Rex Stout - Death Of A Dude

A magnifying glass and a notebook that would go in my hip pockety for me professionally. On a job in New York I never go on an errand without those two articles, and I was on a job now. Probably I wouldn't have any use for them, but a habit is a habit. Psychology.

My last stop was the public library, to consult a book that probably wouldn't be there, but it was-Who's Who in America. Not the latest, 1968-1969, but the 1966-67 was good enough. There was no entry for Philip Brodell, and there never would be since he was now a corpse, but his father, Edward Ellis Brodell, had about a third of a column. I knew he was still alive, having exchanged some words with him a week ago, when he had come to gather facts and raise some hell and get his son's body to take home. Born in St. Louis in 1907, he had done all right and was now the owner and publisher of the St. Louis Star-Bulletin. Who's Who had no information about who was going to kill his son.

With all my purchases in the big paper bag I had requested for the fly swatters, I wasn't much encumbered when I entered the Continental Caf at a quarter past noon, sent my eyes around, spotted an attractive female in an olive-green shirt and dark green slacks at a table in the rear, and headed for her. When I got there and pulled a chair back she said, "Either you're pretty fast or you didn't finish your list."

"Got everything." I sat and put the bag on the floor. "I may not be fast but I'm lucky." I tipped my head at her martini glass. "Carson's?"

"No. They haven't got any. You can't tell me gins are all alike. There's split-pea soup."

That was good news because his split-pea soup was the one dish the Continental cook had a right to be proud of. A waitress came and took our order for two double bowls of soup, plenty of crackers, one milk, and one coffee, and while we were waiting for it I fished in the bag for the belt and the magnifying glass to show Lily that Timberburg was as good as New York when you needed things.

The soup was up to expectations. When our bowls were nearly empty and the crackers low I said, "I not only finished up my list, I dug up some facts. At the library in Who's Who. Philip Brodell's father's father's name was Amos. His father is a member of three clubs, and his father's wife's maiden name was Mitchell. That's a break. Real progress."

"Congratulations." She took a cracker. "Let's go and tell Jessup. You're the doctor, but how could Who's Who possibly have helped?"

"It couldn't. But when you're up a stump you always try things that can't help and about once a year one does." I swallowed the last spoonful of soup. "I've got to say something."

"Good. Like?"

"Like it is. Look, Lily. I'm a good investigator with a lot of experience. But this is the sixth day since Harvey was charged and I have got nowhere. Not a glimmer of a lead. I may be only half as smart as I think I am, but also I'm handicapped. I don't belong here. I'm a dude. I'm all right for things like packing in or fishing or a game of pinochle or even a dance at the hall, but this is murder, and I'm a dude. Hell, I've been out here a lot, and I've known Mel Fox for years, and even he has gone cagey on me. They all have. I'm a goddam dude. There must be private detectives in Helena, and there may be a good one. A native. Dawson would know."

She put her coffee cup down. "You're suggesting that I hire a native to help you."

"Not to help me. If he's any good he wouldn't help me. He would just go to work."

"Oh." Her blue eyes widened and fastened on me. "You're checking out."