Murder by the Book

"Yes." Wellman hesitated, opening his mouth and closing it again. He glanced at me and returned to Wolfe. "I tell you, Mr. Wolfe, I am willing to admit that what I am doing is vin-dictive and wicked. My wife thinks it is, and so does the pastor of my church. I was home one day last week, and they both said so. It is sinful to be vindictive, but here I am, and I'm going through with it. Even if it was just a hit-and-run acci-dent I don't think the police are going to find him, and what-ever it was I'm not going back to Peoria and sell groceries until he's found and made to pay for it. I've got a good paying business, and I own some property, and I never figured on dying a pauper, but I will if I have to, to get the murderous criminal that killed my daughter. Maybe I shouldn't say that. I don't know you too well, I only know you by reputation, and maybe you won't want to work for a man who can say an unchristian thing like that, so maybe it's a mistake to say it, but I want to be honest about it."

Wellman took his glasses off and started wiping them with a handkerchief. That showed his better side. He didn't want to embarrass Wolfe by keeping his eyes on him while Wolfe was deciding whether to take on a job for such an implacable bastard as John R. Wellman of Peoria, Illinois.

"I'll be honest too," Wolfe said dryly. "The morality of vengenance is not a factor in my acceptance or refusal of a case. But it was a mistake for you to say it, because I would have asked for a retainer of two thousand dollars and now I'll make it five thousand. Not merely to gouge you, though. Since the police have turned up nothing in seventeen days, it will probably take a lot of Work and money. With a few more facts I'll have enough to start on."

"I wanted to be honest about it," Wellman insisted.

When he left, half an hour later, his check was under a paperweight on my desk, along with the copy of Joan Well-man's last letter home, and there was an assortment of facts in my notebook-plenty, as Wolfe had said, for a start. I went to the hall with him and helped him on with his coat. When I opened the door to let him out he wanted to shake hands, and I was glad to oblige.

"You're sure you won't mind," he asked, "if I ring you fairly often? Just to find out if there's anything new? I'll try not to make a nuisance of myself, but I'm like that. I'm persistent."

"Any time," I assured him. "I can always say 'no progress'."

"He is good, isn't he? Mr. Wolfe?"

"He's the best." I made it positive,