The Mother Hunt by Rex Stout Page A

advertising. Have you ever written one? You should. It might not be enormous or stupendous, but it certainly would be readable, and I would like very much to publish it. If Mr. Bingham can solicit, so can I.”
    Wolfe grunted. “Unthinkable, Mr. Haft. Maintaining integrity as a private detective is difficult; to preserve it for the hundred thousand words of a book would be impossible for me, as it has been for so many others. Nothing corrupts a man so deeply as writing a book; the myriad temptations are overpowering. I wouldn’t presume—”
    Fritz had entered with a tray. First the beer to Wolfe, then the brandy to Bingham, the water to Upton, and the scotch and water to me. Upton got a pillbox from a pocket, fished one out and popped it into his mouth, and drank water. Bingham took a sip of brandy, looked surprised, took another sip, rolled it around in his mouth, looked astonished, swallowed, said, “May I?” and got up and went to Wolfe’s desk for a look at the label on the bottle. “Never heard of it,” he told Wolfe, “and I thought I knew cognac. Incredible, serving it offhand to a stranger. Where in God’s name did you get it?”
    “From a man I did a job for. In my house a guest is a guest, stranger or not. Don’t stint yourself; I have nearly three cases.” Wolfe drank beer, licked his lips, and settled back. “As I said, gentlemen, I appreciate your coming, and I won’t detain you beyond reason. My client, Mrs. Valdon, said she would leave it to me to explain what she has hired me to do, and I shall be as brief as possible. First, though, it should be understood that everything said here, either by you or by me, is in the strictest confidence. Is that agreed?”
    They all said yes.
    “Very well. My reserve is professional and merely my obligation to my client; yours will be personal, on behalf of a friend. This is the situation. In the past month Mrs. Valdon has received three anonymous letters. They are in my safe. I’m not going to show them to you or disclose their contents, but they make certain allegations regarding her late husband, Richard Valdon, and they make specific demands. The handwriting, in ink, is obviously disguised, but the sex of the writer is not in question. The contents of the letters make it clear that they were written by a woman. My engagement with Mrs. Valdon is to identify her, speak with her, and deal with her demands.”
    He reached for his glass, took a swallow of beer, and leaned back. “It’s an attempt to blackmail, but if the allegations are true Mrs. Valdon will be inclined to accede to the demands, with qualifications. When I find the letter-writer she will not be exposed or indicted, or compelled to forgo her demands, unless the allegations are false. The first necessity is to find her, and that’s the difficulty. Her arrangement for having the demands met is extraordinarily ingenious; nothing so crude as leaving a packet of bills somewhere. I’ll suggest its nature. You are men of affairs. Mr. Haft, what if you were told, anonymously, under threat of disclosure of a secret you wished to preserve, to deposit a sum of money to the credit of an account, identified only by number, in a bank in Switzerland? What would you do?”
    “Good lord, I don’t know,” Haft said.
    Krug said, “Swiss banks have some funny rules.”
    Wolfe nodded. “The letter-writer’s arrangement is even more adroit. Not only is there no risk of contact, there is no possible line of approach. But she must befound, and I have considered two procedures. One would be extremely expensive and might take many months. The other would require the cooperation of men who were close friends or associates of Mr. Valdon. From Mrs. Valdon’s suggestions four names were selected: yours. On her behalf I ask each of you to make a list of the names of all women with whom, to your knowledge, Richard Valdon was in contact during the months of March, April, and May, nineteen-sixty-one. Last