Might as Well Be Dead

“Yes, you will.” Wolfe made a face. “I don’t run from contention, sir, but this sort of squabble is extremely distasteful. I’ll tell you briefly how it will go. I’ll render my bill, you’ll refuse to pay it, and I’ll sue you. By the time the action goes to trial I shall be armed with evidence that I not only found your son, which is what you hired me to do, but that I also freed him from a charge of murder by proving his innocence. Actually I doubt if you’ll let it go to trial. You’ll settle.”

Herold looked around, saw a big comfortable chair, moved to it, and sat. Presumably he had had a tough day.

“That’s my chair,” Wolfe snapped. He can snap. “There are stools.”

Three sound reasons: one, he didn’t like Mr. Herold; two, he wanted to squash him; and three, if it went on he might want the chair himself. If Herold got to his feet and stayed on them he was still a contender; if he stayed in the chair he was cornered; if he took to a stool he was licked. He went to a stool and got on it. He spoke, not squabbling.

“Did you say you can prove his innocence?”

“No. Not now. But I expect to.” Wolfe propped the back of his lap against the bench. “Mr. Goodwin saw him and talked with him Wednesday morning, day before yesterday, and established that he is your son. He didn’t want you to be notified. That’s an understatement. Did you speak with him today?”

“I saw him. He wouldn’t speak to me. He denied me. His mother is coming.”

That was some improvement. Before it had been only “my wife.” Now it was “his mother.” One big unhappy family.

He went on. “I didn’t want her to, but she’s coming. I don’t know whether he’ll speak to her or not. He hasn’t just been arrested, he’s been convicted, and the District Attorney says there can’t be any question about it. What makes you think he’s innocent?”

“I don’t think it, I know it. One of my men has been killed-and I haven’t earned a fee? Pfui. You’ll know about it when the time comes.”

“I want to know about it now.”

“My dear sir.” Wolfe was scornful. “You have fired me. We are adversaries in a lawsuit, or soon will be. Mr. Goodwin will conduct you downstairs.” He turned, picked up a pot, and got a trowelful of the charcoal-osmundine mixture. That, by the way, was fake. You don’t put that mixture in a pot until you have covered the bottom with crock.