The Father Hunt

"Balls. I've heard enough of you. You're a pair of goddam loudmouths." It wasn't as easy as falling off a log to rise from that chair, and four of his fingertips pressed against the leather arm as he used leverage. When he was erect he told me to go do something, still another vulgar cliche, and I moved to get to the hall ahead of him; he might turn left instead of right, and Wolfe was in the kitchen. I didn't go to the front to open the door for him. Not because he was a liar; it just didn't seem to be called for.

When the door had shut behind him, with a bang, I went and opened the kitchen door enough to call through, "Company's gone!" and then to the stairs down to the basement storeroom for empty cartons and tissue paper and twine.

When I got back up to the office, loaded, Wolfe was standing at the end of his desk, frowning around at everything in sight. I put the cartons down on the couch and the paper and twine on my desk, and said, "I wouldn't trade images with that specimen, public or private. I

have never felt so sorry for a client. If she had known what she was going to get for her twenty grand…"

He growled. "How long will that cigar smoke last?"

"The air conditioner will do it in about an hour." I was gently wrapping in tissue paper the glass that had held Scotch. "I need your help on a decision. The bottle is more than half full of Johnnie Walker Black. About six dollars' worth. Do we donate it to Cramer or do I empty it?"

"Empty it hi the sink. It's contaminated. Confound this smell. I'm going upstairs, but there's a letter to write. Your notebook."

I went and sat, and for the first tune in I don't know how long he dictated a letter standing.

"Dear Mr. Cramer: Five days ago you told Mr. Goodwin you had in your possession a leather cigar case front which you had taken nine fingerprints. Period. The cartons he will deliver to you with this letter contain an assortment of objects, comma, some of which may have on them fingerprints which may possibly match those you secured from the cigar case. Period. This is merely a conjecture, comma, and I shall be obliged if you will tell me whether it is valid. Sincerely yours. Fritz can bring it up with my breakfast for my signature. By the time you and Saul finish here I may be asleep."

He pinched his nose, told me good night, and headed for the door.

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