The Father Hunt

There were some items in the morning mail that needed attention, or at least got it, but we were interrupted a few times by phone calls: from Saul, who had drawn nothing but blanks; from Fred, who had found three people who had recognized the photographs but hadn't been any help; and from Orrie, from Washington, who had verified most of Jarrett's places and dates and was working on the rest. The hospital part, which covered most of July, was airtight. You are probably thinking that the client was getting damned little for her money, and I agree. When I returned from a trip to¹ the mailbox at the corner it was lunchtime, and as we crossed to the dining room Wolfe said something about Mr. Cramer and I asked if he had phoned. Wolfe said no, he had come, late Saturday afternoon.

I was sorry I had missed it because talk by those two is always worth hearing. You get good examples of how much a man can say in a few words and also of how little he can say in a lot of words. So back in the office after lunch I said I would just as soon know what Cramer had wanted, and Wolfe said only what he always wanted, information; he had said nothing that would help us any.

I settled back and crossed my legs. "I haven't kept count," I said, "but at least a thousand times I have given you a verbatim report of a conversation. I can't tell you

to because I don't pay you, you pay me, but I can suggest it. I am suggesting it."

A corner of his mouth went up a sixteenth of an inch. For him it was a broad smile. "My memory is as good as yours, Archie."

"Then it would be no strain. I said verbatim."

"I know you did." He squinted at me. "Well… Mr. Cramer, admitted by Fritz, arrived shortly after six o'clock. We ex-"

"The exact time?"

"I don't have it on my wrist, as you do. We exchanged greetings and he sat."

"Cramer: 'Where's Goodwin?'

"Wolfe: 'Not here, as you see.'