“We want to know what he and his mother were looking for at Mr. Rony’s apartment. It was almost certainly a paper, since they were looking in books, and probably one which had supported a threat held by Mr. Rony over young Sperling or his mother. That conjecture is obvious and even trite, but things get trite by occurring frequently. There is a clear pattern. A month ago Mrs. Sperling reversed herself and readmitted Mr. Rony to her home as a friend of her daughter, and the son’s attitude changed at the same time. A threat could have been responsible for that, especially since the main objection to Mr. Rony was then based on a mere surmise by Mr. Sperling. But Monday afternoon they were told something which so blackened Mr. Rony as to make him quite unacceptable. Yet the threat still existed. You see where that points.”
“What blackened him?” Saul asked.
Wolfe shook his head. “I doubt if you need that, at least not now. We want to know what the threat was, if one existed. That’s for you and Orrie, with you in charge. The place to look is here in New York, and the son is far more likely than the mother, so try him first — his associates, his habits — but for that you need no suggestions from me. It’s as routine as Fred’s job, but perhaps more promising. Report as usual.”
That finished the conference. Fred got the rest of his beer down, not wanting to offend Wolfe by leaving some. I got money for them from the safe, from the cash drawer, not disturbing the contribution from our latest client. Fred had a couple of questions and got them answered, and I went to the front door to let them out.
Back in the office, Fritz had entered to remove glasses and bottles. I stood and stretched and yawned.
“Sit down,” Wolfe said peevishly.
“You don’t have to take it out on me,” I complained, obeying. “I can’t help it if you’re a genius, as Paul Emerson says, but the best you can do is to sic Fred on the hired help and start Saul and Orrie hunting ratholes. God knows I have no bright suggestions, but then I’m not a genius. Who is my meat? Aloysius Murphy? Emerson?”
He grunted. “The others replied to the question I put. You didn’t.”
“Nuts. My worry about this murderer, if there is one, is not what you’ll do with him after you get him, but whether you’re going to get him.” I gestured. “If you do, he’s yours. Get him two thousand volts or a DSO — as you please. Will you need my help?”
“Yes. But you may be disqualified. I told you last week to establish a personal relationship.”