The Father Hunt

That changed the script. "Right. I'm calling from the office. Mr. Wolfe wants to talk."

He had his phone. I kept mine. "This is Nero Wolfe, Miss Denovo. I need to ask a question. Has your telephone an extension?" "No."

"I'll be circumspect anyway. I don't like the telephone and I don't trust it. Don't ask indiscreet questions. We have discovered the source of the checks. The informa-" "You have? Already?"

"It isn't necessary to interrupt. I'll tell you all that is tellable on this machine. The information about the source is reliable-in fact, certain. We know who had the checks drawn. He is alive, seventy-six years old, wealthy, retired, of what is called the upper class. He lives in New York- no, I don't know that, but I do know he's reachable. So I have a question. You know what you hired me to do. The source of the checks is established, but not that he is himself the person you want found. That is merely a reasonable surmise. Do you want me to-" "I want to know his name!" "You will. If you'll come this evening, at nine o'clock or

after, we'll tell you. What I ask now: Do you want me to proceed with the inquiry or do you want to deal with him yourself? I would like to know that before dinner."

"I want you to do it, of course. I'll come now. I-may I come now?"

"No. In the middle of a meal? We'll expect you later."

He hung up, got the photographs from the drawer, frowned at them, and dropped them on the desk. I swung my phone back and asked, "Shall I ring Cyrus M. Jarrett and tell him you want him here at eleven tomorrow morning if it will suit his convenience?"

"Yes," he hissed. He never hisses. He got up and went to the kitchen.

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