Then, back in the office, I sat and listened to Wolfe breathe some more. It went on for minutes that added up to an hour. Finally he opened his eyes, straightened up, and took from his pocket some folded papers which I recognized as sheets torn from his memo pad.
“Your notebook, Archie,” he said like a man who has made up his mind.
I got it from the drawer and uncapped my pen.
“If this doesn't work,” he growled at me, as if it were all my fault, “there will be no other recourse. I have tried to twist it so as to leave an alternative if it fails, but it can't be done. We'll either get him with this or not at all On plain paper, double-spaced, two carbons.” “Heading or date?” “None.” He gazed, frowning, at the sheets he had taken from his pocket. “First paragraph: “At eight o'clock in the evening of August 19, 1948, twenty men were gathered in a living-room on the ninth floor of an apartment house on East 84th Street, Manhattan. All of them were high in the councils of the American Communist Party, and this meeting was one of a series to decide strategy and tactics for controlling the election campaign of the Progressive Party and its candidate for President of the United States, Henry Wallace. One of them, a tall lanky man with a clipped brown moustache, was saying: “ ‘We must never forget that we can't trust Wallace. While we're playing him up we must remember that any minute he might pull something that will bring an order from Policy to let go of him.’ “ ‘Policy’ is the word the top American Communists use when they mean Moscow or the Kremlin. It may be a precaution, though it's hard to see why they need one when they are in secret session, or it may be merely their habit of calling nothing by its right name.
“Another of them, a beefy man with a bald head and a pudgy face, spoke up.” Wolfe, referring frequently to the sheets he had taken from his pocket, kept on until I had filled thirty-two pages of my notebook, then stopped, sat a while with his lips puckered, and told me to type it. I did so, double spacing as instructed. As I finished a page I handed it over to him and he went to work on it with a pencil. He rarely made changes in anything he had dictated and I had typed, but apparently he regarded this as something extra special. I fully agreed with him. That stuff, getting warmer as it went along, contained dozens of details that nobody lower than a Deputy Commissar had any right to know about-provided they were true. That was a point I would have liked to ask Wolfe about, but if the job was supposed to be finished when Lon Cohen arrived there was no time to spare, so I postponed it.
I had the last page out of the typewriter, but Wolfe was still fussing with it, when the bell rang and I went to the front and let Lon in.
Lon had been rank and file, or maybe only rank, when I first met him, but was now second in command at the Gazette's city desk. As far as I knew his elevation had gone to his head only in one little way: he kept a hairbrush in his desk, and every night when he was through, before making a dash for the refreshment counter he favoured, he brushed his hair good. Except for that there wasn't a thing wrong with him.
He shook hands with Wolfe and turned on me.
“You crook, you told me if I didn't stop-oh, here it is. Hello, Fritz. You're the only one here I can trust.” He lifted the highball from the tray, nodded at Wolfe, swallowed a third of it, and sat in the red leather chair.
“I brought the stationery,” he announced. “Three sheets. You can have it and welcome if you'll give me a first on how someone named Sperling wilfully and deliberately did one Louis Rony to death.” “That,” Wolfe said, “is precisely what I have to offer.” Lon's head jerked up. “Someone named Sperling?” he snapped.
“No. I shouldn't have said ‘precisely’. The name will have to wait. But the rest of it, yes.” “Damn it, it's midnight! You can't expect-” “Not tonight. Nor tomorrow. But if and when I have it, you'll get it first.” Lon looked at him. He had entered the room loose and carefree and thirsty, but now he was back at work again. An exclusive on the murder of Louis Rony was nothing to relax about.
“For that,” he said, “you'd want more than three letterheads, even with envelopes. What if I throw in postage stamps?” Wolfe nodded. “That would be generous. But I have something else to offer. How would you like to have, for your paper only, a series of articles, authenticated for you, describing secret meetings of the group that controls the American Communist Party, giving the details of discussions and decisions?” Lon cocked his head to one side. “All you need,” he declared, “is long white whiskers and a red suit' “No, I'm too fat. Would that interest you?” “It ought to. Who would do the authenticating?” “I would.” “You mean with your by-line?” “Good heavens, no. The articles would be anonymous. But I would give my warranty, in writing if desired, that the source of information is competent and reliable.” “Who would have to be paid and how much?” “No one. Nothing.” “Hell, you don't even need whiskers. What would the details be like?” Wolfe turned. “Let him read it, Archie.” I took Lon the original copy of what I had typed, and he put his glass down on the table at his elbow, to have two hands. There were seven pages. He started reading fast, then went slower, and when he reached the end returned to the first page and reread it. Meanwhile I refilled his glass and, knowing that Fritz was busy, went to the kitchen for beer for Wolfe.
Also I thought I could stand a highball myself, and supplied one.
Lon put the sheets on the table, saw that his glass had been attended to, and helped himself.
“It's hot,” he admitted.
“Fit to print, I think,” Wolfe said modestly.
“Sure it is. How about libel?” “There is none. There will be none. No names or addresses are used.” “Yeah, I know, but an action might be brought anyhow. Your source would have to be available for testimony.” “No, sir.” Wolfe was emphatic. “My source is covered and will stay covered. You may have my warranty, and a bond for libel damages if you want it, but that's all.” “Well- ' Lon drank. “I love it. But I've got bosses, and on a thing like this they would have to decide. Tomorrow is Friday, and they-good God, what's this?
Don't tell me-Archie, come and look!” I had to go anyway, to remove the papers so Fritz could put the tray on the table. It was really a handsome platter. The steak was thick and brown with charcoal braid, the grilled slices of sweet potato and sauteed mushrooms were just right, the water-cress was high at one end out of danger, and the overall smell made me wish I had asked Fritz to make a carbon.
“Now I know,” Lon said, “it's all a dream. Archie, I would have sworn you phoned me to come down here. Okay, I'll dream on.” He sliced through the steak, letting the juice come, cut off a bite, and opened wide for it. Next came a bite of sweet potato, followed by a mushroom. I watched him the way I have seen dogs watch when they're allowed near the table. It was too much. I went to the kitchen, came back with two slices of bread on a plate, and thrust it at him.