“Thank you. You have no suggestions?”

“I’m afraid not. Good luck.”

Wolfe didn’t thank him again. We hung up.

“Swell,” I said. “He thinks he’s handed you a gazookis. The hell of it is, he’s probably right. So where do we start?”

“Not at the Battery,” Wolfe growled.

“Okay, but where? It may even be worse than we think. What if Paul framed himself for the theft of the twenty-six grand so as to have an excuse to get away from father? Having met father, I would buy that. And seeing the ad asking him to communicate with father-not mentioning mother or sisters, just father-and saying a mistake was made, what does he do? He either beats it to Peru or the Middle East-there’s the Middle East again-or he goes and buys himself a set of whiskers. That’s an idea; we can check on all sales of whiskers in the last month, and if we find-”

“Shut up. It is an idea.”

I stared. “My God, it’s not that desperate. I was merely trying to stir your blood up and get your brain started, as usual, and if you-”

“I said shut up. Is it too late to get an advertisement into tomorrow’s papers?”

“The Gazette, no. The Times, maybe.”

“Your notebook.”

Even if he had suddenly gone batty, I was on his payroll. I went to my desk, got the notebook, turned to a fresh page, and took my pen.

“Not in the classified columns,” he said. “A display two columns wide and three inches high. Headed ‘To P.H.’ in large boldface, with periods after the P and H.