The Missing Chapter

Wolfe was laying it on. As I mentioned, he esteems Saul, but he is not above using flattery, which is okay, because Saul knows exactly what Wolfe is doing, and Wolfe knows that Saul knows it, and Saul knows that Wolfe — well, you get the idea. Anyway, we had all been through this dance before. Saul, who always does have plenty of business, took a sip of the brandy, licked his lips, and nodded appreciatively. “Lon Cohen has mentioned more than once that this is the finest cognac in the world. He and I don’t agree on everything — especially on the value of bluffing in poker — but I can’t quarrel with his assessment of this nectar. Tell me about the woman.”

Wolfe rang for beer and adjusted his bulk. “Her name is Clarice Wingfield, although it is conceivable she may be using the surname of her ex-husband, which is Avery.”

“Or she may be using a completely manufactured moniker,” Saul observed. “What else you got?”

Wolfe turned toward me. “A snapshot, taken three or four years ago,” I said, pulling it from my center desk drawer. “Also, according to her cousin back in the Midwest, Clarice is a frustrated artist.” I gave Saul the rest of the Indiana scenario, including Clarice Wingfield’s interest in art, and then quickly filled him in on our commission from Horace Vinson.

With his eyes roving around the room, Saul looked like he was daydreaming while I talked, but I knew better; he heard every word, picked up every inflection. When I was done, he finished the last of his brandy. “I’ll start in the morning,” he said. “I assume that you’ve tried Missing Persons?”

“No, sir,” Wolfe replied, “but the question begs response. Archie shall undertake that tomorrow, as well as showing Miss Wingfield’s photograph to others who might have seen her with Mr. Childress.”

It is always heartening to be among the first to learn what my role will be. I threw a snarl Wolfe’s way, but either he didn’t notice or he was too busy concentrating on the bubbles that rose like spiraling strands of pearls in his beer glass.

“Do you see the need to utilize Fred?” he asked Saul. Fred Durkin is another free-lance operative we frequently hire. Fred is not as bright as Saul, not by light-years, and he is not as effective. But put him down as brave, loyal, and hard working.

Saul looked at his cap, which was perched on his knee. “Maybe, but for now, I think it will work best if I give it a go alone,” he responded. “If you like, I can get a couple of quick copies made of that snapshot and have the original back here first thing in the morning. I’d like to carry one with me, and keep another in reserve in case Fred gets brought in.”

Wolfe allowed as to how that was a capital idea, so I handed Saul the photo of Clarice Wingfield, then refilled his snifter with some of that cognac Lon Cohen swears is the finest in the world. Saul smiled his thanks and we retired to the front room for some gin rummy. That smile was even wider when he left the brownstone ninety minutes later; he had seventeen dollars in his pocket that hadn’t been there when he walked in.

Fourteen

When I came down to breakfast in the morning, Fritz was waiting for me with the first of what would be several hot-cakes, hot coffee, and a sealed envelope. “Mr. Panzer was here more than an hour ago; he told me you would be expecting this,” he said, thrusting the envelope at me.

Saul is a morning person. But he’s also a night person. In fact, I’ve often wondered how little sleep the guy can get by on. I asked him about that once, and he responded that after five hours of shuteye, he’s ready for anything except acid rock music, and even some of that he can tolerate, although apropos of nothing, I happen to know he prefers Chopin to any other, maker of melody, past or present.

Inside the envelope was the photograph of Clarice Wingfield that Belinda Meeker had given me, along with one copy and a piece of lined notebook paper with a scribbled message asking when I was available for another gin rummy session. I threw the note in the wastebasket, slipped the two pictures into my billfold, and sat down to compare Fritz’s breakfast to the Old Skillet’s effort. Fritz won, of course, but it wasn’t a runaway.

After putting away life-sustaining portions of apricot omelet and hotcakes with bacon and honey, I carried a cup of coffee into the office and, settling in at my desk, punched the buttons on the phone. Horace Vinson’s secretary answered crisply and, hearing my name, she put me through immediately to the editor.

“Ah, I was hoping you’d call this morning. Got anything yet?” Vinson asked anxiously.

I gave my standard response to that standard client question. “Nothing concrete. Did Childress ever mention a cousin of his to you? Her name is Clarice Wingfield.”

“No, I can’t say that he did,” Vinson responded after a slight pause. “But Charles rarely discussed his pre-New York years, at least with me. Why?”