The Missing Chapter

Debra threw up her manicured hands. “You’ve been questioning people for years, for God’s sake. Use whatever works. How much is Horace paying you?”

I hid a smile behind my hand as Wolfe’s eyes grew large. “If you were to reflect upon that question, I believe you would see it as inappropriate,” he parried. This female was clearly pushing her luck.

“I don’t see it as inappropriate at all,” she told him firmly, tilting her head back. “I have some money socked away, a fair amount, actually. As I told Mr. Goodwin when he came to my office, my late uncle was a pioneer in developing a computer chip, and he was generous to me in his will — very generous. Anyway, whatever Horace is paying you, I will top it by a substantial amount. You will find me easy to negotiate with.”

“Your proposal is nonsensical, as you undoubtedly realize,” he declared. “Were I to start changing clients in mid-case, word of such harlequinade would spread, and soon I would be a pariah among those seeking to enlist the aid of a private investigator. Further, what you obviously desire is a resolution in which Miss Royce is found guilty of Mr. Childress’s murder. I do not accept commissions that are contingent upon a specific finding, or that coerce me, however subtly, to reach such a finding. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a prior engagement.” Wolfe rose, dipped his chin in his guest’s direction, and stomped out.

“My God, he’s arrogant,” Debra Mitchell said to me in the wake of Wolfe’s departure.

“He tends toward brevity,” I told her. “Some interpret that as arrogance.”

“Put me down as one of them,” she replied caustically. “Tell me, you did interview Patricia, didn’t you?”

“Yes, not long after I visited you.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “And what did you think of her?”

“She seemed straightforward. Said her relationship with Childress was not a romantic one.”

“Which of course is precisely what she would say. And I’ll bet she also said she was positive he committed suicide, right?”

“Right.”

“Did you find her believable?”

“That’s a tough question,” I responded. “Through the years, I’ve been lied to by experts, and I must admit that a few of them got away with it. But overall, I like to think I’ve got a pretty good batting average when it comes to reading people. On balance, I think she was straight.”

Debra tilted her head back and sent me what I would call a knowing smile. “So she fooled you, too, eh? What did she say about me?”

I gave her my own knowing smile. “I’m not sure you want to hear it.”

“Of course I do, or I wouldn’t have asked.”

“All right. She said she thought Childress was planning to break off his engagement to you.”

Her dark eyes flashed. “That damn, lying — well, I guess I really shouldn’t be surprised.” She was struggling to put a lid on her anger. “What she told you just isn’t true. You can believe that or not.”

I smiled again. “I’ll reserve judgment for now. Anything else?”

“That sounds suspiciously like a dismissal,” she said. “All right, I’ll go quietly. But I appeal to you and your boss to take another look at Patricia Royce.” With that, Debra Mitchell rose, pivoted fluidly, and marched out the door and into the hall. Rarely has anyone departed from the office so gracefully. I only regretted that Wolfe wasn’t there to see it.

Sixteen

The visit from Debra Mitchell on Wednesday was the most exciting event in the brownstone over the next twenty-four hours, unless you count the guy from the elevator construction crew who fell and bruised his arm while getting out of the truck on Thursday morning. He couldn’t have been hurt too badly, though, because after sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee and eating two of Fritz’s freshly baked apple turnovers, he was back on the job.

But things picked up Thursday, in the form of two telephone calls. The first was from LeMaster Gilliam: “Archie, sorry I didn’t get back to you yesterday, but I had to put out a couple of dandy brush fires here, and I didn’t get home until so late that the Letterman show was over. Anyway, that woman you asked about, Clarice Wingfield or Clarice Avery, has not been reported as missing, nor has anyone — living or dead — turned up in the last several weeks who even vaguely resembles the photo you left with me.”

“I guess that’s good news,” I said, thanking him and trying to figure out what to do next. Wolfe’s morale had begun to flag. He didn’t seem overly concerned about our case, and the business with the elevator had gotten his goat. After lunch, he went up to his room instead of heading for the office. Fritz went up twice with beer and reported back to me with some distress that the patient was propped up in bed reading and apparently was going to skip his afternoon session with the orchids. And then a distraught Theodore Horstmann stormed into the office, demanding that I speed up the work on the elevator.