“Get out,” he snarled.

“My name's Goodwin and I'm working for Miss Madeline Fraser. I understand your wife and daughter-”

“Get out!”

“But I only want-”

“Get out!”

He didn't put a hand on me or shoulder me, and I can't understand yet how he got past me to the vestibule without friction, but he did, and got his key in the door. There were of course a dozen possible courses for me, anything from grabbing his coat and holding on to plugging him in the jaw, but while that would have given me emotional release it wouldn't have got what I wanted. It was plain that as long as he was conscious he wasn't going to tell me where Nancylee was, and unconscious he couldn't. I passed.

I drove back down to Thirty-fifth Street, left the car at the kerb, went in to the office, and dialled Madeline Fraser's number. Deborah Koppel answered, and I asked her: “Did you folks know that Nancylee has left home? With her mother?”

Yes, she said, they knew that “You didn't mention it when you were here this morning. Neither did Miss Fraser this afternoon.”

“There was no reason to mention it, was there? We weren't asked.”

“You were asked about Nancylee, both of you.”

“But not if she had left home or where she is.”

“Then may I ask you now? Where is she?”

“I don't know.”

“Does Miss Fraser?”

“No. None of us knows.”

“How did you know she was gone?”

“She phoned Miss Fraser and told her she was going.”

“When was that?”

“That was…that was Sunday.”

“She didn't say where she was going?”

“No.”

That was the best I could get. When I was through trying and had hung up, I sat and considered. There was a chance that Purley Stebbins of Homicide would be in the mood for tossing me a bone, since Cramer had been spending nickels on us, but if I asked him for it he would want to make it a trade, and I had nothing to offer. So when I reached for the phone again it wasn't that number, but the Gazette's, that I dialled.

Lon Cohen immediately got personal. Where, he wanted to know, had I got the idea that an open Press release made an entry in my credit column?

I poohed him. “Some day, chum, you'll get a lulu. Say in six months, the way we're going. A newspaper is supposed to render public service, and I want some.

Did you know that Nancylee Shepherd and her mother have blown?”

“Certainly. The father got sore because she was mixed up in a murder case. He damn' near killed two photographers. Father has character.”

“Yeah, I've met Father. What did he do with his wife and daughter, bury them?”

“Shipped 'em out of town. With Cramer's permission, as we got it here, and of course Cramer knew where but wasn't giving out. Naturally we thought it an outrage. Is the great public, are American people, to be deceived and kept in ignorance? No. You must have had a hunch, because we just got it here-it came in less than an hour ago. Nancylee and her mother are at the Ambassador in Atlantic City, sitting-room, bedroom, and bath.”

“You don't say. Paid for by?”

He didn't know. He agreed that it was intolerable that the American people, of whom I was one, should be uninformed of so vital a point, and before he hung up he said he would certainly do something about it.

When Wolfe came down to the office I reported developments. At the same time we still had three more to overhaul, but it was already apparent that we were going to need all we could get, so Wolfe told me to get Saul Panzer on the phone. Saul wasn't in, but an hour later he called back.

Saul Panzer free-lances. He has no office and doesn't need one. He is so good that he demands, and gets, double the market, and any day of the week he gets so many offers that he can pick as he pleases. I have never known him to turn Wolfe down except when he was so tied up he couldn't shake loose.

He took this on. He would take a train to Atlantic City that evening, sleep there, and in the morning persuade Mrs Shepherd to let Nancylee come to New York for a talk with Wolfe. He would bring her, with Mother if necessary.

As Wolfe was finishing with Saul, Fritz entered with a tray. I looked at him with surprise, since Wolfe seldom takes on beer during the hour preceding dinner, but then, as he put the tray on the desk, I saw it wasn't beer. It was a bottle of Starlite, with three glasses. Instead of turning to leave, Fritz stood by.

“It may be too cold,” Fritz suggested.

With a glance of supercilious distaste at the bottle, Wolfe got the opener from his top drawer, removed the cap, and started pouring.

“It seems to me,” I remarked, “like a useless sacrifice. Why suffer? If Orchard had never drunk Starlite before he wouldn't know whether it tasted right or not, and even if he didn't like it they were on the air and just for politeness he would have gulped some down.” I took the glass that Fritz handed me, a third full. “Anyway he drank enough to kill him, so what does it matter what we think?”

“He may have drunk it before.” Wolfe held the glass to his nose, sniffed, and made a face. “At any rate, the murderer had to assume that he might have. Would the difference in taste be too great a hazard?”

“I see.” I sipped. “Not so bad.” I sipped again. “The only way we can really tell is to drink this and then drink some cyanide. Have you got some?”

“Don't bubble, Archie.” Wolfe put his glass down after two little tastes. “Good heavens. What the devil is in it, Fritz?”

Fritz shook his head. “Ipecac?” he guessed. “Horehound? Would you like some sherry?”

“No. Water. I'll get it.” Wolfe got up, marched to the hall, and turned toward the kitchen. He believes in some good healthy exercise before dinner.

That evening, Wednesday, our victims were first Elinor Vance and then Nathan Traub. It was more than three hours after midnight when Wolfe finally let Traub go, which made two nights in a row.

Thursday morning at eleven we started on Tully Strong. In the middle of it, right at noon, there was a phone call from Saul Panzer. Wolfe took it, giving me the sign to stay on. I knew from the tone of Saul's voice, just pronouncing my name, that he had no bacon.

“I'm at the Atlantic City railroad station,” Saul said, “and I can either catch a train to New York in twenty minutes or go jump in the ocean, whichever you advise. I couldn't get to Mrs Shepherd just by asking, so I tried a trick but it didn't work. Finally she and the daughter came down to the hotel lobby, but I thought it would be better to wait until they came outside, if they came, and they did. My approach was one that has worked a thousand times, but it didn't with her. She called a cop and wanted him to arrest me for annoying her. I made another try later; on the phone again, but four words was as far as I got. Now it's no use. This is the third time I've flopped on you in ten years, and that's too often. I don't want you to pay me, not even expenses.”

“Nonsense.” Wolfe never gets riled with Saul. “You can give me the details later, if there are any I should have. Will you reach New York in time to come to the office at six o'clock?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Do that.”

Wolfe resumed with Traub. As I have already mentioned, the climax of that two hours' hard work was when Traub confessed that he frequently bet on horse races.

As soon as he had gone Wolfe and I went to the dining-room for the lunch previously described, corn fritters with autumn honey, sausages, and a bowl of salad. Of course what added to his misery was the fact that Savarese was expected at two o'clock, because he likes to have the duration of a meal determined solely by the inclination of him and the meal, not by some extraneous phenomenon like the sound of a doorbell.

But the bell rang right on the dot.