had no personal problem like mine. I wasn’t fussing about the problem. That was settled. Until further notice I had only one use for my time and faculties: to find out who the strangler was that I had sent Priscilla Eads to in a taxi, and wrap him up for delivery to the proper address, with or without help. I had no great ideas about galloping down Broadway on a white horse with his head on the point of a spear. I just wanted to catch the sonofabitch, or at least help.
I considered the notion of helping. I could go to Inspector Cramer, explain my problem, and offer to stick strictly to orders if he would take me on as a special for the case. I might have done it but for the fact that Rowcliff would probably be giving some of the orders. Nothing on earth could justify a man’s deliberately putting himself under orders from Rowcliff. I gave that up. But then what? If I went to Priscilla’s apartment I wouldn’t be let in. If I got to Perry Helmar, supposing I could, he wouldn’t speak to me. I had to find a crack somewhere.
When I had finished the malted, and a glass of water for a chaser, I went to a phone booth, dialed the number of the
Gazette
, and got Lon Cohen.
“First,” I told him, “this call is strictly personal. Nero Wolfe is neither involved nor interested. With that understood, kindly tell me all facts, surmises, and rumors connected directly or indirectly with Miss Priscilla Eads and her murder.”
“The paper costs a nickel, son. I’m busy.”
“So am I. I can’t wait for the paper. Did she leave any relatives?”
“None in New York that we know of. A couple of aunts in California.”
“Have you got any kind of a line that you can mention on the phone?”
“Yes and no. Nothing exclusive. You know about her father’s will?”
“I know absolutely nothing.”
“Her mother died when she was an infant, and her father when she was fifteen. The cash and securities he left her, and the insurance, were nothing spectacular, but he set up a trust of ninety per cent of the stock of Softdown, Incorporated, a ten-million-dollar towel and textile business. The trustee was his friend and lawyer, Perry Helmar. Eighty per cent of the income of the trust was to go to Priscilla, and on her twenty-fifth birthday the whole works was to become her property. In case she died before her twenty-fifth birthday, the stock was to become the property of the officers and employees of the corporation. They were named in a schedule that was part of the will, with the amount to go to each one. Most of it went in big gobs to less than a dozen of them. Okay, she was killed six days before her twenty-fifth birthday. That is obviously a line, but it’s certainly not exclusive.”
“I’ll bet it’s not. The damn fool—I mean the father. What about the guy she married? I hear she ran away with him. Who was she running from? Her father was dead.”
“I don’t know—maybe the trustee; he was her guardian. That wasn’t here. She met him somewhere on a trip, down South I think. There’s very little on it in New York. What do you mean, Wolfe is neither involved nor interested?”
“Just that. He isn’t.”
“Ha-ha. I suppose you’re calling for a friend. Give him my regards. Have you got your dime’s worth?”
“For now, yes. I’ll buy you a steak at Pierre’s at seven-thirty.”
He made a smacking noise. “That’s the best offer I’ve had today. I hope I can make it. Ring me at seven?”
“Right. Much obliged.”
I hung up, pulled the door open, and got out a handkerchief and wiped my brow and behind my ears. The booth was hot. I stepped out, found the Manhattan phone book, looked up an address, went out and crossed Thirty-fourth Street, and got a taxi going east.
Chapter 5
T he headquarters of Softdown, Incorporated, at 192 Collins Street, in the middle of the ancient jungle between City Hall Park and Greenwich Village, was not an office or a floor, it was a building. Its four-storied front may
I considered the notion of helping. I could go to Inspector Cramer, explain my problem, and offer to stick strictly to orders if he would take me on as a special for the case. I might have done it but for the fact that Rowcliff would probably be giving some of the orders. Nothing on earth could justify a man’s deliberately putting himself under orders from Rowcliff. I gave that up. But then what? If I went to Priscilla’s apartment I wouldn’t be let in. If I got to Perry Helmar, supposing I could, he wouldn’t speak to me. I had to find a crack somewhere.
When I had finished the malted, and a glass of water for a chaser, I went to a phone booth, dialed the number of the
Gazette
, and got Lon Cohen.
“First,” I told him, “this call is strictly personal. Nero Wolfe is neither involved nor interested. With that understood, kindly tell me all facts, surmises, and rumors connected directly or indirectly with Miss Priscilla Eads and her murder.”
“The paper costs a nickel, son. I’m busy.”
“So am I. I can’t wait for the paper. Did she leave any relatives?”
“None in New York that we know of. A couple of aunts in California.”
“Have you got any kind of a line that you can mention on the phone?”
“Yes and no. Nothing exclusive. You know about her father’s will?”
“I know absolutely nothing.”
“Her mother died when she was an infant, and her father when she was fifteen. The cash and securities he left her, and the insurance, were nothing spectacular, but he set up a trust of ninety per cent of the stock of Softdown, Incorporated, a ten-million-dollar towel and textile business. The trustee was his friend and lawyer, Perry Helmar. Eighty per cent of the income of the trust was to go to Priscilla, and on her twenty-fifth birthday the whole works was to become her property. In case she died before her twenty-fifth birthday, the stock was to become the property of the officers and employees of the corporation. They were named in a schedule that was part of the will, with the amount to go to each one. Most of it went in big gobs to less than a dozen of them. Okay, she was killed six days before her twenty-fifth birthday. That is obviously a line, but it’s certainly not exclusive.”
“I’ll bet it’s not. The damn fool—I mean the father. What about the guy she married? I hear she ran away with him. Who was she running from? Her father was dead.”
“I don’t know—maybe the trustee; he was her guardian. That wasn’t here. She met him somewhere on a trip, down South I think. There’s very little on it in New York. What do you mean, Wolfe is neither involved nor interested?”
“Just that. He isn’t.”
“Ha-ha. I suppose you’re calling for a friend. Give him my regards. Have you got your dime’s worth?”
“For now, yes. I’ll buy you a steak at Pierre’s at seven-thirty.”
He made a smacking noise. “That’s the best offer I’ve had today. I hope I can make it. Ring me at seven?”
“Right. Much obliged.”
I hung up, pulled the door open, and got out a handkerchief and wiped my brow and behind my ears. The booth was hot. I stepped out, found the Manhattan phone book, looked up an address, went out and crossed Thirty-fourth Street, and got a taxi going east.
Chapter 5
T he headquarters of Softdown, Incorporated, at 192 Collins Street, in the middle of the ancient jungle between City Hall Park and Greenwich Village, was not an office or a floor, it was a building. Its four-storied front may
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