Murder by the Book

"May I see it, please?" Wolfe was leaning forward with a gleam in his eye. Apparently something about Joan Well-man's letter home had given him a kick, but when Wellman handed it to him he gave it only a brief glance before passing it to me. I read it clear through with my eyes while my ears recorded their talk for the notebook.

"She wrote that," Wellman said, "on Thursday, February first. Her appointment with that man was the next day, Friday, right after office hours. Early Saturday morning her body was found on that out-of-the-way road in Van Gortlandt Park. What's wrong with thinking that that man killed her?"

Wolfe was leaning back again. "Was there any evidence of assault? Assault as a euphemism for rape?"

"No." Wellman's eyes went shut, and his hands closed into fists. After a moment the eyes opened again. "Nothing like that. No sign at all of that."

"What do the police say?"

"They say they're still trying to find that man Archer and can't. No trace of him. I think-"

"Nonsense. Of course there's a trace. Publishers must keep records. He submitted a manuscript of a novel last fall, and it was returned to him with a note from your daughter. Re-turned how and where?"

"It was returned by mail to the only address he gave, Gen-eral Delivery, Clinton Station. That's on West Tenth Street." Wellman's fists became hands again, and he turned a palm up. "I'm not saying the police have just laid down on the job. Maybe they've even done the best they can, but the fact remains that it's been seventeen days now and they haven't got anywhere, and I don't like the way they talked yesterday and this morning. It looks to me like they don't want it to be an unsolved murder, and they want to call it manslaughter, and that's all it would be if it was a hit-and-run accident. I don't know about these New York police, but you tell me, they might do a thing like that, mightn't they?"

Wolfe grunted. "It is conceivable. And you want me to

prove it was murder and find the murderer, with evidence?"