“Yes, sir.” Saul always pretended he didn’t hear Wolfe and me jawing. “Miss Karn hadn’t appeared when Orrie relieved me at 9:20. At 9:25 I tested her phone and she was in her apartment.”
“You told Orrie to report here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You need sleep.”
“I’ll manage till tonight.”
“You’re free, are you, Johnny?”
“Yes, sir, I’m always free when you need me.”
His bright eager tones, like little Willie offering to clean the blackboard, always gave me a pain. Johnny Keems was the kind of guy who does exercises every morning and buys gum at every slot vendor he sees for an excuse to look in the mirror. Dozens of times I would have resigned my job if I hadn’t known his tongue was hanging out for it.
“Put this down,” said Wolfe. “Both of you. Dunwoodie, Prescott & Davis, law firm on lower Broadway. Mr. Glenn Prescott. Mr. Eugene Davis. Naomi Karn got a job there as a stenographer in 1934, and after two years became the secretary of Mr. Davis. A year or so later she left to associate herself with Mr. Noel Hawthorne in a private capacity. This is a fishing trip; I want anything you can get. Saul will direct; Johnny, you will consult with him as usual. One detail: the name of the person who did confidential stenographic work for Mr. Prescott on March 7th, 1938. If any approach is made to that person it must be with great circumspection. Johnny will of course canvass the young women with that beauty treatment outfit — what is it, Archie?”
“Nothing.” I had only made a noise. The rhinoceros had the idiotic idea that when Johnny looked at a girl and smiled she melted like ice cream in the summer sun. The fact is — oh, what’s the difference. He’ll marry a pickpocket’s daughter for her money.