The Missing Chapter

Hobbs blinked. “An interesting query, not that I would have expected less from you. But then, I am sure you are skilled at keeping unsuspecting people like me off balance. Let me see... I suppose I learned about the suicide — the death — in the Gazette. Yes, yes, I did. I remember now. I was actually in the office that morning. The first edition got dropped on my desk, and as I was thumbing through it, I saw the obituary. I was interested, of course, and no sooner had I finished reading it than the phone rang. It was the cultural affairs editor, inquiring if I knew Mr. Childress well enough to write a personal reminiscence, as a second-day story. I told him — truthfully — that I did not know the man at all, and that was the end of it.”

“Had you ever been in his apartment?”

Hobbs jerked upright. “I... had... not,” he said in an offended tone. “I am surprised you would ask such a question. I make it a point not to socialize with writers, and even if I did, Mr. Childress patently would not have been among them.”

“Did you know that Mr. Childress owned a gun?” Wolfe went on, unfazed.

“Not until I read that it was the weapon that killed him.” Hobbs sniffed. “But I was not surprised. I own a firearm myself. Although my building’s security system appears to be adequate, in this city one can never be too cautious.”

“Do you have any theories about Mr. Childress’s death?”

“I assumed — and still do — that he took his own life. What’s so unusual about that?” Hobbs shot back contentiously. “A lot of creative people, and far more talented ones than Childress, I hasten to add, have killed themselves, for whatever reasons: despair, depression, inability to live up to their earlier works or their reviews or their pathetically inflated self-images. Now I really must go,” he said, looking at his watch with a flourish. “I do not know who your client is, although I can guess. If you will take the advice of someone who has been following the literary cavalcade in this city, and across the country, for more than twenty years, stop jousting with windmills. Charles Childress put an end to his own life. Now, I really must be going. Mr. Wolfe, Mr. Goodwin.” Hobbs stood and bowed to each of us. “Good day.”

“One last thing,” I asked. “Is this by any chance yours?” I held out the key to Hobbs. He plucked it from my palm, contemplated it at arm’s length, and shrugged, handing it back. “No — not at all. Why?”

“Just a stab,” I said. “Any objection to showing me your keys?”

Hobbs glared. “As a matter of fact, I do,” the little man said. “I see no earthly reason to indulge the fantasies and fishing expeditions of private investigators, whether or not they are licensed by the state. Various governments around the world license peddlers and prostitutes, too, among others. Again, good day to you both.” With that, he bowed again, and it was a fine bow, although the gesture was wearing thin with me.

I followed Hobbs to the front hall, where he retrieved his precious bowler and walking stick, favored me with a faint smile — or maybe it was a sneer — and stepped out the door, presumably in search of a taxi. Here’s hoping all the cabbies in Manhattan were on their coffee breaks.

Eight

“Interesting specimen,” I said to Wolfe when I got back to the office. “Just the kind of guy you’d like to sit around with shooting the breeze.”

He snorted. “Mr. Childress was correct; the man is a preening poseur.”

“Sounds right to me. Say, here’s an idea: I tell Lon Cohen that unless he finds a way to get Hobbs tossed off the Gazette, he won’t ever get any more invitations to dinner here.”

Wolfe picked up his book and snorted again. “Archie, the fabric of your humor is frayed. Have you made arrangements to see Mr. Childress’s editor?”

I was about to respond when the phone rang. As if on cue, it was the individual in question, Keith Billings, returning my call. Billings sounded harried, so I didn’t waste words. “I work for Nero Wolfe, who is investigating Charles Childress’s death, and I would like to see you for a few minutes, preferably today.”

“Why?” he snapped.

“We are talking to everyone who knew Childress, in the hope that we can learn—”

“That you can learn how to turn his death from a suicide into a murder, right? I know enough about your famous boss to be aware that murder is his métier — not to mention a very profitable livelihood.”

“Then you also should be aware that Mr. Wolfe has a respect for facts. He doesn’t twist or alter them, and he certainly doesn’t have to manufacture murders in order to get business. A client is convinced that Mr. Childress was killed, and Mr. Wolfe happens to agree.”

“Just who is this client?” Billings fired back.

“Sorry, that’s something I cannot divulge at this time.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured. You’re on a fishing expedition.”

“Look, I realize you and Childress weren’t exactly the best of friends, but—”