned it again they did so in privacy.
Since none of the four invited guests could be the mother we were looking for, and there was no reason to suppose that one of them was the murderer, I sized them up only from force of habit as I answered the doorbell and admitted them. Willis Krug, the literary agent, who arrived first, a little early, was a tall bony guy with a long head and flat ears. He started for the red leather chair, but I headed him off because I had decided Bingham should have it Valdon's oldest and closest friend and he was the next to show, on the dot at nine o'clock. Leo Bingham, the television producer. He was tall and broad and handsome, with a big smile that went on and off like a neon sign. Julian Haft, the publisher, who came next, was a barrel from the hips up and a pair of toothpicks from the hips down, bald on top, with balloon-tired cheaters. Manuel Upton, editor of Distaff, was last to arrive, and looking at him I was surprised that he had arrived at all. A shrimp to begin with, he was sad-eyed and wrinkled, he sagged, and he was panting from climbing the stoop. I was sorry I hadn't saved the red leather chair for him. When he was safe if not sound on one of the yellow ones I went to my desk and buzzed the kitchen on the house phone.
Wolfe entered. Three of the guests rose. Manuel Upton, who had the least to lift, didn't. Wolfe, no hand-shaker, asked them to sit, went to his desk, and stood while I pronounced names, giving them all-out nods, at least half an inch. He sat, sent his eyes from right to left and back again, and spoke. I don't thank you for coming, gentlemen, since you are obliging Mrs. Valdon, not me. But I'm appreciative. You're busy men with a day's work behind you. Will you have refreshment? None is before you because that restricts choices, but a supply is at hand. Will you have something?
Willis Krug shook his head. Julian Haft declined with thanks. Leo Bingham said brandy. Manuel Upton said a glass of water, no ice. I said scotch and water. Wolfe had pushed a button and Fritz was there and was given the order, including beer for Wolfe.
Bingham gave Wolfe the big smile. I was glad to come. Glad of the chance to meet you. His baritone went fine with the smile. I've often thought of your enormous possibilities for television, and now that I've seen you and heard your voice my God, it would be stupendous! I'll come and tell you about it.
Manuel Upton shook his head, slow to the left and slow to the right. Mr. Wolfe may not understand you, Leo. Enormous.' Stupendous.' His croak went fine with all of him. He may think that's a personal
