two or three other questions he must have wanted to ask Browning, but he didn’t. He merely remarked that he doubted if Mr. Farquhar or the other guests were in the bomb business and then said, “And you, Mr. Abbott?” and my eyes left the notebook.
“I resent this,” Abbott said. “I knew Pete Odell for twenty years and we worked together for ten of them, and I have a warm and deep sympathy for his wife, his widow, but this is ridiculous. I assumed you would have some new angle, some new approach, but all you’re doing, you’re starting the same old grind. Each of us has spent long hours with the police, answering questions and signing statements, and while we want to oblige Mrs. Odell, naturally we do, I certainly don’t think she should expect us to repeat the whole performance with you. Why doesn’t she ask the police to let you see their files? In one of them you’ll find out how I spent that weekend. I spent it at home, near Tarrytown. There were guests. I played golf all day and bridge at night. But I repeat, this is ridiculous.”
A corner of Wolfe’s mouth was up. “Then it would be fruitless to continue,” he said—not complaining, just stating a fact. He put his hands on the edge of his desk for purchase, pushed his chair back, and rose. “I’ll have to contrive a new approach. On behalf of Mrs. Odell, I thank you again for coming. Good evening.” He moved, detoured again between the wall and the red leather chair, and, out in the hall, turned left.
“I’ll be damned,” Theodore Falk said.
I think they all said things, but if any of it was important, that will be a gap in this report. I wasn’t listening, as I went through the appropriate motions for godspeeding a flock of guests. I had heard enough, more than enough, for one evening. I didn’t even notice who went with whom as they descended the seven steps of the stoop to the sidewalk. Closing the door and sliding the chainbolt in its slot, I went to the kitchen. Fritz, who had kept handy to fill orders for refreshments if called for, was perched on the stool by the big center table with a magazine, but his eyes weren’t on it. They were on Wolfe, who was standing, scowling at a glass of beer in his hand, waiting for the bead to settle to the right level.
“It’s going on eleven o’clock,” I said. “I would love to start on it right now, but I suppose I can’t.”
“Of course not,” he growled. He drank beer. “Do we need to discuss it?”
“I don’t think so.” I went and got a bottle of scotch from the cupboard. There are times when milk will not do. “I have a suggestion. Do you want it?”
He said yes, and I gave it to him.
7
a t five minutes past eleven Tuesday morning, I was seated in a comfortable chair at the end of a big, expensive desk in a big, expensive room on the thirtieth floor of a big, expensive building on Broad Street, near Wall, facing a man whose tan was much deeper than Theodore Falk’s—so deep that his hide might have been bronze.
Getting to him had been simple, but first I had had to confirm that he existed and owned a yacht. At one minute past nine I had dialed the number of the magazine Fore and Aft ; no answer. Modern office hours. Half an hour later I got them, and was told by a man, after I held the wire while he looked it up, that a man named James J. Farquhar had a fifty-eight-foot Derecktor cruiser named Prospero . So it was a yacht, not just a rowboat with a mast or an outboard motor. Next I dialed the number of the Federal Holding Corporation, and via two women and a man, which was par, got through to Avery Ballou. He sounded as if he still remembered what Wolfe and I had done for him three years ago, and still appreciated it. I told him we needed a little favor and asked if he knew a banker named James Farquhar.
“Sure,” he said. “He’s next to the top at Trinity Fiduciary. What has he done?”
“As far as I know, nothing. It isn’t another paternity problem. I
“I resent this,” Abbott said. “I knew Pete Odell for twenty years and we worked together for ten of them, and I have a warm and deep sympathy for his wife, his widow, but this is ridiculous. I assumed you would have some new angle, some new approach, but all you’re doing, you’re starting the same old grind. Each of us has spent long hours with the police, answering questions and signing statements, and while we want to oblige Mrs. Odell, naturally we do, I certainly don’t think she should expect us to repeat the whole performance with you. Why doesn’t she ask the police to let you see their files? In one of them you’ll find out how I spent that weekend. I spent it at home, near Tarrytown. There were guests. I played golf all day and bridge at night. But I repeat, this is ridiculous.”
A corner of Wolfe’s mouth was up. “Then it would be fruitless to continue,” he said—not complaining, just stating a fact. He put his hands on the edge of his desk for purchase, pushed his chair back, and rose. “I’ll have to contrive a new approach. On behalf of Mrs. Odell, I thank you again for coming. Good evening.” He moved, detoured again between the wall and the red leather chair, and, out in the hall, turned left.
“I’ll be damned,” Theodore Falk said.
I think they all said things, but if any of it was important, that will be a gap in this report. I wasn’t listening, as I went through the appropriate motions for godspeeding a flock of guests. I had heard enough, more than enough, for one evening. I didn’t even notice who went with whom as they descended the seven steps of the stoop to the sidewalk. Closing the door and sliding the chainbolt in its slot, I went to the kitchen. Fritz, who had kept handy to fill orders for refreshments if called for, was perched on the stool by the big center table with a magazine, but his eyes weren’t on it. They were on Wolfe, who was standing, scowling at a glass of beer in his hand, waiting for the bead to settle to the right level.
“It’s going on eleven o’clock,” I said. “I would love to start on it right now, but I suppose I can’t.”
“Of course not,” he growled. He drank beer. “Do we need to discuss it?”
“I don’t think so.” I went and got a bottle of scotch from the cupboard. There are times when milk will not do. “I have a suggestion. Do you want it?”
He said yes, and I gave it to him.
7
a t five minutes past eleven Tuesday morning, I was seated in a comfortable chair at the end of a big, expensive desk in a big, expensive room on the thirtieth floor of a big, expensive building on Broad Street, near Wall, facing a man whose tan was much deeper than Theodore Falk’s—so deep that his hide might have been bronze.
Getting to him had been simple, but first I had had to confirm that he existed and owned a yacht. At one minute past nine I had dialed the number of the magazine Fore and Aft ; no answer. Modern office hours. Half an hour later I got them, and was told by a man, after I held the wire while he looked it up, that a man named James J. Farquhar had a fifty-eight-foot Derecktor cruiser named Prospero . So it was a yacht, not just a rowboat with a mast or an outboard motor. Next I dialed the number of the Federal Holding Corporation, and via two women and a man, which was par, got through to Avery Ballou. He sounded as if he still remembered what Wolfe and I had done for him three years ago, and still appreciated it. I told him we needed a little favor and asked if he knew a banker named James Farquhar.
“Sure,” he said. “He’s next to the top at Trinity Fiduciary. What has he done?”
“As far as I know, nothing. It isn’t another paternity problem. I
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