The Mother Hunt

Chapter 13

When Lon Cohen said there would be a mob he had overrated something, perhaps the punch of the Gazette. The Sunday crop was twenty- six pictures, seven in the morning and nineteen in the afternoon. I was at the house when Sally returned with the carriage and its cargo a little after five, and helped her remove the films. There had been only two exposures with the camera in the box at the front of the carriage, but we rolled it through and took it. The way we were spending the client’s dough, another couple of bucks was nothing.

Twenty-four hours later we still didn’t know whether we had a picture of the mother or not. All we knew was that Lucy didn’t recognize any of the twenty-six as someone she could name, and Julian Haft, Leo Bingham, and Willis Krug said they didn’t. Wolfe had spoken to each of them on the phone in the morning, asking them to look at some pictures without explaining how we had got them, and when I got the prints from Al Posner around noon, six of each, I had sent packets by messenger. By five o’clock they had all phoned. Negative from all three. I took a set to Lucy and she gave them a good look. There was one she wasn’t sure about, but the woman she thought it resembled had been on her list and had been eliminated by Saul. She invited me to stay until Sally took the baby on the afternoon outing and returned, and get the day’s crop of films, but I wanted to be at 35th Street to get the reports from Krug and Haft and Bingham.

At twenty minutes past four Haft and Bingham had called but not Krug, and when the phone rang I supposed it would be him. But after the first word of the routine I was interrupted.

“Saul, Archie. A booth on University Place.”

“And?”

“Maybe a break. Something we thought might happen. At four-oh-four a taxi stopped on the north side of the square, double-parked, and a woman got out. She crossed the street and looked around. The taxi stayed put. She spotted the carriage halfway across the square and headed for it and went right up to it. She didn’t bend over or put a hand on the carriage or in it, but she spoke to Sally. She was there looking less than a minute—forty seconds. Orrie’s car was around the corner, but with her hack waiting there was no point to that. She went back to it and it rolled. A Paragon. Do I stick here until five o’clock?”

“You do not. You find that hackie.”

“Do you want the number?”

“Sure. You might get run over or something.”

He gave me the taxi’s registration number, and I jotted it down and told him I would be out from 4:45 to 6:00, getting the films from Sally and taking them to Al Posner. When I hung up I sat for a minute, breathing, enjoying it more than I had for weeks. Then I buzzed the plant rooms on the house phone.

“Yes?”

“Congratulations. Your theory that a woman who had a baby six months ago might like to see what it looks like was sound. The idea of having both the men and the cameras was also sound. I’m leaving in ten minutes and thought you might like to know. Two to one we have hooked the mother. Make it three to one.”

“Please report.”

“Glad to.” I told him. “So if she’s the mother we’ve got her. Finding out where the taxi took her may not help much, but of course Saul will know which picture. Congratulations.”

“Satisfactory,” he said, and hung up.

When Krug phoned a few minutes later, as I was getting up to go, to say that he didn’t recognize any of the pictures I had sent him, he was probably surprised that I was so cheerful about it.

Monday’s crop was more than twice as big as Sunday’s, and Sally had changed the films at noon, so there were six rolls. Fifty-four exposures altogether, and one of them was worth its weight in rubies. I got them to 47th Street before six o’clock, but Al couldn’t run them through that evening; two of his men were on vacation and one was home sick, and he was plugged up. I persuaded him to let me in at eight in the morning and took them home with me. While we were at the dinner table Saul phoned. The hackie’s name was Sidney Bergman and he had welcomed a finif. He had picked up the fare on Madison Avenue between 52nd and 53rd Streets, taken her straight to the square, and back to 52nd and Park. He had never seen her before and knew nothing about her. I told Saul to keep an eye out for her at the square in the morning, she might come back for another look, and then come to the office and wait for me.

It was a quarter to twelve Tuesday morning when I got to the office with the prints. I could have made it half an hour sooner, but I had taken the time at the Posart Camera Exchange to make packets for Al to send to Krug and Haft and Bingham. If Lucy didn’t know her, one of them might. Wolfe was at his desk with beer, and Saul was in the red leather chair with wine. A bottle of the Cortón Charlemagne was on the stand at his elbow. Apparently they were discussing literature; there were three books on Wolfe’s desk and one in his hand, open. I went and sat and listened. Yep, literature. I got up and started out and was stopped by Wolfe’s voice.

“Yes, Archie?”

I turned. “I hate to interrupt.” I approached Saul. “Feelthy pictures, mister?” I handed them to him.

“She didn’t show this morning,” he said. His hands were as deft with the prints as they were with a poker deck. A glance at each one was enough until he was about halfway through, when he tilted one for better light, nodded, and held it out. “That’s her.”

I took it. It was a good clear shot, three-quarter face, angled up as most of them were. Wide forehead, eyes the right distance apart, nose rather narrow, mouth rather wide, chin a little pointed. The eyes were fixed, focused to the right, concentrated.

“She could be attractive,” I said.

“She is,” Saul said. “She walks straight and smooth.”

“Details?”

“Five feet seven. Hundred and twenty pounds. In the upper thirties.”

“The envelope, please.” He handed it to me, and I put the picture in with the others and the envelope in my pocket. “I’m sorry I had to interrupt you gentlemen. I have an errand. If you need me you know Mrs. Valdon’s number.” I turned and went.

Since Sunday. Lucy’s relations with me had been a little strained. No, that’s not good reporting. Her relations with the world were strained, and I happened to be handy. Her lawyer had phoned her Sunday evening about the Gazette piece, and he had come to the house for a talk Monday afternoon. He thought she was sticking her neck out and he strongly disapproved. Her best friend, Lena Guthrie, disapproved even more strongly, and she had had a dozen phone calls from other friends, not to mention enemies; and from a remark she made Monday afternoon I gathered that Leo Bingham had been one of them.

So there was an atmosphere, and when I arrived Tuesday and was directed by Marie Foltz to the second floor I had the big room to myself for nearly half an hour, and when the client finally came she stopped three paces short and asked, “Something new, Archie?”

“Just the prints,” I said. “From yesterday.”

“Oh. How many?”

“Fifty-four.”

“I have a headache. I suppose I have to?”

“Maybe not.” I got the envelope from my pocket, shuffled through the prints, and handed her one. “Try that one. It’s special.”

She gave it a glance. “What’s special about it?”

“I’m betting three to one that she’s the mother. She came in a taxi and had it wait while she spotted the carriage, went and took a good long look, nearly a minute, and went back to the taxi. Do you know her?”

Another glance at it. “No.”

“Would you mind taking it to the light to make sure?”

“I don’t— All right.” She went to a lamp on a table and switched it on, and looked, frowning. She turned. “I think I’ve seen her somewhere.”

“Then forget your headache, all the headaches, and take another look. Of course we’ll find her sooner or later, but it was six weeks ago today that you hired Nero Wolfe to find the mother, and we’ve spent a lot of your money, and you’ve had it fairly rough. It will save time and money and bumps if you can name her. Sit there by the lamp, huh?”

She closed her eyes and raised a hand to rub her forehead and went and sat. She didn’t look at the print again, just sat and looked at space, frowning, with her lips pressed tight. Suddenly her head jerked around to me and she said, “Of course. Carol Mardus.”

I laughed. “You know,” I said, “during these six weeks I have seen you in various moods from gay to glum, but I have never seen you look really beat until this minute. I laughed because that’s funny.”

“I don’t feel funny.”

“I do. I feel wonderful. Are you sure it’s Carol Mardus?”

“Yes. Certainly. It shouldn’t have taken me so long.”

“Who and what is she?”

“She got Dick started. She was a reader at Distaff, and she got Manny Upton to take Dick’s stories. Then later he made her fiction editor. She is now.”

“Fiction editor of Distaff!”

“Yes.”

“She wasn’t on your list.”

“No, I didn’t think of her. I’ve only seen her two or three times.”

“C-A-R-O-L? M-A-R-D-I-S?”

“U-S.”

“Married?”

“No. As far as I know. She was married to Willis Krug, and divorced.”

My brows went up. “That’s interesting. She wasn’t on his list. Divorced how long ago?”

“I don’t know exactly. I think four or five years. I only met her after I married Dick—and Willis too.”

“I have to ask a question. If she’s the mother, and now that’s ten to one, how likely is it—no, not ‘likely.’ How credible is it that Dick was the father?”

“I don’t know. I’ve told you about Dick, Archie. I know he had been intimate with her years ago—no, I don’t know it, but someone told me. But if she’s the mother—” Suddenly she was on her feet. “I’m going to see her. I’m going to ask her.”

“Not right now.” I started a hand for her arm but stopped it. Never mix personal relations with business relations unless you have to. “I’m going to give you an order. I’ve made a few requests and suggestions, and I’ve talked you into a couple of things, but I’ve never given you an order. Now I do. You will mention Carol Mardus to no one, positively no one, until I say you can. And you won’t see her or phone her. Right?”

She smiled. “No one has ever given me an order since my father died.”

“Then it’s about time. Well?”

“Here.” She put out a hand and I took it. The atmosphere was back to normal, but there was work to do. “As a client,” I said, “you’re the cream of the cream. I have to use the phone on business.”

There was one in a cabinet at the end of the room, and I went and opened the door and dialed. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Fritz had answered, they were so deep in literature, but it was Saul. I told him it would save time if Wolfe got on, and in a moment had his voice. “Yes?”

“I’m at Mrs. Valdon’s house. She knows the woman, not well. The name is Carol Mardus.” I spelled it. “She’s the fiction editor of Distaff magazine. The Distaff Building is on Madison Avenue at Fifty-second Street. She was intimate with Valdon some years ago. Further details to follow. Congratulations again. If she isn’t the mother she certainly knows who is. I’m on my way, to find out what she was doing in January.”

“No,” Wolfe said. “Saul will go.”

“Hold it. I slipped a cog.” I turned to Lucy. “You said you’ve seen her two or three times. Did you see her last winter?”

She shook her head. “I was just thinking. I haven’t seen her since Dick died.”

To the phone. “Saul? Mrs. Valdon hasn’t seen her since last September. Don’t get too close to her, maybe she strangles the way she walks, straight and smooth. She was married to Willis Krug, but they were divorced four or five years ago. You might start with him, but you might not. He may not want to be reminded of her. She wasn’t on his list. I have a suggestion.”

“Yes?” Wolfe.

“Manuel Upton is her boss. He told you five weeks ago that if Mrs. Valdon wants a favor from him she can ask him. She could phone and ask him if Carol Mardus was around last winter. That might simplify it, but of course it might tangle it.”

“It might indeed. Saul will follow routine. Tell Mrs. Valdon to mention Carol Mardus to no one.”

“I already have.”

“Tell her again. Stay with her. Divert her. Don’t let her out of your sight.” Click.

I cradled the phone and closed the cabinet. “Saul will check on Carol Mardus,” I told Lucy. “My job is you. I am to keep you under constant surveillance. Mr. Wolfe understands you. He knows you wanted to find the mother so you could pull her hair. If you leave the house I’ll have to tail you.”

She tried to smile. “I am beat, Archie,” she said. “Carol Mardus!”

“It’s not certain yet, only ten to one,” I told her.