Might as Well Be Dead

“It’s hopeless, isn’t it,” she said, not a question. I patted her shoulder professionally and told her we had barely started.

In the office again, Wolfe demanded, “Who is Bill Lesser?”

I told him, reporting it verbatim, including my phone call to Delia Brandt, and explaining I had hoped to get a glimmer from one or more of the quartet at sound of the name. He wasn’t very enthusiastic but admitted it was worth a look and said we would put Fred Durkin on it. I asked if I should phone Purley Stebbins, and he said no, it was too close to dinnertime and he wanted first to think over his talk with Mrs. Molloy’s friends.

He heaved a sigh. “Confound it,” he complained, “no gleam anywhere, no little fact that stings, no word that trips. I have no appetite!”

I snorted. “That’s the least of my worries,” I declared.

Chapter 12

I NEVER DID PHONE Purley because I didn’t have to. Fred Durkin called during dinner and said he had had no better luck at the theater and the bar than at the phone booth places, and I told him to come in, and he was there by the time we returned to the office with coffee. He had drawn nothing but blanks and I was glad we had a bone for him with a little meat on it. He was to do a take on William Lesser-address, occupation, and the trimmings-and specifically, had he been loose at 11:48 Wednesday night? That last seemed a waste of time and energy, since I had it entered that the Arkoffs and Irwins had never heard of him, but Wolfe wanted a little fact that stung and you never can tell. Just before Fred left Orrie Cather came.

Orrie brought a little package of items he had selected from the cartons in the Molloy apartment, and if they were the cream the milk must have been dishwater. He opened the package on my desk and we went through the treasure together, while Wolfe sat and read a book. There was a desk calendar with an entry on the leaf for January 2, Call B, and nothing else; a batch of South American travel folders; half a dozen books of matches from restaurants; a stack of carbon copies of letters, of which the most exciting was one to the Pearson Appliance Corporation telling them what he thought of their electric shaver; and more of the same.

“I don’t believe it,” I told Orrie. “You must have brought the wrong package.”

“Honest to God,” he swore. “Talk about drek, I never saw anything to equal it.”

“Not even check stubs?”

“Not a stub.”