Murder by the Book

Dykes's letter of resignation was a full page, single-spaced, but all it said was what Corrigan had told us-that on account of the staff gossip that he had informed on O'Malley and so damaged the firm's reputation, and, further, because the new regime might want to make a change, he respectfully submitted his resignation. He had used three times as many words as he needed. As for the rest of the material-memoranda, reports, and copies of letters-it may have shown Wolfe how Dykes used words, but aside from that it was as irrelevant as last year's box score. Wolfe waded through it, passing each item to me as he finished, and I read every word, not wanting to leave an opening for another remark about my powers of observation like the time I had muffed the name of Baird Archer. When I had finished I handed the lot back to him, with some casual comment, and got at my typewriter to do some letters he had dictated.

I was banging away when he suddenly demanded, "What does this stand for?"

I got up to go and look. In his hand was Dykes's letter of resignation. He slid it across to me. "That notation in pencil in the corner. What is it?"

I looked at it, a pencil scribble like this:

I nodded. "Yeah, I noticed it. Search me. Public School 146, Third Grade?"

"The S is lower case."

"So it is. Am I supposed to pop it out?"

"No. It's probably frivolous, but its oddity stirs curiosity. Does it suggest anything to you?"

I pursed my lips to look thoughtful. "Not offhand. Does it to you?"

He reached for it and frowned at it. "It invites speculation. With a capital P and a small S, it is presumably not initials. I know of only one word or name in the language for which 'Ps' is commonly used as an abbreviation. The figures following the 'Ps' increase the likelihood. Still no suggestion?"

"Well, 'Ps' stands for postscript, and the figures-"

"No. Get the Bible."

I crossed to the bookshelves, got it, and returned.

"Turn to Psalm One-forty-six and read the third verse."

I admit I had to use the index. Having done so, I turned the pages, found it, and gave it a glance.

"I'll be damned," I muttered.

"Read it!" Wolfe bellowed.

I read aloud. " 'Put not your trust in princes, nor in the son of man, in whom there is no help.'"

"Ah," Wolfe said, and sighed clear to his middle.