The Father Hunt

"Of course I didn't." He turned to Wolfe. "It's ridiculous. He sent her money for twenty4wo years because his son… absolutely ridiculous. Anyway, there's a reason… No. He wouldn't… No." He pursed his lips,

eyed Wolfe, then me, and back at Wolfe. "I want to make one thing plain. Two things. When Mr. Ballou asked me about those checks and I learned they had been charged to Cyrus Jarrett and delivered to him, I had no objection to that information being passed to you. I was perfectly willing to supply routine information-that's all it was, routine-that would make trouble for Cyrus Jarrett. God knows he has made enough trouble for me. But I wouldn't supply information that would make trouble for his son even if I had any, and I haven't. I have high regard for Eugene Jarrett, not only as a brother officer of our bank, but as a friend. I'll tell you this-anybody could tell you this-for ten years Eugene Jarrett and his father haven't been on speaking terms. My opinion of his father is mild compared to his. Of course with him it's more personal, fattier and son; you know how deep that can go. If Cyrus Jarrett continued sending money to that woman-Carlotta Vaughn or Elinor Denovo-for the past ten years, it wasn't on account of his son, that's sure."

He put his palms on the chair arms and levered himself to his feet. "I'm going," he said. "You can forget Eugene Jarrett. But if I had any more information that would help with his father you'd be welcome to it. Frankly, I would like to see him get hurt, really hurt, and so would other people I could name, and he did send those checks for twenty-two years. Was it blackmail? Did she know something that would hurt? If so I hope you dig it up. Frankly, I would help if I could. Do you…" He hesitated. "If it needs any financing…"

"It doesn't. I have a client."

"Well, then…" He turned and started out, so slow, his feet dragging, that I didn't have to hurry to beat him to the hall and on to the front. At the door he thought he had something to say, but decided not to. His car, down at the curb, was a 1965 Imperial.

In the office Wolfe was pulling at his earlobe, his eyes, closed. I went to my desk and sat, and said, "If you want my opinion, we wasted not only Ms time but ours too. I don't buy his slant on the son, even if they hate each other's guts. His obligation was to the mother, not the father. Damn it, it's got to be the son. Who else?"

He grunted and his eyes opened. "What if our basic as-