Death of a Doxy

Chapter 4

As I sat in the kitchen at ten minutes past eight Monday morning, having brioches, grilled ham, and grape thyme jelly, my mind was hopping around.

First, why was Fritz so damn stubborn about the jelly? Why wouldn’t he try it, just once, with half as much sugar and twice as much sauterne? I had been at him for years.

Second, why were journalists so damn lazy? If the Times felt it had to decorate the follow-up on the murder with a picture, surely they could have scared up one of Orrie, but they had the nerve to run that eight-year-old shot of Nero Wolfe. He ought to sue them for invasion of privacy. He hadn’t been pinched. As far as they knew he wasn’t in it at all. Of course it might not be laziness; maybe they were still sore about a letter he had once written the food editor.

Third, should I buzz him, or go up, before leaving? Fritz had had no word for me when he came down from taking up his breakfast tray, so apparently I was to proceed as instructed, but it wouldn’t hurt to check.

Fourth, where was Jill Hardy? Orrie had told me she was with Pan Am, but it would take more than a phone call to get her address out of them. I had tried the phone books of all five boroughs last night; no Jill Hardy. Parker could get it when he saw Orrie, but that would mean waiting. I would be ready to go when I finished the second cup of coffee, and the sooner I—

The phone rang. Fritz started to come; he agrees with Wolfe that nothing and no one should be allowed to interrupt a meal; but I reached and got it. “Nero Wolfe’s office, Archie Goodwin speaking.”

“Oh! I — This is Archie Goodwin?”

“Right.”

“The Archie Goodwin who works for Nero Wolfe?”

“I must be, since you called Nero Wolfe’s number.”

“Of course. My name is Jill Hardy. You probably — you may have heard it.” Her voice was what Lily Rowan calls mezzotinto, good and full but with sharp edges.

“Yes, I believe I have.”

“From Orrie Cather.”

“Right.”

“Then you know who I am. I’m calling — I have just seen the morning paper. Is it true about Orrie? He has been arrested?”

“You can call it that, yes. He is being held as a material witness. That means that the police think he knows things he hasn’t told them, and they want him to.”

“About a murder?”

“Apparently.”

“They must be crazy!”

“That’s quite possible. Are you at home, Miss Hardy?”

“Yes, at my apartment. Do you know—”

“Hold it, please. Since you say you just saw it in the paper, I assume the police haven’t paid you a call yet. But they will. At least, they may. I need to ask a question. I sort of gathered from things Orrie said that you and he are planning to get married. I might have misunderstood....”

“You didn’t. We’re going to be married in May.”

“Is it known? Have you told people?”

“I have told a few people — friends. I’m going to go on working for a while, and an airline stewardess is not allowed—”

“I know. But if Orrie has told his friends, and he told me, you’ll have callers before long. If you want to have—”

“I want to know why he was arrested! I want to know — was he working for Nero Wolfe?”

“No. He hasn’t been on a job for Mr. Wolfe for more than two months. If you—”

“Why should I have callers?”

“I’d rather not tell you on the phone. It’s complicated. If you want to know about it before the police come to ask questions, why don’t you come and ask me questions? Nero Wolfe’s office, Nine-thirty-eight West Thirty-fifth Street. I’ll be—”

“I can’t. I’m due for a Rio flight at ten-thirty.”

“Then I’ll come and pick you up and we can talk on the way to the airport. I’m a good driver. What’s the address?”

“I don’t think—” Silence. “What if Orrie—” More silence. “I’ll see.” She hung up.

I had room for another brioche and slice of ham, and I didn’t dawdle. It might take her only a couple of minutes. When Fritz brought coffee I told him that when you wanted to see someone and didn’t know where she was all you had to do was send out waves, and he asked if we had a client.

“Yes and no,” I said. “A job for someone, yes. A customer who can be properly billed, no. You heard me mention Orrie’s name, so you might as well know that he’s in a hole and we’re going to pull him out. How do you say in French ‘the brotherhood of man’?”

“There is no such thing in French. So that’s what your personal errand was Saturday. I’m glad it’s Orrie instead of Saul or Fred, but all the same—”

The phone rang. I got it. “Nero Wolfe’s office—”

“Jill Hardy again, Mr. Goodwin. I’ve fixed it. I’ll be there in about an hour.”

“Good for you. Do you mind giving me your address and phone number? Just to have.”

She didn’t mind. The address was 217 Nutmeg Street, in the Village. When I had finished the coffee and went to the office, I wrote it on a slip of paper, and the phone number, and considered a problem: should it go in Orrie’s folder? Deciding against it, I got out a new folder and marked it CATHER, ORRIE, CLIENT. In ten minutes Wolfe would be taking the elevator for his morning session, nine to eleven, with the orchids, and I buzzed his room on the house phone. He took his time to answer.

“Yes?”

“Good morning. I thought you would want to know that it’s possible that Jill Hardy will still be here when you come down. She’ll arrive in about an hour, probably less.”

“You have already found her?”

“Oh, sure. It’s easy when you know how.”

“Swagger,” he said, and hung up.

As I dusted desks and chairs, removed yesterday’s sheets from the desk calendars, changed the water in the vase on Wolfe’s desk, and opened the mail, I decided that Jill Hardy would be tall and stiff with quick, sharp eyes, the sergeant type, but the corners of her eyes would slant up a little because some Oriental had got mixed in somewhere along the line. It would have taken something unusual like that to hook Orrie so hard, but there was another reason why she had to be like that. Since we had ruled Orrie out, the sooner we found a replacement for him the better, and of course Jill Hardy was a candidate, and it would simplify it if she looked the part.

Damn it, she didn’t. When the doorbell rang a little after nine-thirty and I went to the hall and to the front door, what I saw through the one-way glass was a size twelve black leather coat with a fur collar, and a little oval face, pink from the cold, with big gray-blue eyes, under a fur-and-leather pancake. When I had opened up and she was inside and the coat was off, she looked even smaller in the well-fitted dark blue suit. She must have just barely hit the minimum height for her job. In the office, I had one of the yellow chairs in place for her. The red leather chair is too far away from my desk.

“I’ve calmed down a little,” she said as she sat. “You look a little like Orrie. The same size.”

That didn’t strike me as an ideal opening for a friendly conversation. I do not look like Orrie. He’s handsome and I’m not. My face needs more nose, but I quit worrying about it when I was twelve. I turned the other cheek. “I’m not surprised,” I said, “that Orrie decided to merge. Seeing you. I’ll congratulate him again when I see him.”

She ignored the oil. “When will you see him?”

“I’m not sure. Possibly this afternoon.”

“I want to see him, but I don’t know how. What do I do?”

“I wouldn’t try to rush it if I were you. He might get bailed out. He has a good lawyer. When did you see him last?”

“Why did they arrest him?” she demanded. “What could he know about a murder? You say he wasn’t working for Nero Wolfe?”

“Yes. He wasn’t. I don’t know, Miss Hardy, if I can tell you much of anything you don’t already know, since you’ve read the paper. I suppose that woman, Isabel Kerr, was involved in some case he was working on, but that’s just a guess. Another guess is that he was in her apartment recently, and they found his fingerprints there, and that’s why they’ve got him. You probably know that private detectives sometimes get into a place and make a search, but if it had been that, Orrie wouldn’t have left any prints because he would have had gloves on. Of course he might not have been there on business, it might have been just — social. Do you know if he knew Miss Kerr?”

“No.” She was frowning.

“He has never mentioned her name?”

“No.”

“When did you see him last?”

She was tops at ignoring questions. She was still frowning. “You said you’d rather not tell me on the phone why I would have callers, but you’re not telling me anything, it seems to me. You’re Orrie’s close friend, but you don’t seem to know much. Why would I have callers? You mean the police?”

I decided I wasn’t going to get anywhere walking on eggs. “I don’t want to jolt you,” I said, “but I think you ought to know the situation.”

“So do I. That’s exactly what I think.”

“Fine. When a man is arrested he has a right to call a lawyer. Orrie called Nathaniel Parker, and Parker went and saw him, and then he came here and talked with Mr. Wolfe and me. Orrie knew he was going to. They don’t hold a man without bail merely because they think he knows things. They’re holding him because they think he killed Isabel Kerr. They don’t just think he knows something about a murder, they think he did it.”

Her eyes were wide, staring. “I don’t believe it.”

“If you don’t believe he did it, neither do I. If you don’t believe they think he did, ask them. Or his lawyer. Because Mr. Wolfe doesn’t think he did, he intends to do something about it, like for instance finding out who did. I haven’t answered your question, why you should expect callers. Because as soon as the cops find out that Orrie is going to marry you, which won’t take them long, they will want to ask you things. Like what I asked, do you know if he knew Isabel Kerr, and like what you haven’t answered, when did you see him last? I only asked it twice, but they’ll bear down. They’ll also want to know where and how you spent Saturday morning; that’s the kind of minds they have. They will wonder if you were there with him, and maybe even held her while he got the ashtray. It’s also the kind of mind I have. Since I think he didn’t kill her I have to consider who did, and it might have been you. Where were you Saturday morning?”

Her jaw was working. “I thought you were a friend of Orrie’s,” she said. “You wouldn’t talk like that if he was here.”

“Yes, I would, and he would understand. He wouldn’t like it, but he would understand.” I leaned to her, elbows on knees. “Listen, Miss Hardy. I like your looks and I like your voice. You have very nice hands. You say you had never heard of Isabel Kerr, and I have no evidence that you had, so apparently you’re out, but I would really appreciate it if you would tell me when you saw Orrie last and where you were Saturday morning.”

“Why do they think he killed her?” she demanded. “Why would he kill her?”

“I don’t know. I may have an idea later, possibly this afternoon if I see him, from the questions they have asked him. They probably think they have some line on motive, but not necessarily.”

“How could he have a motive?”

“You’ll have to ask them, not me, because I think they’re off. It’s supposed to be possible to convict a man of murder without proving motive, but juries don’t like the idea.”

“Juries? You mean they will — there’ll be a trial?”

“I sincerely hope not.”

Her eyes were fastened on me. “I believe you really mean that.”

“I really do.”

“Saturday morning I was at home in bed, until after noon. I had been on a flight from Caracas that was due at midnight, but we weren’t down until after two o’clock. I saw Orrie that evening. I had dinner with him at a restaurant. I have to answer so many questions in the air that when I’m on the ground I don’t listen to them.” She pulled her feet back, stood up, and took a step. “Get up and put your arms around me.”

It was an order, and I obeyed. She didn’t lift her arms so we could lock, but when I had her enclosed she gripped my jacket with both hands near my backbone and hid her face on my chest. The dark blue suit felt like wool, but nowadays you never know. I didn’t squeeze, just held her nice and firm, trying to decide whether she knew she was in trouble and wanted to enlist me, or she was getting started on me in case Orrie got permanently eliminated, or it was just a habit she had. She hadn’t used any perfume, or very little, and she smelled fine. There’s no telling how long it would have lasted if it hadn’t been for the doorbell. It rang.

I unwound my arms, politely, crossed to the hall and took a look, stepped back in, and told her, “It’s a cop, one I happen to know. Since you’re in no hurry to meet him, you will please duck.” I had crossed to the door to the front room and opened it. “In here. You don’t have to hold your breath, it’s soundproofed. You can even sneeze.”

Generally speaking, airline stewardesses know how to react. Without a word she picked up her handbag, which had dropped to the floor when she gripped my jacket, moved to the door I was holding, and on through. As I shut the door the doorbell rang again. I broke no records getting to the hall and the front; and if Inspector Cramer noticed the black leather coat on the rack, let him. It was me he wanted to see, since he knew Wolfe was never available until eleven, and one more question to refuse to answer wouldn’t matter. I opened the door, said, “Sorry, I was busy yawning,” and gave him room. His big round face was redder than usual from the cold. There have been times when he refused help with his coat because he wanted to get his eyes on me and keep them there, but now he let me behind him to take it, and he led the way to the office. He hadn’t noticed the black leather coat, but he did notice the yellow chair near my desk, and as he lowered his broad rump onto the red leather one he asked, “Company?”

I nodded. “Come and gone. Have you turned Orrie loose yet?”

“No. Not yet and not soon. Unless you can give me a damn good reason. Can you?”

“Sure. He’s clean.”

“Go right ahead.”

“Parker came here after seeing him yesterday and told us that Orrie had told him he was innocent. We have seen a lot of Orrie and we know he’s not a liar. So Mr. Wolfe is going to look into it. Of course that’s what you came for, to ask if he’s going to horn in. He is.”

“I don’t have to ask that. I came to get information.” He got better arranged in the chair. “When did you see Cather last?”

I shook my head. “No comment.”

“Has he ever spoken to you about Isabel Kerr?”

“Pass.”

“Has he ever spoken to you about Jill Hardy?”

“No comment.”

“You can’t get away with it, Goodwin. If a man is charged he can clam up, but you’re not charged. But, by God, you can be charged.”

“I feel another yawn coming,” I said. “Do we have to go through it again? I don’t say I will answer no questions at all about Orrie Cather. If you ask me where he buys his shoes or when did Mr. Wolfe last use him on a job, I’ll tell you, even in writing. But the kind of questions you’re loaded with, no. Certainly, if you pin a murder on him and make it stick, and if you can prove that I had information that you could have used, you can tag me for obstructing justice and I’ll be sunk. But if it turns out that instead of obstructing justice I’m doing it as a favor by helping Mr. Wolfe find out who did kill Isabel Kerr, he and I ought to get a ticker-tape parade, but we won’t insist on it.”

He opened his tight lips to say, “You’ve crawled out on that limb before.”

“Yeah. I said do we have to go through it again.” I glanced at my wrist. “Mr. Wolfe will be down in twenty minutes, if you think you can scare him better than me.”

He started tapping the floor with the toe of his heavy shoe, focusing on Wolfe’s empty chair. That wasn’t very satisfactory, since it made no sound on the thick rug, not like the linoleum in his office. He was looking at the chair instead of me because it wasn’t my stand that was eating him. He had the answer to one question, where did Wolfe stand, and now the point was, why? Did we really have something, and, if so, what?

“It occurs to me,” I said, “that we might make a deal. It would have to be okayed by Mr. Wolfe, but I’m sure he would. We’ll make an affidavit, the last sentence of which will say that it includes everything we know, and everything Orrie has said and done to our knowledge, that could possibly have any bearing on the murder, and we’ll trade it for a look at your file. The whole file. It would be a bargain for both of us. You would know exactly what we’ve got, and we would know why you’re risking holding him without bail. Fair enough?”

“Balls,” Cramer said. He stood up. “One thing I came for, to tell Wolfe something, but you can tell him. Tell him that it’s too bad I can’t show him Isabel Kerr’s diary. If he read it he would change his mind about horning in. And a tip for you. When you decide to kill someone make damn sure he isn’t keeping a diary. Or she.” He turned and marched out.

I stayed put. It would have been a shame to spoil such a good exit line. When I heard the front door open and close I went to the hall for a look, to see that he had been outside when he shut it, then stepped back into the office and considered a matter. Should Jill Hardy be there in the red leather chair when Wolfe came down? If I left her in the front room and reported, almost certainly he would refuse to see her, and of course he should. It would be eleven o’clock in three minutes. I decided to bring her in, went and opened the door and crossed the sill, and looked around at an empty room. She had exited without a line, by the door to the hall. I went and looked at the rack; her coat was gone. The house phone buzzed in the office, and I went and got it. It was Wolfe, in the plant rooms, wanting to know if she had gone, and I told him yes, and in a minute the sound came of the elevator grumbling its way down. He entered, in his hand the daily orchids for his desk — a panicle of Odontoglossum hellemense, which, according to the records I keep, is a cross of harvengtense and crispum. A stunner if you feel like orchids, which I didn’t just then. I sat and simmered as he put them in the vase, got settled in his chair, and glanced through the mail. When he finished with a letter from a man upstate who sends deer meat, the only important item, I said, rather loud, “Miss Kerr kept a diary.”

He put the letter down, looked up, regarded me for half a minute, and asked, “How did you pry it out of him?”

“Out of who?”

“Mr. Cramer, of course.”

I stared. “To see the street from up there you have to stick your head way out.”

“I never have. But he would certainly come, and soon, and who else could supply such a particular? How did you pry it out of him?”

“All right, I’ll report.” I did so, starting with Jill Hardy. Sometimes, reporting a conversation, it’s essential to give it verbatim, but even when it isn’t I do it anyway because that’s how I have trained and it’s easier. As usual, he leaned back with his eyes closed. I went right on through, from Jill Hardy on to Cramer, since there had been no break, just a change of cast. When I finished he opened his eyes halfway, closed them again, and muttered, “Nothing.”

“Right,” I agreed. “As for her, if she’s a liar she’s pretty good. Orrie certainly thinks she knows nothing about Isabel Kerr, and if she does it would take a lot of digging to prove it. If she doesn’t she’s crossed off completely and is absolutely useless. As for Cramer, he probably has got a diary, but so what, we knew he had something hot, and I doubt if it says at the end, ‘He is reaching for the ashtray and is going to hit me with it,’ which is the point. Cramer may have needed a diary to tell him that it would be handy for Orrie if she died, but we don’t, we already knew it. What we need is somebody else it is handy for. It is for Jill Hardy, in a way, but I doubt if she knew it. As you say, nothing.”

He opened his eyes. “You think Orrie killed her.”

“No. I have looked over Saul’s point, from all angles, and I like it. At the very least it packs a reasonable doubt, which is enough for a jury, so it will do for me. Anyhow, we’re now on record. With Cramer. If it turns out that Orrie did it I’ll never forgive him. I’ll cop his girl. She already thinks I look like him.”

He grunted. “Now what? Who?”

“I suppose the sister. Or Avery Ballou.”

“We would have to discuss Mr. Ballou. The sister first.” He straightened up and reached for Invitation to an Inquest.