The Father Hunt

It was my fault. When Saul had phoned I had just got home, so pleased with myself and wanting to spread joy around that I had not only invited him to dinner but had also told him I would have a bottle of Dom Perignon ready to open. Then the angles had made it obvious that putting champagne in the refrigerator would be premature and I hadn't gone to the kitchen. Not that Saul needed any explanations or apologies; that long dry spell had got on his nerves too.

Anyway, along with the clams and broiled turtle steaks he drank more than half of a bottle of Montrachet, so all he missed was bubbles.

With coffee, in the office after dinner, we settled the program. When Vance arrived Saul would go to the front room, and as soon as the guest was in the office and seated he would leave, to go to 490 Lexington Avenue and collect likely objects for fingerprints. Since he had seen the lock he knew which keys to take from the assortments in the cabinet, and after he made his selections he helped me prepare the props in the office. We did a thorough wiping job on twelve objects: the stand by the red leather chair, two ash trays-one on the stand and one on the corner of Wolfe's desk-two photographs of Elinor Denovo in a drawer of Wolfe's desk, four glasses of different kinds, since we didn't know what he would drink, two books of matches-one on the stand and one on Wolfe's desk-and every inch of the red leather chair. Now and then I took a second for a glance at Wolfe, for comic relief. He sat with his fingers laced at the summit of his center mound, scowling at us. He knew darned well that what we were doing was a lot more important than anything he could possibly be thinking, and it hurt. He would have loved to take the position, and hold it, that he could solve any problem on earth or in outer space by leaning back and closing his eyes and working his lips. The trouble was that the little chores Saul and I did for

him were nearly always done somewhere else, but that time it was going on right there in his office, before his eyes. I was surprised that he didn't get up and go to the kitchen.