The Missing Chapter

“First I telephoned his fiancée, Debra Mitchell — I told you about her when I was at your home — and then I called one of his aunts out in Indiana, a woman named Melva Meeker. After his mother died a couple of years ago, Charles had described Mrs. Meeker to me as his closest relative, and he’d made her the executor of his estate. When I broke the news to her, she sounded quite stoic, almost disconcertingly without emotion. At least that was the impression I got on the phone. I know this sounds terrible, but all I could think about was how relieved I was that she didn’t break down when we talked. She also didn’t want to come to New York — she was quite adamant about that. But she asked if I would sift through her nephew’s personal effects and send back anything of either actual or sentimental value.”

“And you did?” Wolfe asked.

“Yes. She sent a notarized letter, giving me permission to go through Charles’s apartment. I got the keys from the police after they had verified with Mrs. Meeker that such was her wish, and I went to the apartment with my administrative assistant; her name is Laura Pyle. A sad experience, that was, like wandering through a cemetery. Anyway, Laura and I packed up two cartons of things and shipped them back to Indiana — his jewelry, which was mainly a wristwatch, a few rings, and some cufflinks — plus scrapbooks of his clippings and reviews, copies of some of his books, albums filled with family pictures, three bank passbooks, and a couple of stock certificates. His only safety deposit box, it turns out, is back in his hometown in Indiana.”

“Did Mr. Childress have a life insurance policy?”

“He did not, not a penny’s worth,” Vinson said with disgust. “That came up once in a conversation we had a couple years back. I looked upon Charles — and several of our other young writers, as well — the way a parent might look upon his offspring. Not long after he had signed with Monarch, I talked to Charles and asked, in a general way, of course, if he was properly planning for the future. That question might seem rude, but I’ve known too many writers who have no financial sense whatever, and who ended up in pretty sad shape. He told me about a few investments he’d made, and when I mentioned life insurance, he laughed, said he didn’t need it. He said he didn’t have anybody to worry about but himself.”

“Perhaps his attitude changed when he became engaged to Miss Mitchell,” Wolfe suggested.

“I don’t think so,” Vinson said. “When he told me he was going to get married, I brought the subject up again, and he brushed it off. I remember what he said: ‘Give it up, Horace, I’m not the insurance-buying type. The only thing I’d need a policy for is my funeral and burial costs, and the potter’s field is good enough for me.’ It sounded humorous at the time.”

Wolfe drew in air and expelled it. “What is left in the apartment?”

“All his clothes and books, for one thing,” Vinson said. “His aunt doesn’t want them, so I’ve arranged for them to be taken away by the Salvation Army. And his personal computer — that will be sold, with the proceeds going to his estate. He had what he told me a few weeks ago was an almost-completed Barnstable novel on disks, and — I know this sounds unseemly — we plan to see whether we can get it in shape to publish. I haven’t looked at it yet, but I’m going to in the next few days. His estate would of course share in any profits the book made.”

“Can you facilitate a visit to the apartment by Mr. Goodwin?” Wolfe asked.

“Certainly, no problem at all. Do you have any idea what he, and you, expect to find?”

“I do not. The scavenger must ever be open to what awaits. I regret that I must now attend to other business. Mr. Goodwin is on the line, however, and he will require particulars regarding several individuals he will be visiting.”

Wolfe cradled his receiver, and I took over our end of the conversation, getting addresses and in some cases, phone numbers. Vinson promised he would have the keys to Childress’s apartment sent over by messenger. I thanked him and said that he’d be hearing soon from Wolfe or me.

“All right, what gives?” I asked after hanging up as I swiveled to face Wolfe. “Just what happened while I was away?”

He poured beer and watched the foam dissipate. “About ten minutes after you left, Mr. Cramer arrived, in his usual state of dudgeon. Because of your call to Sergeant Stebbins yesterday, the inspector assumed we were probing Mr. Childress’s death, and he was affronted.”

“As only Cramer can be affronted.”

“Yes. I won’t go into irrelevant detail, but he accused me of trying to generate business by manufacturing a murder where none exists.”

“Déjà vu all over again.”

Wolfe grimaced at my Yogi Berra-ism. “I saw no need to defend myself by pointing out that we did not originate the murder theory. Cramer continued to badger me, however, until I became affronted. That was his mistake.”

“But our bank account’s gain,” I observed.