The Father Hunt

"Let's see… twenty-two from seventy-six; he was fifty-four. I didn't know him then as well as I do now. His name is Jarrett, Cyrus M. Jarrett. Nothing about this is confidential, what I'm telling you now, it's known by everybody in banking circles. Twenty-two years ago he was the president of Seaboard. In nineteen fifty-three-he was sixty-two then-he became Chairman of the Board. Some of us wanted him out of management entirely, but he had a big block of stock and that wasn't all he had. He's a very wealthy man. At sixty-five he should have retired, that's usual, but he wouldn't. But by then a majority of us-of the board-wanted him out, and we finally managed it. That was in nineteen fifty-nine, eight years ago. He's still on the board, but he seldom comes to meetings."

He paused to enjoy a smile, not for us, it was private. He went on. "All that is known to everybody, of course. I'm telling you because you might wonder why I was willing to name him. I never liked him and I don't like him now. A lot of people don't. As for being confidential, I don't give a damn if it becomes known that I helped you find him. I doubt if you'll be able to make him lose any sleep, nobody ever has, but I wish you luck. If you have any questions I'll be glad-"

He looked at his watch. "No, I won't." He stood up. "I was late yesterday, and I'll be late again now if the traffic's bad." He headed for the door, turned to say, "Come to my office, Goodwin, if you have questions," and moved so fast that I would have had to trot to open the door for him, so I didn't go.

As the sound came of the front door closing, Wolfe looked at the clock. Dinner in thirty-five minutes. He looked at me. "Do you like it?"

"Well." I pinched my nose. "I'm not going to jump up and down and yell three cheers for us. So he's old and tough. If he was fifty-four in nineteen forty-five he's seventy-six now. I've read a few things about him, there was a piece about him in Fortune once and I read it, but that doesn't give me an in."

"You have Miss Denovo's telephone number?" "Certainly." "Get her. Ill talk."

I consulted my pocket notebook to check the number, swung the phone around and dialed, and while I waited decided to say Archie Goodwin, not just Archie. I didn't care to give Wolfe a peg for another of his rusty comments about what he called my aptitude for establishing personal relations with young women. When the hello came, her voice, I said, "Amy Denovo?" "Yes. Archie?"