On the way in to his office that morning, Peter had told Peggy a little about Johnny Dwyer. Johnny had been a gay blade in his younger days, a rising popular star in the New York music halls. But a tragic horseback accident had broken his leg in three places and cut short his career as a song-and-dance man.
The publisher of the Chronicle, then a new and struggling newspaper in New York, liked Johnny, felt sorry for him, and offered him a job keeping records for the drama department. It turned out to be a satisfactory arrangement for both sides. Johnny moved in and stayed.
For nearly half a century he watched the American theater parade through his bulging scrapbook and file cabinets. His memory was phenomenal and his list of acquaintances was as wide as the theater itself. In his own time, Johnny Dwyer had become sort of a legend, a living museum whose memory was a storehouse of theatrical lore. If anyone needed any information on the theater, they usually tried the public library first and then, if they couldn’t find it there, they came to Johnny. Sometimes, if they knew Johnny well, they didn’t even bother with the library. According to Peter, if anybody in New York knew where Tom Agate was, it would be Johnny Dwyer.
“Tom used to be a good friend of mine,” Johnny said, leaning back comfortably. “Many’s the night we’ve sat around and swapped stories.”
“Used to?” Peter asked in a troubled voice. “Is he dead?”
Johnny looked at Peter shrewdly. “Some people think so.”
“Do you?” Peter obviously didn’t know what to make of this strange reply.
Johnny stared up at the ceiling for a moment before answering. “Look here, young fellow,” he said at last. “Tom Agate retired a long time ago.”
“I know that,” Peter said. “But we want to find him.”
Johnny Dwyer pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Has it occurred to you that he doesn’t want to be found?”