Champagne for One

The de-tailing operation went fine, without a hitch. Going crosstown on Thirty-fourth Street, it was a temptation to swing down Park or Lexington to Twenty-eighth, so as to pass Number 214 and see if I recognized the two in the taxi, but since they might also recognize me I vetoed it and gave them plenty of room by continuing to Second Avenue before turning downtown, then west on Twenty-seventh. It was at the rear entrance on Twenty-seventh that the Perlman Paper Company did its loading and unloading, but no truck was there when I arrived, and I rolled to the curb at 2:49, just nineteen minutes since Laidlaw had phoned, and at 2:52 here he came trotting across the sidewalk. I opened the door and he piled in.

He looked upset. "Relax," I told him as I fed gas. "A tail is a trifle. They won’t go in to ask about you for at least half an hour, if at all, and Abe will say he took you to the rear to show you some stock, and you left that way."

"It’s not the tail. I want to see Wolfe." His tone indicated that his plan was to get him down and tramp on him, so I left him to his mood. Crossing town, I considered whether there was enough of a chance that the brownstone was under surveillance to warrant taking him in the back way, through the passage between buildings on Thirty-fourth Street, decided no, and went up Eighth Avenue to Thirty-fifth. As usual, there was no space open in front of the brownstone, so I went on to the garage and left the car, and walked back with him. When we entered the office I was at his heels. He didn’t have the build to get Wolfe’s bulk down and trample on it without help, but after all, he was the only one of the bunch, as it stood then, who had had dealings with Faith Usher that might have produced a motive for murder, and if a man has once murdered you never know what he’ll do next.

He didn’t move a finger. In fact, he didn’t even move his tongue. He stood at the corner of Wolfe’s desk looking down at him, and after five seconds I realized that he was too mad, or too scared, or both, to speak, and I took his elbow and eased him to the red leather chair and into it.

"Well, sir?" Wolfe asked.

The client pushed his hair back, though he must have known by then that it was a waste of energy. "I may be wrong," he croaked. "I hope to God I am. Did you send a note to the District Attorney telling him that I am the father of Faith Usher’s child?"

"No." Wolfe’s lips tightened. "I did not."

Laidlaw’s head jerked to me. "Did you?"

"No. Of course not."