He sighed good and deep, surrendering with fairly good grace to the necessity of work. “The police?” he inquired, not hopefully.
Helmar shook his head. “As I said before, discretion is essential.”
“It usually is, for people who hire a private detective. Tell me about it briefly. Since you’re a lawyer you should know what I need to decide whether 111 take the job.”
“Why shouldn’t you take it?”
“I don’t know. Tell me about it.”
Helmar shifted in his chair and leaned back, but not at ease. I decided that his lacing and unlacing of his fingers was not merely a habit; he was on edge. “In any case,” he said, “this is confidential. The name of the young woman who has disappeared is Priscilla Eads. I have known her all her life and am her legal guardian, and also I am the trustee of her property under the will of her father, who died ten years ago. She lives in an apartment on East Seventy-fourth Street, and I was to call there this evening to discuss some business matters with her. I did so, arriving a little after eight, but she wasn’t there, and the maid was alarmed, as she had expected her mistress home for an early dinner and there had been no word from her.”
“I don’t need that much,” Wolfe said impatiently.
“Then I’ll curtail it. I found on her writing desk an envelope addressed to me. Inside was a handwritten note.” He reached for his briefcase and opened it. “Here it is.” He took out a folded sheet of blue-tinted paper, but put it down to get a spectacle case from a pocket and put on black-rimmed glasses. He retrieved the paper, “It reads, ‘Dear Perry—’”
He stopped, lifting his chin to glance at me and then at Wolfe. “She has called me by my first name,” he stated, “ever since she was twelve years old and I was forty-nine. Her father suggested it.”
Apparently he invited comment, and Wolfe obliged. “It is not actionable,” he muttered.