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Chapter Sixteen There were no more answers. That goes not only for Tuesday noon, but for the rest of the day and evening, and Wednesday morning, and Wednesday after lunch.
Nothing doing.
It didn't surprise me. The nature of the phone call from the man whose name I had been ordered to forget made it seem likely that there was something peculiar about the subscribers to Track Almanac and What to Expect, which was the name of the political and economic dope sheet published by the late Beula Poole. But even granting that there wasn't, that as far as they were concerned it was all clean and straight, the two publishers had just been murdered, and who would be good enough to answer such an ad. just to get asked a lot of impertinent questions? In the office after lunch Wednesday I made a remark to that effect to Wolfe, and got only a growl for reply.
“We might at least,” I insisted, “have hinted that they would get their money back or something.”
No reply.
“We could insert it again and add that. Or we could offer a reward for anyone who would give us the name of an Orchard or Poole subscriber.”
No reply.
“Or I could go up to the Fraser apartment and get into conversation with the bunch, and who knows?”
“Yes. Do so.”
I looked at him suspiciously. He meant it.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“You sure are hard up when you start taking suggestions from me.”
I pulled the phone to me and dialled the number. It was Bill Meadows who answered, and he sounded anything but gay, even when he learned it was me. After a brief talk, however, I was willing to forgive him. I hung up and informed Wolfe: “I guess I'll have to postpone it. Miss Fraser and Miss Koppel are both out.
Bill was a little vague, but I gather that the latter has been tagged by the city authorities for some reason or other, and the former is engaged in trying to remove the tag. Maybe she needs help. Why don't I find out?”
“I don't know. You might try.”
I turned and dialled Watkins 9-8241. Inspector Cramer wasn't available, but I got someone just as good, or sometimes I think even better, Sergeant Stebbins.
“I need some information,” I told him, “in co
“So do we,” he said frankly. “Got any?”
“Not right now. Mr Wolfe and I are in conference. How did Miss Koppel hurt your feelings, and where is she, and if you see Miss Fraser give her my love.”
He let out a roar of delight. Purley doesn't laugh often, at least when he's on duty, and I resented it. I waited until I thought he might hear me and then demanded: “What the hell is so fu
“I never expected the day to come,” he declared. “You calling me to ask where your client is. What's the matter, is Wolfe off his feed?”
“I know another one even better. Call me back when you're through laughing.”
“I'm through. Haven't you heard what the Koppel dame did?”
“No. I only know what you tell me.”
“Well, this isn't loose yet. We may want to keep it a while if we can. I don't know.”
“I'll help to keep it. So will Mr Wolfe.”
“That's understood?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Of course they've all been told not to leave the jurisdiction. This morning Miss Koppel took a cab to La Guardia. She was nabbed as she was boarding the nine o'clock plane for Detroit. She says she wanted to visit her sick mother in Fleetville, which is eighty miles from Detroit. But she didn't ask permission to go, and the word we get is that her mother is no sicker than she has been for a year. So we charged her as a material witness. Does that strike you as high-handed? Do you think it calls for a shakeup?”
“Get set for another laugh. Where's Miss Fraser?”
“With her lawyer at the D A's office discussing bail.”
“What kind of reasons have you got for Miss Koppel taking a trip that are any better than hers?”
“I wouldn't know. Now you're out of my class. If you want to go into details like that, Wolfe had better ask the Inspector.”
I tried another approach or two, but either Purley had given me all there was or the rest was in another drawer which he didn't feel like opening. I hung up and relayed the news to Wolfe.
He nodded as if it were no concern of his. I glared at him: “It wouldn't interest you to have one or both of them stop in for a chat on their way home? To ask why Miss Koppel simply had to go to Michigan would be vulgar curiosity?”
“Bah. The police are asking, aren't they?” Wolfe was bitter. “I've spent countless hours with those people, and got something for it only when I had a whip to snap. Why compound futility? I need another whip. Call those newspapers again.”
“Am I still to go up there? After the ladies get home?”
“You might as well.”
“Yeah.” I was savage. “At least I can compound some futility.”
I phoned all three papers. Nothing. Being in no mood to sit and concentrate on germination records, I a
Herald-Tribune, nothing. News, nothing. But the Gazette girl said yes, they had one. The way I went for my hat and headed for Tenth Avenue to grab a taxi, you might have thought I was on my way to a murder.
The driver was a philosopher. “You don't see many eager happy faces like yours nowadays,3 he told me.
“I'm on my way to my wedding.”
He opened his mouth to speak again, then clamped it shut. He shook his head resolutely. “No. Why should I spoil it?”
I paid him off outside the Gazette building and went in and got my prize. It was a square pale-blue envelope, and the printed return on the flap said:
Mrs W. T. Michaels 890 East End Avenue
New York City 28 Inside was a single sheet matching the envelope, with small neat handwriting on it:
BOX P304:
Regarding your advertisement, I am not a former subscriber to either of the publications, but I may be able to tell you something. You may write me, or call Lincoln 3-4808, but do not phone before ten in the morning or after five-thirty in the afternoon. That is important.
Hilda Michaels.
It was still forty minutes this side of her deadline, so I went straight to a booth and dialled the number. A female voice answered. I asked to speak to Mrs Michaels.
“This is Mrs Michaels.”
“This is the Gazette advertiser you wrote to, BOX P304. I've just read- “What's your name?” She had a tendency to snap.
“My name is Goodwin, Archie Goodwin. I can be up there in fifteen minutes or less-”
“No, you can't. Anyway, you'd better not. Are you co
“No. I work for Nero Wolfe. You may have heard of Nero Wolfe, the detective?”
“Of course. This isn't a convent. Was that his advertisement?”
“Yes.He-”
“Then why didn't he phone me?”
“Because I just got your note. I'm phoning from a booth in the Gazette building.
You said not-”
“Well, Mr Goodman, I doubt if I can tell Mr Wolfe anything he would be interested in. I really doubt it.”
“Maybe not,” I conceded. “But he would be the best judge of that. If you don't want me to come up there, how would it be if you called on Mr Wolfe at his office? West Thirty-fifth Street-it's in the phone book. Or I could run up now in a taxi and-”
“Oh, not now. Not today. I might be able to make it tomorrow-or Friday-”
I was a