The Missing Chapter

Wolfe drained the beer in his glass and poured from the second bottle Fritz had brought in, watching the foam dissipate and the bubbles rise. “Do you know of anyone within your sodality, either in its New York chapter or elsewhere, who had reason — and desire — to dispatch Mr. Childress?”

Claude Pemberton looked at Wilma Race and then at McClellan, relaying Wolfe’s query with his facial expression. Both responded with a shake of the head, as did Pemberton himself. “No, I can’t imagine anyone from PROBE doing this, although of course most of the members we know are in the local posse,” he answered. “But Mr. Childress was very popular with our members. He spoke about his writing twice at New York meetings and each time, he answered questions for almost an hour.”

“And very graciously, too,” Wilma added, her pretty hands dancing once more. “The first time we invited him, it was with some trepidation, because we had heard that he could be, well, difficult. But Mr. Wolfe, that was not the case at all. He was engaging and humorous.”

Wolfe frowned. “On either appearance, did Mr. Childress mention receiving angry letters or calls from readers?”

“I don’t recall,” she answered. “Do you, Claude, or Dan?”

McClellan shook his head, and Pemberton leaned back in the red leather chair, wrinkling his brow, presumably in deep thought. “Oh, he did mention a couple of notes that he’d gotten from readers who had minor bones to pick over details in his books. I got the impression that kind of thing mildly irked him, but it was passed over quite briefly.”

“You said Mr. Childress answered numerous questions posed by your members,” Wolfe continued. “What was the nature of the queries?”

“Oh, they were pretty much what you’d expect,” Pemberton replied promptly. “Things like ‘Where do you get your plots?’ and ‘How hard has it been to recreate the Sawyer characters?’ and ‘When do you do your writing?’ ”

“Did you find any of his responses either surprising or unexpected?”

“I didn’t think so,” Pemberton said, and his PROBE colleagues nodded their agreement. I could tell that Wolfe was losing interest in the proceedings, and I wondered how he would terminate them. I didn’t have long to wait.

He levered himself upright, dipping his head slightly to each of our guests. “I must excuse myself because of a previous engagement,” he told them. “Mr. Goodwin will want to know how to reach you in the event that I have further questions. Good day.” He moved around his desk and marched out of the office.

Following his directive, I wrote down the names and addresses of the threesome and also returned the check to Claude Pemberton, who was reluctant to accept it. “Take the thing,” I urged. “If you don’t, Mr. Wolfe will tear it up, and that will rile him, given his distaste for physical exertion of any kind. Besides, Horace Vinson can afford the exorbitant fees we charge.”

“But our members already have pledged the money,” he protested.

“So? Send it back, or set up a fund for a Christmas party, or a newsletter.”

“We already have a national newsletter, financed by dues,” Pemberton grumbled, but he gave up, sliding the envelope with the check into the breast pocket of his gray herringbone sportcoat. I saw the PROBE trio to the front door, thanking them for their time, which I thought was unusually gracious of me, given it was they who requested the parley.

After locking the door behind them, I went to the kitchen, where I found Wolfe watching Fritz prepare dinner from the wooden chair with arms near the window that had been constructed to his specifications. He threw a glower my way.

“Ah, the ‘previous engagement’ trick, eh?” I said. “Leaving good ol’ Archie to shovel the intruders unceremoniously into the street. Well, I did, and you’ll be pleased to know that the check is gone, too, although Pemberton was none too happy about it. Any observations on them?”

Wolfe drank beer and closed his eyes. “Well-meaning, although not particularly helpful,” he pronounced.

“You were perhaps expecting them to supply the murderer’s name, along with a signed and notarized confession?”

He kept his eyes closed, probably hoping I would disappear. I obliged.

Seventeen