Might as Well Be Dead

“Maybe a suggestion,” Saul offered. “Archie might phone Lon Cohen at the Gazette and ask him to give me a good print of a picture of Molloy. That would be better than a newspaper reproduction.”

The other three exchanged glances. They were all good operatives, and it would have been interesting to know, as a check on their talents, whether they had all caught the possibility as quickly as Saul had that Molloy had himself been Richard Randall. There was no point in asking them, since they would all have said yes.

“That will be done,” Wolfe told him. “Anything else?”

“No, sir.”

Wolfe came to me. “Archie. You’ve gone through Mr. Freyer’s file and seen the report on Miss Delia Brandt, Molloy’s secretary at the time of his death. You know where to find her.”

“Right.”

“Please do so. If she has anything we can use, get it. Since you are working for Mrs. Molloy you may need her approval. If so, get that.”

Saul smiled. Orrie laughed. Johnny tittered. Fred grinned.

Chapter 8

I JOINED WOLFE in the dining room at seven-fifteen as usual, and sat at table, but I didn’t really dine because I had an eight-thirty date down in the Village and had to rush it some. Par for Wolfe from clams to cheese is an hour and a half.

Dating Delia Brandt hadn’t been any strain on my talents. I had got her on the phone at the first try, given her my own name and occupation, and told her I had been asked by a client to see her and find out if she could supply enough material on Michael M. Molloy, her late employer, for a magazine article under her by-line, to be ghosted by the client. The proceeds would be split. After a few questions she said she would be willing to consider it and would be at home for me at eight-thirty. So I hurried a little with the roast duckling and left Wolfe alone with the salad.

It wouldn’t have hurt the house at 43 Arbor Street any to get the same treatment as the one at 171 East 52nd. The outside could have used some paint, and a do-it-yourself elevator would have been a big improvement on the narrow, dingy wooden stairs. Three flights up, she was not waiting on the threshold to greet me, and, finding no button to push, I tapped on the door. From the time it took her you might have thought she had to traverse a spacious reception hall, but when the door opened the room was right there. I spoke.

“My name’s Goodwin. I phoned.”

“Oh,” she said, “of course. I had forgotten. Come in.”