Cramer glared at him. "You know," he said, "one of the many reasons you're hard to take is that when you're being sarcastic you don't sound sarcastic. That's just one of your offensive habits. Okay, I'll see you get facts. What's this connection?"
"With the condition as stated."
"Hell yes. I'd hate to see you starve."
Wolfe turned to me. "Archie. That letter?"
I got it from under the paperweight and handed it to him.
"This," he told Cramer, "is a copy of a letter Miss Wellman wrote to her parents on Thursday, February first. She was killed the evening of the next day, Friday." He held it out, and Cramer got up to take it. "Read it all if you like, but the relevant part is the marked paragraph."
Cramer ran over it. He took his time, and then sat frowning at it. Looking up at Wolfe, he kept the frown. "I've seen that name somewhere. Baird Archer. Isn't that it?"
Wolfe nodded. "Shall we see how long it takes you to dig it up?"
"No. Where?"
"On the list of names written by Leonard Dykes which you came here to show me six weeks ago. It was seventh on the list, I think - possibly eighth. Not sixth."
"When did you first see this letter?"
"This evening. My client gave it to me."
"I'll be damned." Cramer gawked at him and at the relevant paragraph. He folded the letter with slow deliberate fingers and put it in his pocket.
"The original," Wolfe told him, "is in the possession of your colleague in the Bronx. That's my copy."
"Yeah. I'll borrow it." Cramer reached for his glass, took a swallow, and focused his eyes on a corner of Wolfe's arcwood desk. He took another swallow and went back to studying the desk. So alternating, two more swallows with intervals for desk study emptied the glass. He put it down on the little table.
"What else have you got?'
"Nothing."
"What have you done?"
"Nothing. Since I saw that letter, I have dined."
"I bet you have." Cramer came up out of his chair, still springy in spite of his years. "I'll be going. Damn it, I was going home."
He headed for the hall. I followed.
When I returned to the office after letting the law out, Wolfe was placidly opening a bottle of beer.
"What do you say," I suggested, "I get on the phone and call in Saul and Fred and Orrie, and you lay it out, and we set a deadline, sundown tomorrow would do, for solving both cases? Just to make a monkey out of Cramer?"
Wolfe scowled at me. "Confound it, don't bounce like that. This will be no skirmish. Mr. Cramer's men have been looking, more or less, for a Baird Archer for seven weeks. The Bronx men have been looking for one for seventeen days. Now they'll get serious about it. What if there isn't one?"
"We know there was enough of one to date Joan Wellman for February second."
"We do not. We know only that she wrote her parents that a stranger on the telephone had said he was Baird Archer, and that a manuscript of a novel bearing that name had been submitted to her employers, read by her, and returned in the mail to a Baird Archer at General Delivery." Wolfe shook his head. "No, this will be more than a skirmish. Before we're through Mr. Wellman may indeed be a pauper unless his rancor wears thin. Let the police do their part."
Knowing him as I did, I didn't care for that. I sat down. "Sitzlust again?" I demanded offensively.
"No. I said let the police do their part. This will take work. We'll start with the assumption, not risky I think, that Miss Wellman's letter to her parents was straightforward. If so, it had something for us besides the name of Baird Archer. He asked her if anyone else had read his manuscript and she said no. It could have been an innocent question, but in the light of what happened to her it raises a point. Was she killed because she had read the manuscript? As a conjecture that is not inane. How many public stenographers are there in the city? Say in Manhattan?"
"I don't know. Five hundred. Five thousand."
"Not thousands surely. People who make presentable copies of documents or manuscripts from drafts."
"That's typing services, not public stenographers."
"Very well." Wolfe drank beer and leaned back. "I thought of suggesting this to Mr. Cramer, but if we're to spend some of Mr. Wellman's money this is as good a way to start as any. I would like to know what that novel was about. Baird Archer may have typed the manuscript himself, but he may not. We'll put Saul and Fred and Orrie on a round of the typing services. Have them here at eight in the morning and I'll give them instructions. There is a possibility not only of learning about the novel, but also of getting a description of Baird Archer." ^
"Right." This was more like it. "It wouldn't hurt me to stretch my legs too."
"You will. There's a chance, though this may be slimmer, that the novel had previously been submitted to another publisher. It's worth trying. Start with the better firms, of the class of Scholl and Hanna. But not tomorrow. Tomorrow get all you can from the police files on both Miss Wellman and Dykes, covering everything. For instance, did Dykes have a typewriter in his apartment?"
I lifted a brow. "Do you think Dykes was Baird Archer?"
"I don't know. He wrote that list of names, obviously inventions. He certainly wasn't Baird Archer on February second, since he had been dead five weeks. You will also go to Scholl and Hanna. In spite of what Miss Wellman wrote her parents, it's possible that someone else read that manuscript, or at least glanced through it. Or Miss Wellman may have said something about it to one of her associates. Or, less likely, Baird Archer may have delivered the manuscript in person and be remembered - of course that was last fall, months ago." Wolfe heaved a sigh and reached for his glass. "I suggest that you extend the deadline beyond sundown tomorrow."
"What the hell," I said generously, "I'll give you till Friday."
It was just as well I didn't say what Friday.
4
WHAT with getting Saul and Fred and Orrie sicked onto the typing services, and dealing with the morning mail, and going to the bank to deposit Wellman's check, it was well after ten o'clock Tuesday when I got to Cramer's office on Twentieth Street. He wasn't there but had left instructions with Sergeant Purley Stebbins. I am one of the few people Purley knows that he has not completely made up his mind about. Since I'm a private detective, the sooner I die, or at least get lost outside the city limits, the better - of course that's basic, but he can't quite get rid of the suspicion that I might have made a good cop if I had been caught in time.
I not only got a look at the files, I even got to talk with two of the help who had worked on Dykes and one from the Bronx who had worked on Joan Wellman. By the time I left, a little before three, I had a lot in my notebook and more in my head.
For here I'll trim it down. Leonard Dykes, forty-one, found banging up against a pile in the East River on New Year's Day, had for eight years been a clerk, not a member of the bar, in the office of the law firm of Corrigan, Phelps, Kustin and Briggs. Up to a year ago the firm's name had been O'Malley, Corrigan and Phelps, but O'Malley had been disbarred and there had been a reorganization. Dykes had been unmarried, sober, trustworthy, and competent. He had played cards every Tuesday evening with friends, for small stakes. He had twelve thousand dollars in government bonds and a savings account, and thirty shares of United States Steel, which had been inherited by a married sister who lived in California, his only close relative. No one discoverable had hated or feared him or wished him ill. One sentence in one report said, "No women at all." There was a photograph of him after he had been hauled out of the river, not attractive, and one of him alive that had been taken from his apartment. To be objective, I'll put it that he had been less unattractive before drowning than after. He had had popeyes, and his chin had started backing up about a quarter of an inch below his mouth.