“The phone book.”
I had it and was flipping the pages. “Here we are. Business on Broad Street, residence on Park Avenue. There’s only one Herman.”
“Get him.”
“I don’t think so. He may be a poop. It might take all day. Why don’t I go to the residence without phoning? It’s probably there, and if I can’t get in you can fire me. I’m thinking of resigning anyhow.”
He had his doubts, since it was my idea, but he bought it. After considering the problem a little, I went to the cabinet beneath the bookshelves, got out the Veblex camera, with accessories, slung the strap of the case over my shoulder, told Wolfe I wouldn’t be back until I saw the picture, wherever it was, and beat it. Before going I dialed Talento’s number to tell him not to bother to keep his appointment, but there was no answer. Either he was still engaged at the DA’s office or he was on his way to Thirty-fifth Street, and if he came during my absence that was all right, since Jet was there to protect Wolfe.
A taxi took me to the end of a sidewalk canopy in front of one of the palace hives on Park Avenue in the Seventies, and I undertook to walk past the doorman without giving him a glance, but he stopped me. I said professionally, “Braunstein, taking pictures, I’m late,” and kept going, and got away with it. After crossing the luxurious lobby to the elevator, which luckily was there with the door open, I entered, saying, “Braunstein, please,” and the chauffeur shut the door and pulled the lever. We stopped at the twelfth floor, and I stepped out. There was a door to the right and another to the left, and I turned right without asking, on a fifty-fifty chance, listening for a possible correction from the elevator man, who was standing by with his door open.
It was one of the simplest chores I have ever performed. In answer to my ring the door was opened by a middle-aged female husky, in uniform with apron, and when I told her I had come to take a picture she let me in, asked me to wait, and disappeared. In a couple of minutes a tall and dignified dame with white hair came through an arch and asked what I wanted. I apologized for disturbing her and said I would deeply appreciate it if she would let me take a picture of a painting which had recently been shown at the Pittsburgh Institute, on loan by Mr. Braunstein. It was called “Three Young Mares at Pasture.” A Pittsburgh client of mine had admired it, and had intended to go back and photograph it for his collection, but the picture had gone before he got around to it.
She wanted some information, such as my name and address and the name of my Pittsburgh client, which I supplied gladly without a script, and then led me through the arch into a room not quite as big as Madison Square Garden. It would have been a pleasure, and also instructive, to do a little glomming at the rugs and furniture and other miscellaneous objects, especially the dozen or more pictures on the walls, but that would have to wait. She went across to a picture near the far end, said, “That’s it,” and lowered herself onto a chair.
It was a nice picture. I had half expected the mares to be without clothes, but they were fully dressed. Remarking that I didn’t wonder that my client wanted a photograph of it, I got busy with my equipment, including flash bulbs. She sat and watched. I took four shots from slightly different angles, acting and looking professional, I hoped; got my stuff back in the case; thanked her warmly on behalf of my client; promised to send her some prints; and left. That was all there was to it.
Out on the sidewalk again, I walked west to Madison, turned downtown and found a drugstore, went in to the phone booth, and dialed a number.