The Mother Hunt (Rex Stout Library) Read online

  Miss Foltz folded her arms. Mrs. Dowd said, It's a good enough baby.

  I suppose so. Apparently whoever left it in the vestibule had the idea that Mrs. Valdon might keep it. Whether she does or not, naturally she wants to know where it came from, so she has hired a detective to find out. His name is Nero Wolfe. You may have heard of him.

  Is he on TV? Miss Foltz inquired.

  Don't be silly, Mrs. Dowd told her. How could he be? He's real. To me: Certainly I've heard of him, and you too. Your picture was in the paper about a year ago. I forget your first name no, I don't. Archie. Archie Goodwin. I should have remembered when Mrs. Valdon said Goodwin. I have a good memory for names and faces.

  You sure have. I sipped milk. Here's why I need help. In a case like this, what would a detective think of first? He would think there must be some reason why the baby was left at this house instead of some other house, and what could the reason be? Well, one good reason could be that someone who lives here wants that baby to live here too. So Mr. Wolfe asked Mrs. Valdon who lives here besides her, and she said Mrs. Vera Dowd and Miss Marie Foltz, and he asked her if one of them could have had a baby about four months ago, and she said. They both interrupted. I raised a hand, palm out. Now you see, I said, not raising my voice. You see why I need help. I merely tell you a detective asked a natural and normal question, and you fly off the handle. Try being detectives yourselves once. Of course Mrs. Valdon said that neither of you could have had a baby four months ago, and the next question was, did either of you have a relative, maybe a sister, who might have had a baby she couldn't keep? That's harder to answer. I'd have to dig. I'd have to find your relatives and friends and ask a lot of questions, and that would take time and cost money, but I'd get the answer, that's sure.

  You can get the answer right now, Mrs. Dowd said.

  I nodded. I know I can, and I want it. The point is, I don't want you to hold it against Mrs. Valdon that she asked you to have a talk with me: When you hire a detective you have to let him detect. She either had to let me do this or fire Nero Wolfe. If one of you knows where the baby came from and you want it to be provided for, just say so. Mrs. Valdon may not keep it herself, but she'll see that it gets a good home, and nobody will know anything you don't want them to know. The alternative is that I'll have to start digging, seeing your relatives and friends, and finding out You don't have to see my relatives and friends, Mrs. Dowd said emphatically.

  Mine either, Miss Foltz declared.

  I knew I didn't. Of course you can't always get a definite answer just by watching a face, but sometimes you can, and I had it. Neither of those faces had behind it the problem: to consider the offer from Mrs. Valdon, or to let me start digging. I told them so. As I finished the glass of milk I discussed faces with them, and I told them that I had assured Mrs. Valdon that a talk with them would settle it as far as they were concerned, which was a lie. You can't know what a talk is going to settle until you have had it, even when you do all the talking yourself. We parted friends, more or less.

  There was an elevator, smoother and quieter than the one in Wolfe's old brownstone on West 35th Street, but it was only one flight up to where Mrs. Valdon had said she would be, and I hoofed it. It was a large room, bigger than our office and front room combined, with nothing modern in it except the carpet and a television cabinet at the far end. Everything else was probably period, but I am not up on periods. The client was on a couch, with a magazine, and nearby was a portable bar that had not been there an hour ago. She had changed again. For her appointment with Wolfe she had worn a tailored suit, tan with brown stripes; on my arrival she had had on a close-fitting gray dress that went with her eyes better than tan; now it was a lower-cut sleeveless number, light blue, apparently silk, though now you never know. She put the magazine down as I approached.

  All clear, I told her. They're crossed off.

  You're sure?

  Positive.

  Her head was tilted back. It didn't take you long. How did you do it?' Trade secret. I'm not supposed to tell a client about an operation until I have reported to Mr. Wolfe. But they took it fine. You still have a maid and a cook. If we get any ideas I may phone you in the morning.

  I'm going to have a martini. Won't you? Or what?

  Having looked at my watch as I left the kitchen, and knowing that Wolfe's afternoon session with the orchids would keep him up in the plant rooms until six o'clock, and remembering that one of my functions was to understand any woman we were dealing with, and seeing that the gin was Follansbee's, I thought I might as well be sociable. I offered to make, saying I favored five to one, and she said all right. When I had made and served and sat, on the couch beside her, and we had sampled, she said, I want to try something. You take a sip of mine and I'll take a sip of yours. Do you mind?

  Of course I didn't, since the idea was to understand her. She held her glass for me to sip, and I held mine for her.

  Actually, I said, this good gin is wasted on me. I just had a glass of milk.

  She didn't hear me. She didn't even know I had spoken. She was looking at me but not seeing me. How was I to understand that? Not wanting to sit and stare at her, I moved my eyes to her shoulder and arm, which weren't really skinny.

  I don't know why I suddenly wanted to do that, she said. I haven't done it since Dick died. I've never done it with anybody but him. All of a sudden I knew I had to try it, I don't know why.

  It seemed advisable to keep it professional, and the simplest way was to bring Wolfe in. Mr. Wolfe says, I told her, that nobody ever gets to the real why of anything.

  She smiled. And upstairs, when you were looking at the baby, I nearly called you Archie. I'm not trying to flirt with you. I don't know how to flirt. I don't suppose. You're not a hypnotist, are you?

  I sipped the martini. What the hell, I said. Relax. Exchanging sips is an old Persian custom. As for calling me Archie, that's my name. Don't call me Svengali. As for flirting, let's discuss it. Men and women flirt. Horses flirt. Parakeets flirt. Undoubtedly oysters flirt, but they must have some special I stopped because she was moving. She left the couch, went and put the glass, still half full, on the bar, turned, and said. Don't forget the suitcase when you go, and walked out.

  That took some fancy understanding. I sat and worked on it while I finished the martini, four or five minutes, got up and put my glass on the bar, touching hers to show I understood, which I didn't, and departed. In the lower hall, on my way out, I picked up the small suitcase which she had helped me pack.

  At that time of day getting a taxi in that part of town is like expecting to draw a ten to an eight, nine, jack, and queen, and it was only twenty-four short blocks and four long ones, and the suitcase was light. Anyway I'm a walker. I wanted to make it before Wolfe got down to the office, and did; it was 5:54 when I mounted the stoop of the old brownstone, used my key, entered, went to the office, put the suitcase on my chair, and unpacked. By the time the sound of the elevator came, all the items were spread out on Wolfe's desk, just about covering it, and when he walked in I was at my desk, busy with papers. When he stopped and let out a growl I swiveled.

  What the devil is this? he demanded.

  I arose and pointed. Sweater. Hat. Overalls. T-shirt. Undershirt. Blanket. Booties. Rubber pants. Diaper. You have to hand it to her for keeping the diaper. The maid wasn't there and she didn't get a nurse until the next day. She must have washed it herself. There are no laundry marks or store labels. The sweater, hat, overalls, and booties have brand labels, but I doubt if they will help. There's something about one item that might possibly help. If you don't spot it yourself it may not be worth mentioning.

  He went to his made-to-order chair and sat. The maid and the cook?

  We had a conference. They're out. Do you want it verbatim?

  Not if you're satisfied.

  I am. Of course if we draw nothing but blanks we can check on them.

  What else?

  First, there is a live baby. I saw it. She didn
't just dream it. There's nothing unusual about the vestibule; the door has no lock and it's only four steps up, anyone could pop in and out; trying to find someone who saw somebody doing so seventeen days ago after dark would be a waste of my time and the client's money. I didn't include the cleaning woman in the conference because if the baby was hers it would be a different color, and I didn't include the nurse because she was hired through an agency the next day. There's a fine Tekke rug in the nursery, which was a spare bedroom. You are aware that I know about rugs from you, and about pictures from Miss Rowan. There's a Renoir in the living room, and I think a Cйzanne. The client uses Follansbee gin. I am in bad with her because I forgot she's an Armstead and used a little profanity. She'll sleep it off.

  Why the profanity?

  She jiggled my arm and I spilled gin on my pants.

  He eyed me. You had better report verbatim.

  Not necessary. I'm satisfied.

  No doubt. Have you any suggestions?

  Yes, sir. It looks pretty hopeless. If we get nowhere in a couple of weeks you can tell her you have discovered that it's my baby, I put it in the vestibule, and if she'll marry me she can keep it. As for the mother, I can simply Shut up.

  I hadn't decided how to handle the mother question anyway. He picked up the sweater and inspected it. I sat, leaned back, crossed my legs, and looked on. He didn't turn the sweater inside out, so this was just a once-over and he would go back to it. He put it down and picked up the hat. When he got to the overalls I watched his face but saw no sign that he had noticed anything, and I swiveled and reached to the rack of phone books for the Manhattan Yellow Pages, formerly the Red Book. I found what I was after, under Children's & Infants' Wear Whol. & Mfrs., which filled four and a half pages. I started a hand for the phone, but drew it back. He might spot it the second time around and should have the chance without a tip from me. I got up and went to the hall and up two flights to my room, and at the phone on my bedstand I dialed the number, but got what was to be expected at that time of day, no answer. I tried another number, a woman I knew who was the mother of three young ones, and got her, but she was no help; she said she would have to see the overalls. So it would have to wait until morning. I went back down to the office. Wolfe had turned his chair and was holding the overalls up to get the full light, and in his other hand was his biggest magnifying glass. He was examining a button. As I crossed to him I asked, Find something?

  He swiveled and put the glass down. Possibly. The buttons on this garment. Four of them.

  What about them?

  They seem inappropriate. Such garments must be made by the million, including the buttons. But these buttons were surely not mass-produced. The material looks like horsehair, white horsehair, though I presume it could be one of the synthetic fibers. But there is considerable variation in size and shape. They couldn't possibly have been made in large quantities by a machine.

  I sat. That's very interesting. Congratulations.

  I suggest you examine them.

  I already have, not with a glass. Of course you saw that the brand label of the overalls is Cherub. That brand is made by Resnick and Spiro, Three-forty West Thirty-seventh Street. I just dialed their number but got no answer, since it's after six. A five-minute walk from here in the morning, unless you want me to find Mr. Resnick or Mr. Spiro now.

  The morning will do. Should I apologize for pulling a feather from your cap?

  We'll split it, I said and rose to get the overalls and the glass.

  The Manhattan garment district has got everything from thirty-story marble palaces to holes in the wall. It is no place to go for a stroll, because you are off the sidewalk most of the time, detouring around trucks that are backed in or headed in, but it's fine as a training ground for jumping and dodging, and as a refresher for reflexes. If you can come out whole from an hour in those cross streets in the Thirties you'll be safe anywhere in the world. So I felt I had accomplished something when I walked into the entrance of 340 West 37th Street at ten o'clock Wednesday morning.

  But then it got complicated. I tried my best to explain. first to a young woman at a window on the first floor and then to a man in an anteroom on the fourth floor, but they simply couldn't understand, if I didn't want to sell something or buy something, and wasn't looking for a job, why I was in the building. I finally made it in to a man at a desk who had a broader outlook. Naturally he couldn't see why the question, had those buttons been put on those overalls by Resnick & Spiro? was important enough for me to fight my way through 37th Street to get it answered, but he was too busy to go into that. It was merely that he realized that a man who had gone to so much trouble to ask him a question deserved an answer. After one quick look he said that Resnick & Spiro had never used such a button and never would. They used plastic almost exclusively. He handed me the overalls.

  Many thanks, I said. Why I'm bothering about this wouldn't interest you, but it's not just curiosity. Do you know of any firm that makes buttons like these?

  He shook his head. No idea.

  Have you ever seen any buttons like them?

  Never.

  Could you tell me what they're made of?

  He leaned over for another look. My guess would be some synthetic, but God only knows. Suddenly he smiled, wide, human, and humorous. Or maybe the Emperor of Japan does. Try him. Pretty soon everything will come from there.

  I thanked him, stuffed the overalls back in the paper bag, and departed. Having suspected that that would be all I would get from Resnick & Spiro, I had spent an hour Tuesday evening with the Yellow Pages, the four and a half pages of listings under Buttons, and in my pocket notebook were the names of fifteen firms within five blocks of where I was. One was only fifty paces down the street, and I headed for it.

  Ninety minutes later, after calling on four different firms, I knew a little more about buttons in general, but still nothing specific about the ones on the overalls. One of the firms made covered buttons, another polyester and acrylic, another fresh-water and ocean pearl, another gold and silver plated. Nobody had any notion who had made mine or what they were made of, and nobody cared. It was looking as if all I would get was a collection of negatives, which was all right in a way, as I walked down the hall on the sixth floor of a building on 39th Street to a door that was lettered: EXCLUSIVE NOVELTY BUTTON CO.

  That was where I would have gone first if I had known. A woman who knew exactly what I was after before I said ten words took me to an inner room which had no racks on the walls, not a button in sight. A little old geezer with big ears and a mop of white hair, sitting at a table looking at a portfolio, didn't look up until I was beside him and had the overalls out of the bag, and when his eyes moved they lit on one of the buttons. He jerked the overalls out of my hands, squinted at each of the buttons in turn, the two on the bib and the two at the sides, raised his eyes to me, and demanded, Where did these buttons come from?

  I laughed. It may not strike you as funny, but that was the question I had been working on for nearly two hours. There was a chair there and I took it. I'm laughing at me, not you, I told him. A definite answer to that question is worth a hundred dollars, cash, to anyone who has it. I won't explain why, it's too complicated. Can you answer it?

  Are you a button man?

  No.

  Who are you?

  I got my case from my pocket and produced a card. He took it and squinted at it. You're a private detective?

  Right.

  Where did you get these buttons?

  Listen, I said, I only want to. You listen, young man. I know more about buttons than any man in the world. I get them from everywhere. I have the finest and most comprehensive collection in existence. Also I sell them. I have sold a thousand dozen buttons in one lot for forty cents a dozen, and I have sold four buttons for six thousand dollars. I have sold buttons to the Duchess of Windsor, to Queen Elizabeth, and to Miss Bette Davis. I have given buttons to nine different museums in five countries. I know absolutely that
no man could show me a button that I couldn't place, but you have done so. Where did you get them?

  All right, I said, I listened, now it's your turn. I know less about buttons than any man in the world. In connection with a case I'm working on I need to know where those overalls came from. Since they're a standard product, sold everywhere, they can't be traced, but it seemed to me that the buttons are not standard and might be traced. That's what I'm trying to find out, where they came from. Apparently you can't tell me.

  I admit I can't!

  Okay. Obviously you know about unusual buttons, rare buttons. Do you also know about ordinary commercial buttons?

  I know about all buttons!

  And you have never seen buttons like these or heard of any?

  No! I admit it!

  Fine. I reached to a pocket for my wallet; extracted five twenties, and put them on the table. You haven't answered my question, but you've been a big help. Is there any chance that those buttons were made by a machine?

  No. Impossible. Someone spent hours on each one. It's a technique I have never seen.

  What are they made of? What material?

  That may be difficult. It may take some time. I may be able to tell you by tomorrow afternoon.

  I can't wait that long. I reached for the overalls, but he didn't turn loose.

  I'd rather have the buttons than the money, he said. Or just one of them. You don't need all four.

  I had to yank to get the overalls. With them back in the bag, I stood. You've saved me a lot of time and trouble, I told him, and I'd like to show my appreciation. If and when I'm through with the buttons I'll donate one or more of them to your collection, and I'll tell you where they came from. I hope.

  It took me five minutes to get away and out. I didn't want to be rude. He was probably the only button fiend in America, and I had been lucky enough to hit him before lunch.

  A question about lunch was in my mind as I left the building. It was ten minutes past noon. Did Nathan Hirsh lunch early or late? Since I could walk it in twelve minutes I decided not to take time to phone, and again I was lucky. As I entered the anteroom of the Hirsh Laboratories on the tenth floor of a building on 43rd Street, Hirsh himself entered from within, on his way out, and when I told him I had something from Nero Wolfe that shouldn't wait he took me in and down the hall to his room. A few years back, the publicity from his testimony in court on one of Wolfe's cases hadn't hurt his business a bit.