The Missing Chapter

“The inspector hurled his cigar at the wastebasket, missing of course, and then he marched out. He was not smiling.”

“Who picked up the stogie?” I asked, glancing at the wastebasket. “That’s usually my job.”

“I did.” Wolfe’s voice was icy. “I have washed my hands twice since.”

“You have been through a lot, especially the way Cramer gnaws on those things. Well, what next?”

“Report.”

I did, unloading an account of my visit with Lon. After I finished, Wolfe unloaded a laundry list of instructions. The first was to go to Childress’s apartment and give the place a thorough combing, although, as he grumpily pointed out, “an army of others, including our well-intentioned client, have tromped through, likely obliterating any traces the murderer might have been thoughtful enough to leave.”

The next item was to visit Charles Childress’s fiancée, Debra Mitchell, who, Vinson had informed us, worked as a vice president for public relations at the Global Broadcasting Company, one of the TV networks that presumes to shape our national culture.

At nine-forty the next morning, Thursday, a messenger wearing Spandex pants and an inane grin delivered a cashier’s check for twenty-five thousand dollars and a small brown envelope from Vinson. The latter contained the keys to Childress’s apartment and a note from Vinson giving the building’s address and the name of the superintendent. After hoofing it to our neighborhood branch of the Metropolitan Trust Company and depositing the check, I flagged a southbound cab and gave him an address on what turned out to be a block-long, tree-lined street in the Village just west and a little south of Washington Square.

Childress’s building was a five-story brick number that had been rehabbed, probably in the last few years, judging from its tuck-pointed and well-scrubbed facade. I entered the small and gloomy foyer, noted on the mailbox that C. CHILDRESS occupied 1-A, and used one of the keys from Vinson to open the inside door. I found myself in a hallway that led toward the back of the building. The first door on my right was 1-A, and this time I had to use two keys, one of which released the dead-bolt lock.

The place was stale and airless, hardly surprising given it had been closed up for a week. I started in the living room, which faced the street. The carpeting was beige and the furniture nondescript — a tired and slightly lopsided burgundy sofa, two easy chairs, the yellow one of which looked new, a TV set in a mahogany cabinet, a couple of unmatched mahogany end tables with unmatched lamps, and a cherry wood coffee table whose glass top was littered with recent copies of The New York Times, The New Yorker, and The Economist. The only picture on the yellow-and-brown striped papered walls was a print of a Renoir, the original of which, as she will be delighted to tell you, hangs in the sunroom of Lily Rowan’s penthouse.

A copy of Childress’s Death in the North Meadow lay on one of the end tables. I covered my hand with a handkerchief and flipped through it, finding no loose papers or notations. I was interested, however, in the author’s head-and-shoulders photograph, which was on the back inside flap of the dust jacket along with his thumbnail biography. He looked younger than I had pictured, but no less surly. His face, topped by well-tended, sandy hair, was triangular — wide cheekbones tapering to a narrow, clefted chin. The dark eyes glowered, and a tight-lipped mouth turned down at one end. From this image, it was difficult to conceive of Charles Childress smiling or breaking into laughter.

I’ve searched scores — maybe hundreds — of rooms; I like to think I’m as good as anybody in the business, and that includes Saul Panzer. I scoured the Childress apartment from baseboards to light fixtures — living room, two bedrooms, one of which had been converted to an office, kitchen, and bathroom — in seventy-five minutes, including seat cushions, bookcases, and bureau and desk drawers. On the hardwood floor in the room used as an office were dark stains I assumed to be blood. But if there were any clues as to who plugged the apartment’s tenant, they slipped by me. I was paging through the last of the volumes in the living room bookcase when a key turned in the front-door lock. A short, burly, sixtyish guy wearing brown coveralls stepped into the room. He was panting.

“I’m Carlucci, the super,” he announced, tilting his chin up defiantly and panting some more. “Heard somebody was in here. Can I help you?”

“Maybe,” I answered in a pleasant voice. “Mr. Vinson, whom I believe you’ve met, gave me the keys.” I held them and my notebook up. “I’m doing some checking on the contents of the dwelling.”

“Oh, insurance stuff, eh?” The defiance seeped away. “Yeah, I s’pose you have to do that, huh?”