Might as Well Be Dead Read Online Free

the office for his daily four-to-six conference with the orchids, the doorbell rang and I answered it. On the stoop was a middle-aged guy who would need a shave by sundown, in a sloppy charcoal topcoat and a classy new black homburg. He could have been a P.H., but not a journalist. He said he would like a word with Mr. Nero Wolfe. I said Mr. Wolfe was engaged, told him my name and station, and asked if I could be of any service. He said he didn’t know.
    He looked at his wristwatch. “I haven’t much time,” he said, looking harassed. “My name is Albert Freyer, counselor-at-law.” He took a leather case from his pocket, got a card from it, and handed it to me. “I am attorney for Peter Hays, who is on trial for first-degree murder. I’m keeping my cab waiting because the jury is out and I must be at hand. Do you know anything about the advertisement Nero Wolfe put in today’s papers, ‘To. P.H.’?”
    “Yes, I know all about it.”
    “I didn’t see it until an hour ago. I didn’t want to phone about it. I want to ask Nero Wolfe a question. It is being assumed that the advertisement was addressed to my client, Peter Hays. I want to ask him straight, was it?”
    “I can answer that. It wasn’t. Mr. Wolfe had never heard of Peter Hays, except in the newspaper accounts of his trial.”
    “You will vouch for that?”
    “I do vouch for it.”
    “Well.” He looked gotten. “I was hoping—No matter. Who is the P.H. the advertisement was addressed to?”
    “A man whose initials are known to us but his name is not.”
    “What was the injustice mentioned in the ad? The wrong to be righted?”
    “A theft that took place eleven years ago.”
    “I see.” He looked at his wrist. “I have no time. I would like to give you a message for Mr. Wolfe. I admit the possibility of coincidence, but it is not unreasonable to suspect that it may be a publicity stunt. If so, it may work damage to my client, and it may be actionable. I’ll want to look into the matter further when time permits. Will you tell him that?”
    “Sure. If you can spare twenty seconds more, tell me something. Where was Peter Hays born, where did he spend his boyhood, and where did he go to college?”
    Having half-turned, he swiveled his head to me. “Why do you want to know?”
    “I can stand it not to. Call it curiosity. I read the papers. I answered six questions for you, why not answer three for me?”
    “Because I can’t. I don’t know.” He was turning to go.
    I persisted. “Do you mean that? You’re defending him on a murder charge, and you don’t know that much about him?” He was starting down the seven steps of the stoop. I asked his back, “Where’s his family?”
    He turned his head to say, “He has no family,” and went. He climbed into the waiting taxi and banged the door, and the taxi rolled away from the curb. I went back in, to the office, and buzzed the plant rooms on the house phone.
    “Yes?” Wolfe hates to be disturbed up there.
    “We had company. A lawyer named Albert Freyer. He’s Peter Hays’s attorney, and he doesn’t know where Hays was born and brought up or what college he went to, and he says Hays has no family. I’m switching my vote. I think it’s worth a trip, and the client will pay the cab fare. I’m leaving now.”
    “No.”
    “That’s just a reflex. Yes.”
    “Very well. Tell Fritz.”
    The gook. I always did tell Fritz. I went to the kitchen and did so, returned to the office and put things away and locked the safe, fixed the phone to ring in the kitchen, and got my hat and coat from the rack in the hall. Fritz was there to put the chain bolt on the door.
    After habits get automatic you’re no longer aware of them. One day years ago a tail had picked me up when I left the house on an errand, without my knowing it, and what he learned from my movements during the next hour had cost us an extra week, and our client an extra several thousand dollars, solving a big and important case.