The Father Hunt

Also I had had only six hours' sleep, a full two hours less than I need and nearly always get. Getting home after midnight Sunday, I had decided against typing twelve letters before turning in, and so had to set the alarm for seven o'clock. When it went off I opened one eye to glare at it, but I knew I would have to hustle, much as I hate hustling before breakfast, and in six minutes, maybe seven, I was on my feet. At 7:45 I was at the little table in the kitchen where I eat breakfast, on the last swallow of orange juice, and Fritz was crossing to me with the grilled ham and corn fritters, and at 8:10 I was in the office at the typewriter. At 9:15 I had finished the twelfth letter and had started folding and putting them in envelopes when the doorbell rang, and I went to the hall for a look through the one-way glass in the front door, and saw a big burly male with a big round red face topped by a big battered broad-brimmed felt hat. The hat alone would have been enough. Inspector Cramer of Homicide South must be the only man in New York who wears such a hat on a hot sunny day in August.

Nuts, I thought, let him ring. But it must be just for

me, since he knew Wolfe was never available before eleven o'clock, so I went and opened the door and said, "Good morning and greetings, but I'm busy and I'm in a rush. I really mean it."

"So am I." It was gruff, but it always is. "I'm just stopping by on my way down. Why did you call Stebbins on that hit-and-run?"

"What the hell, I told him why."

"I know you did. Also I know you and I know Wolfe. Discussing crime my ass. All right, discuss it with me now. I want to know why you're working on that hit-and-run."

"I'm not. Mr. Wolfe isn't." I glanced at my wrist. "I would like to ask you in for some give and take, you know I enjoy that, but I've got a date. Except for what was in the papers, I know absolutely nothing about that hit-and-run, and neither does Mr. Wolfe. No one has consulted with us about it. The only client we've got is a girl who can't find her father and wants us to." I glanced at my wrist. "Damn it, I'll be late." I started the door around. He opened his mouth, clamped it shut, about-faced, and started down the seven steps of the stoop. His PD car was there, double-parked. By the time he reached it I was back in the office.