The Missing Chapter

“All right, you got us here,” Cramer wheezed, stating the obvious and barreling by me with the sergeant in his wake. A word about Purley Stebbins: He has worked for Cramer at least as long as I’ve worked for Wolfe. He’s got a long, bony face with a square jaw at the south end, and if he has a sense of humor, he manages to keep it out of sight. He’s tough, he’s honest, and he doesn’t waste words. Purley and I have what I would term grudging respect for each other; Purley doesn’t completely trust me — or Wolfe — and never will, figuring that anybody who earns his keep as a private detective is questionable by definition and will during any case eventually be at cross-purposes with the machinery of law enforcement. And while I appreciate many of Purley’s qualities, I would not put it past the good sergeant to withhold even nonessential information from us, for no other reason than to be contrary.

I didn’t bother to follow the homicide team to the office because I knew they would find their usual chairs in the back of the room without an usher. The next ring of the doorbell brought Vinson and Debra Mitchell, who had shared a cab south. Vinson gave a tight smile and a nod, while she whispered to me that “This is a stupid way to do business, you know, wasting a lot of people’s time.”

I replied that I hoped she wouldn’t find the trip a total waste and led them to the office, casting an admiring glance at Debra’s beige outfit, which looked like it cost somewhere in the neighborhood of my weekly salary, if not more. The woman knew how to dress, I gave her that. Vinson, as our client, merited the red leather chair, while I placed Debra three places to his right in the front row. They both looked quizzically at Cramer and Stebbins, who already were seated, but I didn’t offer introductions.

The next arrival was Franklin Ott. The agent looked angry enough actually to throw a punch himself this time. His face was still bandaged. He was followed in quick succession by a pale, somber Patricia Royce, a surly Keith Billings, and an arrogant, offended Wilbur Hobbs.

“I want to make it clear that I am here as a member of the press and not as some suspect in a sordid so-called murder,” Hobbs pronounced as though he were reading from a script. I smiled, nodded, and escorted him to the office, where the critic surveyed the gathering, sniffed in condescension, and settled into the chair I indicated as though he were doing me a favor.

“Where the hell is Wolfe?” Billings demanded.

“He’ll be here shortly,” I told the editor. “Would anyone care for drinks? Help yourselves. We’ve got a wide selection on that table, and if you don’t see what you want, ask for it.”

“This wasn’t billed as a cocktail party, but I have a feeling we’re all going to need a bracer before it’s over,” Ott said, getting up. “I’m going to have a scotch. Can I get something for anyone else?”

There were no takers, only hostile muttering, so I went to the front room, opening the door. “They are all in place,” I told Saul, who was reading an old copy of Smithsonian. He and Clarice rose, she reluctantly, and we proceeded down the hall to the office, where I seated her next to Vinson. Her entrance brought looks of puzzlement from around the room.

Saul took a chair in the back row next to Stebbins while I went around Wolfe’s desk and pressed his beer buzzer. It rings in the kitchen, where he was waiting with Fritz until all were in place.

A half-minute later he appeared at the door, looked at each of his guests in turn, and walked in, skirting the desk and settling into his chair. “Good evening,” he rumbled. “Thank you for adjusting your schedules. Your time here—”

“We don’t need some meandering preamble,” Billings snarled. “You asked us to come here, and we’re here. Get on with it.”

“Sir, I never meander,” Wolfe replied coldly. “And I do not indulge in the careless or unnecessary use of verbiage. As I started to say, your time here will be brief — assuming I am allowed to proceed without incessant and needless interruptions. First, I realize that many of you do not know the identity of others in the room, a condition I will rectify.”

Even though the door to the hall was now closed, I could detect the faint ring of the doorbell, although none of the others in the room appeared to notice. That would be Wilma Race, whom Fritz was instructed to admit to the house. Wolfe continued: “The gentleman in the red chair is Horace Vinson, editor-in-chief of Monarch Press, the publisher of the late Charles Childress’s books. He has hired me to identify Mr. Childress’s murderer, which I am prepared to do. On his right, and likely a stranger to you all, is Clarice Wingfield, a cousin of Mr. Childress. On her right, Franklin Ott, a literary agent who formerly represented Mr. Childress, and next to him, Debra Mitchell, who had been engaged to Mr. Childress.”

“I was still engaged to him when he was — when he died,” the television executive protested.