Death Times Three

I

I was tailing a man named Jonas Putz. You can forget Putz. I mention him only to explain how I happened to be standing, at five o’clock that Monday afternoon, in a doorway on the uptown side of 38th Street around the corner from Lexington Avenue. After spending an hour or so at the Tulip Bar of the Churchill, with an eye on Putz at a proper distance, I had followed him out to the street and then downtown, on foot; and after a few blocks I got the notion that someone else was also interested in his movements. When he stopped a couple of times to look at shop windows, I stopped, too, naturally, and so did someone else, about twenty paces back of me. I had first noticed her in the lobby of the Churchill, because she rated a glance as a matter of principle — the principle that a man owes it to his eyes to let them rest on attractive objects when there are any around.

She was still tagging along when I turned the corner at 38th Street, and I was wondering whether her interest in Putz had any connection with the simple little problem Nero Wolfe had been hired to solve; and, if so, what. When Putz crossed Madison Avenue and went on to the entrance of the building he lived in, and entered, I was through with him for the day, since he hadn’t gone to a certain address, and it was only out of curiosity, to see what the female stalker would do, that I kept going and posted myself in a doorway across the street from Putz’s entrance. My curiosity was soon satisfied.

She came right along straight to my post, stopped, faced me at arm’s length, and spoke. “You are Archie Goodwin.”

I raised my brows. “Prove it.”

She smiled a little. “Oh, I have seen you once, at the Flamingo, and I have seen your picture in the paper. Are you detecting somebody?”

She looked about as foreign as she sounded — enough to suggest a different flavor, which can broaden a man, but not enough to make it seem too complicated. Her chin was slightly more pointed than I would have specified if I had had her made to order, but everybody makes mistakes. Her floppy-brimmed hat and the shoulder spread of her mink stole made her face look smaller than it probably was.

She wasn’t an operative, that was sure. Her interest in Putz must be personal, but still it might be connected with our client’s problem.

I smiled back at her. “Apparently we both are. Unless you’re Putz’s bodyguard?”

“Putz? Who is that?”

“Now, really. You spoke first. Jonas Putz. You ought to know his name, since you tailed him all the way here from the Churchill.”

She shook her head. “Not him. I was after you. This is a pickup. I am picking you up.” She didn’t say “picking,” but neither did she say “peecking.” It was in between.

“I am honored,” I assured her. “I am flattered. I like the way you do it. Usually girls who pick me up beat around the bush. Look; if you’ll tell me why you’re interested in Putz, I’ll tell you why I am, and then we’ll see. We might—”

“But I’m not! I never heard of him. Truly!” She started a hand out to touch my arm, but decided not to. “It is you I am interested in! When I saw you at the Churchill I wanted to speak, but you were going, and I followed, and all the way I was bringing up my courage. To pick you up.” That time it was “peeck.”

“O.K.” I decided to table Putz temporarily. “Now that you’ve picked me up, what are you going to do with me?”

She smiled. “Oh, no. You are the man. What we do, that is for you to say.”

If she had been something commonplace like a glamorous movie star I would have shown her what I thought of her passing the buck like that by marching off. If I had been busy I might have asked her for her phone number. As it was, I merely cocked my head at her.

“Typical,” I said. “Invade a man’s privacy and then put the burden on him. Let’s see. Surely we can kill time together somehow. Are you any good at pool?”

“Poule? The chicken?”

“No, the game. Balls on a table and you poke them with a stick.”

“Oh, the billiards. No.”

“How about shoplifting? There’s a shop nearby and I need some socks. There’s room for a dozen pairs in that pocketbook, and I’ll cover the clerk.”

She didn’t bat an eye. “Wool or cotton?”

“Cotton. No synthetics.”

“What colors?”

“Mauve. Pinkish mauve.” If I have given the impression that her chin was pointed enough to be objectionable, I exaggerated. “But we ought to plan it properly. For instance, if I have to shoot the clerk, we should separate, you can pick me up later. Let’s go around the corner to Martucci’s and discuss it.”

She approved of that. Walking beside her, I noted that the top of the floppy-brimmed hat was at my ear level. With it off, her hair would have grazed my chin if she had been close enough. At Martucci’s the crowd wouldn’t be showing for another quarter of an hour, and there was an empty table in a rear corner. She asked for vermouth frappé, which was wholesome, but not very appropriate for a shoplifting moll. I told her so.

“Also,” I added, “since I don’t know your name, we’ll have to give you one. Slickeroo Sal? Too hissy, maybe. Fanny the Finger? That has character.”

“Or it could be Flora the Finger,” she suggested. “That would be better because my name is Flora. Flora Gallant. Miss Flora Gallant.”

“The ‘Miss’ is fine,” I assured her. “I don’t mind shooting a clerk, but I would hate to have to shoot a husband. I’ve heard of someone named Gallant — has a place somewhere in the Fifties. Any relation?”

“Yes,” she said, “I’m his sister.”

That changed things some. It had been obvious that she was no doxy. Now that she was placed, some of the tang was gone. One of the main drawbacks of marriage is that a man knows exactly who his wife is; there’s not a chance that she is going to turn out to be a runaway from a sultan’s harem or the Queen of the Fairies. A female friend of mine had told me things about Alec Gallant. He was a dress designer who was crowding two others for top ranking in the world of high fashion. He thumbed his nose at Paris and sneered at Rome and Ireland, and was getting away with it. He had refused to finish three dresses for the Duchess of Harwynd because she postponed flying over from London for fittings. He declined to make anything whatever for a certain famous movie actress because he didn’t like the way she handled her hips when she walked. He had been known to charge as little as $800 for an afternoon frock, but it had been for a favorite customer, so he practically gave it away.

I looked at his sister over the rim of my glass as I took a sip, not vermouth, and lowered the glass. “You must come clean with me, Finger. You are Alec Gallant’s sister?”

“But yes! I wouldn’t try lying to Archie Goodwin. You are too smart.”

“Thank you. It’s too bad your brother doesn’t sell socks; we could pinch them at his place instead of imposing on a stranger. Or maybe he does. Does he sell socks?”

“Good heavens, no!”

“Then that’s out. As a matter of fact, I’m getting cold feet. If you’re a shopkeeper’s sister, you probably have a resistance to shoplifting somewhere in your subconscious, and it might pop up at a vital moment. We’ll try something else. Go back to the beginning. Why did you pick me up?”

She fluttered a little hand. “Because I wanted to meet you.”

“Why did you want to meet me?”

“Because I wanted you to like me.”

“All right, I like you. That’s accomplished. Now what?”

She frowned. “You are so blunt. You are angry with me. Did I say something?”

“Not a thing. I still like you, so far. But if you are Miss Flora Gallant you must have followed me all the way from the Churchill for one of two reasons. One would be that the sight of me was too much for you, that you were so enchanted that you lost all control. I reject that because I’m wearing a brown suit, and I get that effect only when I’m wearing a gray one. The other would be that you want something, and I ask you bluntly what it is, so we can dispose of that and then maybe go on from there. Let’s have it, Finger.”

“You are smart,” she said. “You do like me?”

“So far, I do. I could tell better if that hat didn’t shade your eyes so much.”

She removed the hat, no fussing with it, and put it on a chair, and actually didn’t pat around at her hair. “There,” she said, “then I’ll be blunt too. I want you to help me. I want to see Mr. Nero Wolfe.”

I nodded. “I suspected that was it. I don’t want to be rude, I am enjoying meeting you, but why didn’t you just phone for an appointment?”

“Because I didn’t dare. Anyway, I didn’t really decide to until I saw you at the Churchill and I thought there was my chance. You see, there are three things. The first thing is that I know he charges very big fees, and I am not so rich. The second thing is that he doesn’t like women, so there would be that against me. The third thing is that when people want to hire him, you always look them up and find out all you can about them, and I was afraid my brother would find out that I had gone to him, and my brother mustn’t know about it. So the only way was to get you to help me, because you can make Mr. Wolfe do anything you want him to. Of course, now I’ve spoiled it.”

“Spoiled it how?”

“By letting you pull it out of me. I was going to get friendly with you first. I know you like to dance, and I am not too bad at dancing. I would be all right with you — I know, because I saw you at the Flamingo. I thought I would have one advantage: being French I would be different from all your American girls; I know you have thousands of them. I thought in a week or two you might like me well enough so I could ask you to help me. Now I have spoiled it.” She picked up her glass and drank.

I waited until she had put her glass down. “A couple of corrections. I haven’t got thousands of American girls, only three or four hundred. I can’t make Mr. Wolfe do anything I want him to; it all depends. And a couple of questions? What you want him to do — does it involve any marital problems? Your brother’s wife or someone else’s wife that he’s friendly with?”

“No. My brother isn’t married.”

“Good. For Mr. Wolfe that would be out. You say you’re not so rich. Could you pay anything at all? Could you scrape up a few hundred without hocking that stole?”

“Yes. Oh, yes. I am not a pauvre — pardon — a pauper. But Mr. Wolfe would sneer at a few hundred.”

“That would be his impulse, but impulses can be sidetracked, with luck. I suggest that you proceed with your plan as outlined.” I looked at my wrist. “It’s going on six o’clock. For the Flamingo we would have to go home and dress, and that’s too much trouble, but there’s nothing wrong with the band at Colonna’s in the Village. We can stick here for an hour or so and get acquainted, and you can give me some idea of what your problem is, and you can go right ahead with your program, getting me to like you enough to want to help you. Then we can go to Colonna’s and eat and dance. Well?”

“That’s all right,” she conceded, “but I ought to go home and change. I would look better and dance better.”

I objected. “That can come later. We’ll start at the bottom and work up. If you dress, I’ll have to, too, and I’d rather not. As you probably know, I live in Mr. Wolfe’s house, and he might want to discuss something with me. He often does. I would rather phone and tell him I have a personal matter to attend to and won’t be home for dinner. You passed the buck. You said I’m the man and it’s for me to say.”

“Well, I would have to phone too.”

“We can afford it.” I got a dime from a pocket and proffered it.

At ten-thirty the next morning, Tuesday, I was in the office on the first floor of the old brownstone on West 35th Street which is owned and dominated by Nero Wolfe, when I remembered something I had forgotten to do. Closing the file drawer I was working on, I went to the hall, turned left, and entered the kitchen, where Fritz Brenner, chef and housekeeper, was stirring something in a bowl.

I spoke. “I meant to ask, Fritz: What did Mr. Wolfe have for breakfast?”

His pink, good-natured face turned to me, but he didn’t stop stirring. “Why? Something wrong?”

“Of course not. Nothing is ever wrong. I’m going to jostle him and it will help to know what mood he’s in.”

“A good one. He was very cheerful when I went up for the tray, which was empty. He had melon, eggs à la Suisse with oatmeal cakes and croissants with blackberry jam. He didn’t put cream in his coffee, which is always a good sign. Do you have to jostle him?”

I said it was for his own good — that is, Wolfe’s — and headed for the stairs. There is an elevator, but I seldom bother to use it. One flight up was Wolfe’s room, and a spare, used mostly for storage. Two flights up was my room, and one for guests, not used much. Mounting the third flight, I passed through the vestibule to the door to the plant rooms, opened it and entered.

By then, after the years, you might think those ten thousand orchids would no longer impress me, but they did. In the tropical room I took the side aisle for a look at the pink Vanda that Wolfe had been offered six grand for, and in the intermediate room I slowed down as I passed a bench of my favorites, Miltonia hybrids. Then on through to the potting room.

The little guy with a pug nose, opening a bale of osmundine over by the wall, was Theodore Horstmann, orchid nurse. The one standing at the big bench, inspecting a seed pod, was my employer.

“Good morning,” I said brightly. “Fred phoned in at ten-fourteen. Putz is at his office, probably reading the morning mail. I told Fred to stay on him.”

“Well?”

I’ll translate it. What that “well” meant was, “You know better than to interrupt me here for that, so what is it?”

Having translated it, I replied to it, “I was straightening up a file when I suddenly realized that I hadn’t told you that there’s an appointment for eleven o’clock. A prospective client, someone I ran across yesterday. It might be quite interesting.”

“Who is it?”

“I admit it’s a woman. Her name is Flora Gallant; she’s the sister of a man named Alec Gallant, who makes dresses for duchesses that dukes pay a thousand bucks for. She could get things for your wife wholesale if you had a wife.”

He put the seed pod down. “Archie.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are being transparent deliberately. You did not suddenly realize that you hadn’t told me. You willfully delayed telling me until it is too late to notify her not to come. How old is she?”

“Oh, middle twenties.”

“Of course. Ill-favored? Ill-shaped? Ungainly?”

“No, not exactly.”

“She wouldn’t be if you ran across her. What does she want?”

“It’s a little vague. I’d rather she told you.”

He snorted. “One of your functions is to learn what people want. You are trying to dragoon me. I won’t see her. I’ll come down later. Let me know when she has gone.”

“Yes, sir.” I was apologetic, “You’re absolutely right. You’d probably be wasting your time. But when I was dancing with her last evening I must have got sentimental, because I told her I would help her with her problem. So I’m stuck. I’ll have to tackle it myself. I’ll have to take a leave of absence without pay, starting now. Say a couple of weeks, that should do it. We have nothing important on, and of course Fred can attend to Putz, and if you—”

“Archie, this is beyond tolerance. This is egregious.”

“I know it is, but I’m stuck. If I were you I’d fire me. It may take—”

The house phone buzzed. He didn’t move, so I went and got it. After listening to Fritz, I told him to hold on, and turned: “She’s at the door. If she comes in, it will disrupt your schedule, so I’d better go down and take her somewhere. I’ll—”

“Confound you,” he growled. “I’ll be down shortly.”

I told Fritz to put her in the office and I would be right down, hung up and went. On my way through the intermediate room I cut off a raceme of Miltonia and took it along. Orchids are good for girls, whether they have problems or not. At the bottom of the stairs, Fritz was posted on guard, awaiting me. He is by no means a woman hater, but he suspects every female who enters the house of having designs on his kitchen and therefore needing to be watched. I told him O.K., I’d see to her, and crossed to the office.

She was in the red leather chair facing the end of Wolfe’s desk. I told her good morning, went and got a pin from my desk tray and returned to her.

“Here,” I said, handing her the raceme and pin. “I see why you asked me what his favorite color is. He’ll like that dress if he’s not too grouchy to notice it.”

“Then he’ll see me?”

“Yeah, he’ll see you, any minute now. I had to back him into a corner and stick a spear in him. I doubt if I like you that much, but my honor was at stake, and I... well, if you insist—”

She was on her feet, putting her palms on my cheeks and giving me an emphatic kiss.

Since it was in the office and during hours, I merely accepted it.

“You should have another one,” she said, sitting again, “for the orchids. They’re lovely.”

I told her to save it for a better occasion. “And,” I added, “don’t try it on Mr. Wolfe. He might bite you.” The sound of the elevator, creaking under his seventh of a ton, came from the hall. “Here he comes. Don’t offer him a hand. He doesn’t like to shake hands even with men, let alone women.”

There was the sound of the elevator door opening, and footsteps, and he entered. He thinks he believes in civility, so he stopped in front of her, told her good morning, and then proceeded to the over-sized, custom-made chair behind his desk.

“Your name is Flora Gallant?” he growled. The growl implied that he strongly doubted it and wouldn’t be surprised if she had no name at all.

She smiled at him. I should have warned her to go slow on smiles. “Yes, Mr. Wolfe. I suppose Mr. Goodwin has told you who I am. I know I’m being nervy to expect you to take any time for my troubles — a man as busy and important as you are — but, you see, it’s not for myself. I’m not anybody, but you know who my brother is? My brother Alec?”

“Yes. Mr. Goodwin has informed me. An illustrious dressmaker.”

“He is not merely a dressmaker. He is an artist — a great artist.” She wasn’t arguing, just stating a fact. “The trouble is about him, and that’s why I must be careful with it. That’s why I came to you — not only that you are a great detective — the very greatest, of course; everybody knows that — but also that you are a gentleman. So I know you are worthy of confidence.”

She stopped, apparently for acknowledgment. Wolfe obliged her: “Umph.” I was thinking that I might also have warned her not to spread the butter too thick.

She resumed, “So it is understood I am trusting you?”

“You may,” he growled.

She hesitated, seeming to consider if that point was properly covered, and decided that it was. “Then I’ll tell you. I must explain that in France, where my brother and I were born and brought up, our name was not ‘Gallant.’ What it was doesn’t matter. I have been in this country only four years. Alec came here in 1946, more than a year after the war ended. He had changed his name to Gallant and entered legally under that name. Within five years he had made a reputation as a designer, and then — I don’t suppose you remember his fall collection in 1953?”

Wolfe merely grunted.

She fluttered a little hand. “But of course you are not married, and feeling as you do about women—” She let that hang. “Anyway, that collection showed everybody what my brother was — a creator, a true creator. He got financial backing, more than he needed, and opened his place on Fifty-fourth Street. That was when he sent for me to come to America, and I was glad to. From 1953 on, it has been all a triumph — many triumphs. Of course I have not had any hand in them, but I have been with him and have tried to help in my little way. The glory of great success has been my brother’s, but then, he can’t do everything in an affair so big as that. You understand?”

“No one can do everything,” Wolfe conceded.

She nodded. “Even you, you have Mr. Goodwin. My brother has Carl Drew, and Anita Prince, and Emmy Thorne — and me, if I count. But now trouble has come. The trouble is a woman — a woman named Bianca Voss.”

Wolfe made a face. She saw it and responded to it. “No, not an affaire d’amour, I’m sure of that. Though my brother has never married, I am certain this Bianca Voss has not attracted him that way. She first came there a little more than a year ago. My brother had told us to expect her, but we don’t know where he had met her or where she came from. He designed a dress and a suit for her, and they were made there in the shop, but no bill was ever sent her. Then he gave her one of the rooms, the offices, on the third floor, and she started to come every day, and soon the trouble began. My brother never told us she had any authority, but she took it and he allowed her to. Sometimes she interferes directly, and sometimes through him. She pokes her nose into everything. She got my brother to discharge a fitter, a very capable woman, who had been with him for years. She has a private telephone line in her office upstairs, but no one else has. About two months ago some of the others persuaded me to try to find out about her, what her standing is, and I asked my brother, but he wouldn’t tell me. I begged him to, but he wouldn’t.”

“It sounds,” Wolfe said, “as if she owns the business. Perhaps she bought it.”

Flora shook her head. “No, she hasn’t. I’m sure she hasn’t. She wasn’t one of the financial backers in 1953, and since then there have been good profits, and anyway, my brother has control. But now she’s going to cheapen it and spoil it, and he’s going to let her, we don’t know why. She wants him to design a factory line to be promoted by a chain of department stores using his name. She wants him to sponsor a line of Alec Gallant cosmetics on a royalty basis. And other things. We’re against all of them, and my brother is, too, really, but we think he’s going to give in to her, and that will ruin it.”

She stopped to swallow. “Mr. Wolfe, I want you to ruin her.”

He grunted. “By wiggling a finger?”

“No, but you can. I’m sure you can. I’m sure she has some hold on him, but I don’t know what. I don’t know who she is or where she came from. I don’t know if Bianca Voss is her real name. She speaks with an accent, and it may be French, but if it is, it’s from some part of France I don’t know; I’m not sure what it is. I don’t know when she came to America; she may be here illegally. She may have known my brother in France during the war; I was young then. You can find out. If she has a hold on my brother, you can find out what it is. If she is blackmailing him, isn’t that against the law? Wouldn’t that ruin her?”

“It might. It might ruin him too.”

“Not unless you betrayed him.” She gave a little gasp and added hastily, “I don’t mean that, I only mean I am trusting you, you said I could, and you could make her stop, and that’s all you would have to do. Couldn’t you do just that?”

“Conceivably.” Wolfe wasn’t enthusiastic. “I fear, madam, that you’re biting off more than you can chew. The procedure you suggest would be prolonged, laborious, and extremely expensive. It would probably require elaborate investigation abroad. Aside from my fee, which would not be modest, the outlay would be considerable and the outcome highly uncertain. Are you in a position to undertake it?”

“I am not rich myself, Mr. Wolfe. I have some savings. But my brother — if you get her away, if you release him from her — he is truly généreux — pardon — he is a generous man. He is not stingy.”

“But he isn’t hiring me, and your assumption that she is coercing him may be groundless.” Wolfe shook his head. “No. Not a reasonable venture. Unless, of course, your brother himself consults me. If you care to bring him? Or send him?”

“Oh, I couldn’t!” She waved it away. “You must see that isn’t possible! When I asked him about her, I told you, he wouldn’t tell me anything. He was annoyed. He is never abrupt with me, but he was then. I assure you, Mr. Wolfe, she is a villain. You are sagace — pardon — you are an acute man. You would know it if you saw her, spoke with her.”

“Perhaps,” Wolfe was losing patience. “Even so, my perception of her villainy wouldn’t avail. No, madam.”

“But you would know I am right.” She opened her bag, fingered in it with both hands, came out with something, left her chair to step to Wolfe’s desk, and put the something on the desk pad in front of him. “There,” she said, “that is three hundred dollars. For you that is nothing, but it shows how I am in earnest.” She returned to the chair. “I know you never leave your home on business, you wouldn’t go there, and I can’t ask her to come here so you can speak with her, she would merely laugh at me, but you can. You can tell her you have been asked in confidence to discuss a matter with her and ask her to come to see you. You will not tell her what it is. She will come — she will be afraid not to — and that alone will show you she has a secret, perhaps many secrets. Then, when she comes, you will ask her whatever occurs to you. For that you do not need my suggestions. You are sagace.”

“Pfui,” Wolfe shook his head. “Everybody has secrets; not necessarily guilty ones.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “but not secrets that would make them afraid not to come to see Nero Wolfe. When she comes and you have spoken with her, we shall see. That may be all or it may not. We shall see.”

I do not say that the three hundred bucks there on his desk was no factor. Even though income tax would take two-thirds of it, there would be enough left for three weeks’ supply of beer or for two days’ salary for me. Another factor was plain curiosity: would Bianca Voss come or wouldn’t she? Another was the chance that it might develop into a decent fee. Still another was her saying “We shall see” instead of “We’ll see” or “We will see.” He will always stretch a point, within reason, for people who use words as he thinks they should be used. But all of those together might not have swung him if he hadn’t known that if he turned her down, and she went, I was pigheaded enough to go with her on leave of absence.

So he muttered at her, “Where is she?”

“At my brother’s place. She always is.”

“Give Mr. Goodwin the phone number.”

“I’ll get it. She may be downstairs.” She got up and started for the phone on Wolfe’s desk, but I told her to use mine and left my chair, and she came and sat, lifted the receiver, and dialed. In a moment she spoke. “Doris? Flora. Is Miss Voss around?... Oh. I thought she might have come down... No, don’t bother; I’ll ring her private line.”

She pushed the button down, told us, “She’s up in her office,” waited a moment, released the button, and dialed again. When she spoke, it was with another voice, as she barely moved her lips and brought it out through her nose, “Miss Bianca Voss? Hold the line, please. Mr. Nero Wolfe wishes to speak with you... Nero Wolfe, the private detective.”

She looked at Wolfe and he got at his phone. Having my own share of curiosity, I extended a hand for my receiver, and she let me take it and left my chair. As I got it to my ear Wolfe was speaking.

“This is Nero Wolfe. Is this Miss Bianca Voss?”

“Yes.” It was more like “Yiss.”

“What do you want?” The “wh” and the “w” were way off.

“If my name is unknown to you, I should explain—”

“I know your name. What do you want?”

“I wish to invite you to call on me at my office. I have been asked to discuss certain matters with you, and—”

“Who asked you?”

“I am not at liberty to say. I shall—”

“What kind of matters?” The “wh” was more off.

“If you will let me finish. The matters are personal and confidential and concern you closely. That’s all I can say on the telephone. I assure you that you would be ill-advised—”

A snort stopped him — a snort that might be spelled “Tzchaahh!” Followed by: “I know your name, yes! You are scum, I know, in your stinking sewer! Your slimy little ego in your big gob of fat! And you dare to — owulgghh!”

That’s the best I can do at reporting it. It was part scream, part groan, and part just noise. It was followed immediately by another noise, a mixture of crash and clatter, then others, faint rustlings, and then nothing.

I spoke to my transmitter: “Hello, hello, hello. Hello! Hello?”

I cradled it, and so did Wolfe. Flora Gallant was asking. “What is it? She hung up?” We ignored her. Wolfe said, “Archie? You heard.”

“Yes, sir. So did you. If you want a guess, something hit her and she dragged the phone along as she went down and it struck the floor. The other noises, not even a guess, except that at the end she put the receiver back on and cut the connection or someone else did. It could be—”

Flora had grabbed my sleeve with both hands and was demanding. “What is it? What happened?”

I put a hand on her shoulder and made it emphatic: “I don’t know what happened. There was a collection of sounds. You heard what I told Mr. Wolfe. Apparently something fell on her and then hung up the phone.”

“But it couldn’t! It is not possible!”

“That’s what it sounded like. What’s the number? The one downstairs.”

She just gawked at me. I looked at Wolfe and he gave me a nod, and I jerked my arm loose, sat at my desk, got the Manhattan book, flipped to the G’s and got the number, PL2-0330, and dialed it.

A refined female voice came, “Alec Gallant, Incorporated.”

“This is a friend of Miss Voss,” I told her. “I was just speaking to her on the phone, on her private line, and from the sounds I got, I think something may have happened to her. Will you send someone up to see? Right away. I’ll hold the wire.”

“Who is this speaking, please?”

“Never mind that. Step on it. She may be hurt.”

I heard her calling to someone: then apparently she covered the transmitter. I sat and waited. Wolfe sat and scowled at me. Flora stood for some minutes at my elbow, staring down at me, then turned and went to the red leather chair and lowered herself onto its edge. I looked at my wristwatch: 11:40. It had said 11:31 when the connection with Bianca Voss had been cut.

More waiting, and then a male voice came: “Hello?”

“This is Carl Drew. What is your name please?”

“My name is Watson — John H. Watson. Is Miss Voss all right?”

“May I have your address, Mr. Watson?”

“Miss Voss knows my address. Is she all right?”

“I must have your address, Mr. Watson. I must insist. You will understand the necessity when I tell you that Miss Voss is dead. She was assaulted in her office and is dead. Apparently, from what you said, the assault came while she was on the phone with you, and I want your address. I must insist.”

“Who assaulted her?”

“I don’t know. Damn it, how do I know? I must—”

I hung up, gently not to be rude, swiveled and asked Flora, “Who is Carl Drew?”

“My brother’s business manager. What happened?”

I looked at Wolfe. “My guess was close. Miss Voss is dead. In her office. He said she was assaulted, but he didn’t say with what or by whom.”

He glowered at me, then turned to let her have it. She was coming up from the chair, slow and stiff. When she was erect, she said, “No. No! It isn’t possible!”

“I’m only quoting Carl Drew,” I told her.

“But it’s crazy! He said she is dead? Bianca Voss?”

“Distinctly.” She looked as if she might be needing a prop, and I stood up.

“But how—” She let it hang. She repeated, “But how—” stopped again, turned, and was going.

When Wolfe called to her, “Here, Miss Gallant, your money!” she paid no attention, but kept on, and he poked it at me, and I took it and headed for the hall.

I caught up with her halfway to the front door, but when I offered it, she just kept going so I blocked her off, took her bag, opened it, dropped the bills in, closed it and handed it back.

I spoke. “Easy does it, Finger. Take a breath. Going without your stole?”

“Oh.” She swallowed. “Where is it?” I got it for her.

“In my opinion,” I said, “you need a little chivalry. I’ll come and get you in a taxi.”

She shook her head. “I’m all right.”

“You are not. You’ll get run over.”

“No, I won’t. Don’t come. Just let me... please.”

She meant it, so I stepped to the door and pulled it open, and she crossed the sill. I stood there and watched, thinking she might stumble going down the steps of the stoop, but she made it to the sidewalk and turned west toward Tenth Avenue. Evidently she wasn’t completely paralyzed, since Tenth was one-way uptown.

There are alternative explanations for the fact that I did not choose to return immediately to the office. One would be that I was afraid to face the music — not the way to put it, since the sounds that come from Wolfe when he is good and sore are not musical. The other would be that purely out of consideration for him I decided he would rather be alone for a while. I prefer the latter. Anyway, I made for the stairs, but I was only halfway up the first flight when his bellow came, “Archie! Come here!”

I about-faced, descended, crossed the hall and stood on the threshold. “Yes, sir? I was going up to my room to see if I left the faucet dripping.”

“Let it drip. Sit down.”

I went to my chair and sat down. “Too bad,” I said regretfully. “Three hundred dollars may be hay, but—”

“Shut up.”

I lifted my shoulders half an inch and dropped them. He leaned back comfortably and eyed me.

“I must compliment you,” he said, “on the ingenuity of your stratagem. Getting me with you on the phone, so that I could corroborate your claim that both you and Miss Gallant were here in my office at the moment the murder was committed was well conceived and admirably executed. But I fear it was more impetuous than prudent. You are probably in mortal jeopardy, and I confess I shall be seriously inconvenienced if I lose your services, even though you get only a long term in prison. So I would like to help, if I can. It will be obvious, even to a slower wit than Mr. Cramer’s, that you and Miss Gallant arranged for the attack to occur on schedule, precisely at the moment that Miss Voss was speaking to me on the phone; and therefore, patently, that you were in collusion with the attacker. So our problem is not how to fend suspicion from you, but whether you can wriggle out of it, and if so how. No doubt you have considered it?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“And?”

“I think it’s hopeless. I’m in for it. Not a prison term; I’ll get six thousand volts. I know it will inconvenience you, but it will inconvenience me too. I regret it very much because it has been a rare experience working for you.” I uncrossed my legs. “Look. Naturally, you are boiling. I let her come here, yes. I — uh — persuaded you to see her, yes. If you’re in a tantrum, O.K., go ahead and tantrum and get it over with.”

“I am not in a tantrum and ‘tantrum’ is not a verb.”

“Then I take it back. Apparently it’s worse than a tantrum, since instead of ragging me, you burlesque it. Can’t you just tell me what you think of me?”

“No. It’s not in my vocabulary. You realize what we are in for?”

“Certainly. If it was murder, and evidently it was, Flora Gallant will tell them where she was and what happened. Then we will have visitors, and not only that, but if and when someone is nominated for it and put on trial, we will be star witnesses because we heard it happen. Not eyewitnesses, earwitnesses. We can time it right to the minute. You will sit for hours on a hard wooden bench in a courtroom, with no client and no fee in sight. I know how you feel and I don’t blame you. Go ahead and tell me what you think of me.”

“You admit you are answerable?”

“No. I was unlucky.”

“That doesn’t absolve you. A man is as responsible for his luck as for his judgment. How long have you known that woman?”

“Nineteen hours. She picked me up on Thirty-eighth Street at five o’clock yesterday afternoon.”

“Picked you up?”

“Yes. I thought she was tailing Putz, but she said she was after me. That gave me a sense of well-being and stimulated my manhood. I took her to a bar and bought her a drink — she took vermouth — and it came out that it was you she was really after. Thinking there might be a fee in it, I took her to a place and fed her and danced with her. If it had led to a fee, that would have gone on my expense account, but now I don’t suppose—”

“No.”

“Very well. She didn’t tell me the whole story, but enough so it seemed possible it was worth half an hour of your time, and I told her to come at eleven this morning.”

“How long were you out?”

“Until midnight. Altogether, seven hours.”

“Did you take her home?”

“No. She was against it. I put her in a taxi.”

“Did she phone you this morning before she came?”

“No.”

“How did she come? In a cab?”

“I don’t know. Fritz may know; he let her in.”

“She probably did.” His lips tightened. He released them. “Cabs and cars have thousands of accidents every day. Why couldn’t hers have been one of them?” He came forward in the chair and rang for beer. “Confound it. It will save time and harassment if we have a report ready. You will type one. Your meeting with her yesterday, your conversation with her, and what occurred here today, including everything that was said. We will both sign it.”

“Not everything that was said last evening.”

“No, I suppose not. You said you got sentimental. What I sign I read, and I certainly wouldn’t read that.”

I swiveled and pulled the typewriter around and got out paper and carbons. Reports, especially when they are to be signed statements, have to be in triplicate.

That kept me busy the rest of the day, with an hour out for lunch and various interruptions, mostly phone calls, including one from Lon Cohen, of the Gazette, to ask for the low-down on the murder of Bianca Voss. I wondered why the cops had been so free and fast about Flora Gallant’s call on Nero Wolfe, but that wasn’t it: one of the Gazette’s journalists had seen me at Colonna’s with her, and Lon is one of a slew of people who have the idea that whenever I am seen anywhere near anybody who is anyhow connected with a death by violence, Nero Wolfe is looming. I told him our only interest in the Voss murder was not to get involved in it, which was no lie.

Over the years I have reported hundreds of long conversations to Wolfe, verbatim, some after a week or more had passed, and that typing job was no strain on my memory, but I took my time because I had to be darned sure of it, since he was going to sign it. Also he was going to read it, and in his present mood he would be delighted to tell me that he had not said “prolonged, difficult, and extremely expensive.” He had said “prolonged, laborious, and extremely expensive.” And I would have to retype a whole page.

So I took my time, and was on the last paragraph when he came down to the office from his afternoon session in the plant rooms, which is from four to six. When he had got settled at his desk I gave him the first five pages and he started reading. Back at the typewriter, I shot a glance at him now and then, and saw that his frown was merely normal. Finished, I took him the remainder, returned to my desk to arrange the carbons, and then got up to shake down my pants legs and stretch.

He is a fast reader. When he got to the end he cleared his throat. “One thing. Did I say ‘not necessarily guilty ones’? Didn’t I say ‘not always guilty ones’?”

“No, sir. As you know, you like the word ‘necessarily.’ You like the way you say it. You may remember—”

The doorbell rang. I went to the hall, flipped the switch of the stoop light, and took a look through the one-way glass panel of the front door. It wasn’t necessary to go closer to recognize Inspector Cramer, of Homicide.

II

I stepped into the office and told Wolfe, “Him.” He compressed his lips and took in air through his nose.

“I see you’ve signed the statement,” I said. “Shall I open the door a crack and slip it through to him and tell him that covers it and give him your regards?”

“No. A crack is open both ways. If he has a warrant for you, he could slip that through to you. Let him in.”

I wheeled, walked to the front door, swung it wide, and made it hearty, “Just the man we wanted to see, Inspector Cramer! Do come in.”

He was already in. By the time I had shut the door and turned around he had shed his hat and coat and dropped them on a chair, and by the time I had put the hat on the shelf where he knew darned well it belonged, and the coat on a hanger, and got to the office, he was already in the red leather chair and talking.

“... and don’t tell me you didn’t know a crime had been committed or any of that tripe, and you had firsthand knowledge of it, both you and Goodwin, and do you come forward with it? No. You sit here at your desk and to hell with the law and the city of New York and your obligations as a citizen and a licensed private detective, and you—”

Wolfe had his eyes closed. I, back at my desk, had mine open. I always enjoy seeing Inspector Cramer worked up. He is big and brawny to start with, and then he seems to be expanding all over, and his round red face gets gradually redder, bringing out its contrast with his gray hair.

When he stopped for breath, Wolfe opened his eyes. “I assure you, Mr. Cramer, this is uncalled for. Mr. Goodwin has indeed been sitting here, but not idly. He has been fulfilling our obligations, his and mine, as citizens and licensed private detectives.” He lifted sheets of paper. “This is a statement, signed by both of us. After you have read it, we’ll answer questions if they’re relevant.”

Cramer didn’t move, and Wolfe wouldn’t, so I arose and got the statement and took it to Cramer. He snatched it from me, no thanks, glared at Wolfe, glanced at the heading on the first page, glared at me as I sat, and started to read. First he skimmed through it, and then went back and really read it. Wolfe was leaning back with his eyes closed. I passed the time taking in the changes of expression on Cramer’s face. When he reached the end he turned back to one of the earlier pages for another look, and then aimed his sharp gray eyes at Wolfe.

“So you had it ready,” he said, not with gratitude.

Wolfe opened his eyes and nodded. “I thought it would save time and trouble.”

“Yeah. You’re always thoughtful. I admit it agrees pretty well with Flora Gallant’s story, but why shouldn’t it? Is she your client?”

“Pfui. That statement makes it quite clear that I have no client.”

“It does if it’s all here. Did you leave anything out?”

“Yes. Much of Mr. Goodwin’s conversation with Miss Gallant last evening. Nothing pertinent.”

“Well, we’ll want to study it. Of course some details are vitally important — for instance, that it was exactly eleven-thirty-one when you heard the blow.”

Wolfe objected. “We heard no blow, identifiably. The statement does not say that we heard a blow.”

Cramer found the place on page 9 and consulted it. “O.K. You heard a groan and a crash and rustles. But there was a blow. She was hit in the back of the head with a chunk of marble, a paperweight, and then a scarf was tied around her throat to stop her breathing. You say here at eleven-thirty-one.”

I corrected him. “Not when we heard the groan. After that there were the other noises, then the connection went, and I said hello a few times, which was human but dumb. It was when I hung up that I looked at my watch and saw eleven-thirty-one. The groan had been maybe a minute earlier, say eleven-thirty. If a minute is important.”

“It isn’t. But you didn’t hear the blow?”

“Not to recognize it as a blow, no.”

He went back to the statement, frowning at it, reading parts of some pages and just glancing at others. He looked up at Wolfe. “I know how good you are at arranging words. This implies that Flora Gallant was a complete stranger to you, that you had never had anything to do with her or her brother or any of the people at that place, but it doesn’t say so in so many words. I’d like to know.”

“The implication is valid,” Wolfe told him. “Except as related in that statement, I have never had any association with Miss Gallant or her brother or, to my knowledge, with any of their colleagues. Nor has Mr. Goodwin... Archie?”

“Right,” I agreed.

“I’ll accept that for now.” Cramer folded the statement and put it in his pocket. “Then you had never heard Bianca Voss’ voice before and you couldn’t recognize it on the phone?”

“Of course not.”

“And you can’t hear it now, since she’s dead. So you can’t swear it was her talking to you.”

“Obviously.”

“And that raises a point. If it was her talking to you, she was killed at exactly half past eleven. Now there are four important people in the organization who had it in for Bianca Voss. They have admitted it. Besides Flora Gallant, there is Anita Prince, fitter and designer, been with Gallant eight years; Emmy Thorne in charge of contacts and promotion, been with him four years; and Carl Drew, business manager, been with him five years. None of them killed Bianca Voss at half past eleven. From eleven-fifteen on, until the call came from Goodwin calling himself John H. Watson, Carl Drew was down on the main floor, constantly in view of four people, two of them customers. From eleven o’clock on, Anita Prince was on the top floor, the workshop, with Alec Gallant and two models and a dozen employees. At eleven-twenty Emmy Thorne called on a man by appointment at his office on Forty-sixth Street, and was with him and two other men until a quarter to twelve. And Flora Gallant was here with you. All airtight.”

“Very neat,” Wolfe agreed.

“Too damn neat. Of course there may be others who wanted Bianca Voss out of the way, but as it stands now, those four are out in front. And they’re all—”

“Why not five? Alec Gallant himself?”

“All right, make it five. They’re all in the clear, including him, if she was killed at eleven-thirty. So suppose she wasn’t. Suppose she was killed earlier — half an hour or so earlier. Suppose when Flora Gallant phoned her from here and put you on to talk with her, it wasn’t her at all, it was someone else imitating her voice, and she pulled that stunt, the groan and the other noises, to make you think you had heard the murder at that time.”

Wolfe’s brows were up. “With the corpse there on the floor?”

“Certainly.”

“Then you’re not much better off. Who did the impersonation? Their alibis still hold for eleven-thirty.”

“I realize that. But there were nineteen women around there altogether, and a woman who wouldn’t commit a murder might be willing to help cover up after someone else had committed it. You know that.”

Wolfe wasn’t impressed. “It’s very tricky, Mr. Cramer. If you are supposing Flora Gallant killed her, it was elaborately planned. It wasn’t until late last evening that Miss Gallant persuaded Mr. Goodwin to make an appointment for her here for eleven this morning. Did she kill Miss Voss, station someone there beside the corpse to answer the phone, rush down here and maneuver me into ringing Miss Voss’ number? It seems a little farfetched.”

“I didn’t say it was Flora Gallant.” Cramer hung on. “It could have been any of them. He or she didn’t have to know she was going to come to see you and get you to ring that number. His plan might have been to ring it himself, before witnesses, to establish the time of the murder, and when your call came, whoever it was there by the phone got rattled and went ahead with the act. There are a dozen different ways it could have happened. Hell, I know it’s tricky. I’m not asking you to work your brain on it. You must know why I brought it up.”

Wolfe nodded. “Yes, I think I do. You want me to consider what I heard — and Mr. Goodwin. You want to know if we are satisfied that those sounds were authentic. You want to know if we will concede that they might have been bogus.”

“That’s it. Exactly.”

Wolfe rubbed his nose with a knuckle, closing his eyes. In a moment he opened them. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr. Cramer. If they were bogus, they were well executed. At the time, hearing them, I had no suspicion that it was flummery. Naturally, as soon as I learned that they served to fix the precise moment of a murder, I knew they would be open to question, but I can’t challenge them intrinsically... Archie?”

I shook my head. “I pass.” To Cramer: “You’ve read the statement, so you know that right after I heard it my guess was that something hit her and she dragged the phone along as she went down and it struck the floor. I’m not going to go back on my guess now. As for our not hearing the blow, read the statement. It says that it started out as if it was going to be a scream, but then it was a groan. She might have seen the blow coming and was going to scream, but it landed and turned the scream into a groan, and in that case we wouldn’t hear the blow. A chunk of marble hitting a skull wouldn’t make much noise. As for supposing she was killed half an hour or so earlier, I phoned within three minutes, or John H. Watson did, and in another six or seven minutes Carl Drew was talking to me, so he must have seen the body, or someone did, not more than five minutes after we heard the groan. Was she twitching?”

“According to Drew, no. You don’t twitch long with a scarf as tight as that around your throat.”

“What about the medical examiner?”

“He got there at two minutes after twelve. With blood he might have timed it pretty close, but there wasn’t any. That’s out.”

“What about the setup? Someone left that room quick after we heard the sounds. If it was the murderer, he or she had to cradle the phone and tie the scarf, but that wouldn’t take long. If it was a fill-in, as you want to suppose, all she had to do was cradle the phone. Whichever it was, wasn’t there anyone else around?”

“If there was they’re keeping it to themselves. So far. As you know, Bianca Voss wasn’t popular around there. Anyway, that place is a mess, with three different elevators — one in the store, one at the back for service and deliveries, and one in an outside hall with a separate entrance so they can go up to the offices without going through the store.”

“That makes it nice. Then it’s wide open.”

“As wide as a barn door.” Cramer stood up. To Wolfe: “So that’s the best you can do. You thought the sounds were open to question.”

“Not intrinsically. Circumstantially, of course.”

“You know a lot of long words, don’t you? After we study this statement we may have some questions.” He was going. After two steps he turned. “I don’t like gags about homicide, murder is no joke, but I can mention that if it was Bianca Voss you had on the phone, she had you wrong. Scum. Stinking sewer. That’s too strong. That’s a little too strong.” He headed out.

When I returned to the office from going to hold his coat for him, which he didn’t deserve after his parting crack, Wolfe had turned his chair to reading position and was opening a book.

Crossing to my desk to get the carbons of the statement for filing, I remarked, “That would help, if he can prove that what we heard was a phony. You might not have to sit on a hard bench in a courthouse, after all.”

“He won’t. No such luck.” He looked at me. “Archie.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Am I a dolt?”

“No. That would be a little too strong.”

“Then I will not be taken for one.”

“That sounds as if you’re contemplating something. Can I be of any help?”

“At the moment, no.”

“Any instructions for this evening?”

“No.”

He went to his book and I went to the cabinet with the carbons.

The next morning, Wednesday, eating breakfast in the kitchen with the paper propped up in front of me — which is routine, of course — I read the account of the Bianca Voss murder. There were various details that were news to me, but nothing startling or even helpful. It included the phone call from John H. Watson, but didn’t add that he had been identified as Archie Goodwin, and there was no mention of Nero Wolfe. I admit that the cops and the D.A. have a right to save something for themselves, but it never hurts to have your name in the paper, and I had a notion to phone Lon Cohen at the Gazette and give him an exclusive. However, I would have to mention it to Wolfe first, so it would have to wait until eleven o’clock. He eats breakfast in his room from a tray delivered by Fritz, and doesn’t come down to the office until after his morning session with the orchids.

As a matter of fact, another item in the paper meant more to me personally. Sarah Yare had committed suicide. Her body had been found Tuesday evening in her little walk-up apartment on East Thirteenth Street. I have never written a fan letter to an actress, but I had been tempted to a couple of years back when I had seen Sarah Yare in Thumb a Ride. The first time I saw it I had a companion, but the next three times I was alone. The reason for repeating was that I had the impression I was infatuated and I wanted to wear it down, but when the impression still stuck after three tries, I gave up. Actresses should be seen and heard from no closer than the fifth row, and not touched. At that, I might have given the impression another test in a year or two if there had been an opportunity, but there wasn’t. She quit Thumb a Ride abruptly some months later, and the talk was that she was an alco and done for.

So I read that item twice. It didn’t say that it had been pronounced suicide officially and finally, since she had left no note, but a nearly empty bourbon bottle had been there on a table, and on the floor by the couch she had died on there had been a glass with enough left in it to identify the cyanide. The picture of her was as she had been formerly when I had got my impression that I was infatuated. I asked Fritz if he had ever seen Sarah Yare, and he asked what movies she had been in, and I said none, that she was much too good for a movie.

I didn’t get to suggest phoning Lon Cohen to Wolfe because when he came down to the office at eleven o’clock, I wasn’t there. As I was finishing my second cup of coffee a phone call came from the district attorney’s office inviting me to drop in for a chat, and I went, and spent a couple of hours at Leonard Street with an assistant D.A. named Brill. When we got through, I knew slightly more than I had when we started, but he didn’t. He had a copy of our statement on his desk, and what could I add to that? He had a lot of fun, though. He would pop a question at me and then spend nine minutes studying the statement to see if I had tripped.

Getting home a little before noon, I was prepared to find Wolfe having a fresh attack of grump. He likes me to be there when he comes down from the plant rooms to the office, and while he can’t very well complain when the D.A. calls me on business that concerns us, this wasn’t our affair. We had no client and no case and no fee in prospect. But I got a surprise. Instead of being grumpy, he was busy, with the phone book open before him on his desk. He had actually gone clear around to my desk, stooped to get the book, lifted it and carried it back to his chair. Unheard of.

“Good morning,” I said. “What’s the emergency?”

“No emergency. I needed to know a number.”

“Did you find it?”

“Yes.”

I sat. He wants you at his level because it’s too much trouble to tilt his head back. “Nothing new,” I said, “at the D.A.’s office. Do you want a report?”

“No. I have an errand for you. I have formed a conjecture that I think is worth testing. You will go to Alec Gallant’s place on Fifty-fourth Street and speak with Mr. Gallant, his sister, Miss Prince, Miss Thorne, and Mr. Drew. Separately if possible. You will tell each of them — You read the paper this morning as usual?”

“Certainly.”

“You will tell each of them that I have engaged to make certain inquiries about Miss Sarah Yare, and that I shall be grateful for any information they may be able and willing to furnish. Specifically, I would like to see any communications they may have received from her, say in the past month. Don’t raise one brow like that. You know it disconcerts me.”

“I’ve never seen you disconcerted yet.” I let the brow down a little. “What’s the conjecture?”

“It may be baseless. You don’t need it to perform the errand.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Without delay.”

“If they ask me who engaged you, what do I say?”

“That you don’t know. You are merely following instructions.”

“If I ask you who engaged you, what do you say?”

“I tell you the truth. No one. Or more accurately, I have engaged myself. I think I may have been hoodwinked and I intend to find out. You may be fishing where there are no fish. They may all say they have never had any association with Sarah Yare, and they may be telling the truth or they may not. You will have that in mind and form your conclusions regarding it. If any of them acknowledge association with her, pursue it enough to learn the degree of intimacy, but don’t labor it. That can wait until we bait a hook. You are only to discover if there are any fish.”

I stood up. “It may take a while if the cops and the D.A. are working on them, and they probably are. How urgent is it? Do you want progress reports by phone?”

“Not unless you think it necessary. You must get all five of them.”

“Right. Don’t wait dinner for me.” I went.

On the way uptown in the taxi I was exercising my brain. I will not explain at this point why Wolfe wanted to know if any of the subjects had known Sarah Yare and if so, how well, for two reasons: first, you have certainly spotted it yourself; and second, since I am not so smart as you are, I had not yet come up with the answer. Anyway, that was underneath. On top, what I was using my brain for was the phone book. Unquestionably it was connected with his being hoodwinked, since that was what was biting him, and therefore it probably had some bearing on the call that had been made from his office to Bianca Voss, but what could he accomplish by consulting the phone book? For that I had no decent guess, let alone an answer, by the time I paid the hackie at 54th and Fifth Avenue.

Alec Gallant, Incorporated, on the north side of the street near Madison Avenue, was no palace, outside or in. The front was maybe thirty feet, and five feet of that was taken up by the separate entrance to the side hall. The show window, all dark green, had just one exhibit: a couple of yards of plain black fabric — silk or rayon or nylon or cottonon or linenon — draped on a little rack. Inside, nothing whatever was in sight — that is, nothing to buy. The wall-to-wall carpet was the same dark green as the show window. There were mirrors and screens and tables and ash trays, and a dozen or more chairs, not fancy, more to sit in than to look at. I had taken three steps on the carpet when a woman standing with a man by a table left him to come to meet me. I told her my name and told her I would like to see Mr. Gallant.

The man, approaching, spoke, “Mr. Gallant is not available. What do you want?”

That didn’t strike me as a very tactful greeting to a man who, for all he knew, might be set to pay $800 for an afternoon frock, but of course with a murder on the premises, he had had a tough twenty-four hours, so I kept it pleasant.

“I’m not a reporter,” I assured him, “or a cop, or a lawyer drumming up trade. I’m a private detective named Archie Goodwin, sent by a private detective named Nero Wolfe to ask Mr. Gallant a couple of harmless questions. Not connected with the death of Bianca Voss.”

“Mr. Gallant is not available.”

I hadn’t heard his voice in person before, only on the phone, but I recognized it. Also he looked like a business manager, with his neat, well-arranged face, his neat well-made dark suit, and his neat shadow-stripe four-in-hand. His cheeks wanted to sag and he was a little puffy around the eyes, but the city and county employees had probably kept him from getting much sleep.

“May I ask,” I said, “if you are Mr. Carl Drew?”

“I am, yes.”

“Then I’m in luck. I was instructed to see five different people here — Mr. Gallant, Miss Gallant, Miss Prince, Miss Thorne, and Mr. Carl Drew. Perhaps we could sit down?”

He ignored that. “See us about what?”

The woman had left us, but she was in earshot if her hearing was good, and Wolfe had said to see them separately, if possible. “If you don’t mind,” I said, “I’d rather see you one at a time because I have to report to Mr. Wolfe and I’m apt to get confused talking with two people at once. So if that lady is Miss Prince or Miss Thorne—”

“She isn’t. And I’m busy. What do you want?”

“I want information, if you have any, about a woman who died yesterday. Not Bianca Voss. Miss Sarah Yare.”

He blinked. “Sarah Yare? What about her?”

“She is dead. She killed herself. Yesterday.”

“I know she did. That was tragic. But I can’t give you any information about it. I haven’t any.”

“I’m not after information about her death. That’s up to the police. What I’m after — Someone has engaged Mr. Wolfe to make inquiries about her, and he sent me to ask you people if you had any messages or letters from her in the past month or so, and if so, will you let him see them?”

“Messages or letters?”

“Right.”

“But what — who engaged him?”

“I don’t know.” I was not permitting my face or voice to show that I had caught sight of a fish. “If you have had messages or letters, and would like to know who wants to see them before you produce them, I suppose Mr. Wolfe would tell you. He would have to.”

“I have no messages or letters.”

I was disappointed. “None at all? I said the past month or so, but before that would help. Any time.”

He shook his head. “I have never had any. I doubt if she ever wrote a letter — that is, to anyone here — or any messages, except phone messages. She always did everything by telephone. And for the past month or so — longer than that, more than a year — she hasn’t been — uh — she hasn’t been around.”

“I know.” I was sympathetic, and I meant it, though not for him. “Anyway, I don’t think Mr. Wolfe would be interested in letters about clothes. I think it’s personal letters he wants, and he thought you might have known her well enough personally to have some.”

“Well, I haven’t. I can’t say I didn’t know her personally; she was a very fine customer here for two years, and she was a very personal person. But I never had a personal letter from her.”

I had to resist temptation. I had him talking, and there was no telling if or when I would get at the others. But Wolfe had said not to labor it, and I disobey instructions only when I have reason to think I know more about it than he does, and at the moment I didn’t even know why he had been consulting the phone book. So I didn’t press. I thanked him, and said I’d appreciate it if he would tell me when Mr. Gallant would be available.

He said he would find out, and left me, going to the rear and disappearing around the end of a screen, and soon I heard his voice, but too faint to get any words. There was no other voice, so, being a detective, I figured it out that he was on a phone. That accomplished, I decided to detect whether the woman, who was seated at a table going through a portfolio, had been listening. If so, and if my bringing up Sarah Yare had more significance for her than it had for me, she was keeping it to herself.

Drew reappeared, and I met him in the middle of the room. He said that Mr. Gallant was in his office with Miss Prince and could let me have five minutes. Another fish. Certainly Drew had told Gallant what my line was, and why did I rate even five seconds? As Drew led me to an elevator and entered with me, and pushed the button marked 2, I had to remember to look hopeful instead of smug.

The second floor hall was narrow, with bare walls, and not carpeted. As I said, not a palace. Following Drew down six paces and through a door, I found myself in a pinup paradise. All available space on all four walls was covered with women, drawings and prints and photographs, both black and white and color, all sizes, and in one respect they were all alike: none of them had a stitch on. It hadn’t occurred to me that a designer of women’s clothes should understand female anatomy, but I admit it might help. The effect was so striking that it took me four or five seconds to focus on the man and woman seated at a table. By that time Drew had pronounced my name and gone.

Though the man and the woman were fully clothed, they were striking too. He reminded me of someone, but I didn’t remember who until later. Lord Byron. A picture of Lord Byron in a book in my father’s library that had impressed me at an early age. It was chiefly Gallant’s dark, curly hair backing up a wide, sweeping forehead, but the nose and chin were in it too. The necktie was all wrong; instead of Byron’s choker, he was sporting a narrow ribbon tied in a bow with long ends hanging.

The woman didn’t go with him. She was strictly modern, small and trim, in a tailored suit that had been cut and fitted by an expert, and while her face was perfectly acceptable, the main thing was her eyes. They were as close to black as eyes ever get, and they ran the show. In spite of Alec Gallant’s lordly presence, as I approached the table I found myself aiming at Anita Prince’s eyes.

Gallant was speaking. “What’s this about Sarah Yare?”

“Just a couple of questions.” He had eyes, too, when you looked at them. “It shouldn’t take even five minutes. I suppose Mr. Drew told you?”

“He said Nero Wolfe is making an inquiry and sent you. What kind of an inquiry? What about?”

“I don’t really know.” I was apologetic. “The fact is, Mr. Gallant, on this I’m just an errand boy. My instructions were to ask if you got any messages or letters from her in the past month or so, and if so, will you let Mr. Wolfe see them?”

“My heaven!” He closed his eyes, tilted his head back and shook it — a lion pestered by a fly. He looked at the woman. “This is too much. Too much!” He looked at me. “You must know a woman was assassinated here yesterday. Of course you do!” He pointed at the door. “There!” His hand dropped to the desk like a dead bird. “And after that calamity, now this, the death of my old and valued friend. Miss Yare was not only my friend; in mold and frame she was perfection, in movement she was music, as a mannequin she would have been divine. My delight in her was completely pure. I never had a letter from her.” His head jerked to Anita Prince. “Send him away,” he muttered.

She put fingers on his arm. “You gave him five minutes, Alec, and he has had only two.” Her voice was smooth and sure. The black eyes came to me. “So you don’t know the purpose of Mr. Wolfe’s inquiry?”

“No, Miss Prince, I don’t. He tells me only what he thinks I need to know.”

“Nor who hired him to make it?”

So Drew had covered the ground. “Not that either. He’ll probably tell you, if you have what he wants, letters from her, and you want to know why he wants to see them.”

“I have no letters from her. I never had any. I had no personal relations with Miss Yare.” Her voice sharpened a little. “Though I saw her many times, my contact with her was never close. Mr. Gallant preferred to fit her himself. I just looked on. It seems—” She stopped for a word, and found it. “It seems odd that Nero Wolfe should be starting an inquiry immediately after her death. Or did he start it before?”

“I couldn’t say. The first I knew, he gave me this errand this morning. This noon.”

“You don’t know much, do you?”

“No. I just take orders.”

“Of course you do know that Miss Yare committed suicide?”

I didn’t get an answer in. Gallant, hitting the table with a palm, suddenly shouted at her. “Name of God! Must you? Send him away!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Gallant,” I told him. “I guess my time’s up. If you’ll tell me where to find your sister and Miss Thorne, that will—”

I stopped because his hand had darted to an ash tray, a big metal one that looked heavy, and since he wasn’t smoking, he was presumably going to let fly with it. Anita Prince beat him to it. With her left hand she got his wrist, and with her right she got the ash tray and moved it out of reach. It was very quick and deft.

Then she spoke, to me. “Miss Gallant is not here. Miss Thorne is busy, but you can ask Mr. Drew downstairs. You had better go.”

I went. In more favorable circumstances I might have spared another five minutes for a survey of the pinups, but not then, not if I had to dodge ash trays. So I went.

That is, I started. But when I was near enough to the door to start a hand out for the knob, it suddenly swung in at me, and I had to jump back to give it room, and there was Flora Gallant.

Turning to close the door, she saw me and stopped, right against me. She backed up, then whirled to face the table.

Anita Prince spoke. “You know Mr. Goodwin, don’t you? Your alibi?”

Flora didn’t answer. Gallant had left his chair and was coming around the end of the table to her, and she extended her hands and he took them.

“My dear,” he said. “My dear sister. Was it bad?”

“It’s all right,” she said. “It was so long.”

“Who was it? The one that croaks like a frog?”

“No, not him. There were two of them, one named Brill and one named Bowen. It was so long.”

It would be, I thought, with the district attorney himself taking a hand.

“More than three hours,” she said. “Most of the time it wasn’t about me; it was about you and the others. I suppose because I have an alibi.” Her head turned. “Yes, Anita, I know Mr. Goodwin — as you say, my alibi. Carl told me he was here asking questions.”

Flora turned to me. “Well — hello.”

I returned it. “Hello. If you’ve been answering questions for three hours, I guess you’ve had enough for a while, so I’ll just ask—”

She cut me off. “Not here.” She moved. “I don’t mind you asking me questions.” She was touching my arm. “But tête-à-tête.” She turned to her brother. “It wasn’t too bad, Alec. I’ll tell you later.” She stepped into the hall, and I followed, pulling the door shut.

“My room is so small,” she said, “that you can’t stretch your legs.” She touched my arm again. “I know. You ought to see it, anyway. I’m sure you’re a better detective than any of them. Come along.”

Leading me along the hall toward the front, on past the elevator, nearly to the end, she opened a door, stood aside for me to enter, and followed me in.

“This was her room,” she said. “When you’re through asking me questions, you can go over it and maybe you can detect something. Maybe you’ll find something they missed.”

I glanced around. There were coats, suits, dresses, all kinds. They were on dummies scattered around — on hangers strung on a pole along a wall and piled on a big long table. Half of one wall was a mirror from floor to ceiling. At the far side of the room was a desk, with a pad and pen stand and calendar and other objects on its top, including a telephone — the one, presumably, that Wolfe and I had heard hit the floor.

Flora crossed to the desk and sat down on a chair near an end of it. “You sit in her chair,” she invited me.

“It’s hardly worth taking the trouble to sit,” I told her. “However,” I turned Bianca Voss’ chair around and sat. “Only a question or two — one really. Apparently Carl Drew told you what it is.”

“He said you wanted to know if we have any letters from Sarah Yare, and Nero Wolfe wants to see them. I haven’t any.”

“Then that answers it. It doesn’t make much of a tête-à-tête, does it?”

“No.”

“I get the impression that everybody around here was pretty fond of Sarah Yare. Were you?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose you first met her before she — when she had the world by the tail.”

“Yes.”

I looked at her. Her face had full light on it from a window, and her chin was more pointed than ever, her eye rims were red, and her lips were too tight. That was nothing remarkable; after all, not only had she just returned from three hours of nagging by Brill and Bowen about a murder — murder of a woman as she occupied the chair I was sitting in — but also someone she had been fond of had just died in a very unpleasant manner. But there was something about her — I guess her eyes — that made me feel that if I went after her I would get something. The trouble was, I would be exceeding instructions, and I still didn’t know what Wolfe had been doing with the phone book.

So I merely said, “Well, I guess that covers it.”

“Archie,” she said.

“Yes, Finger?”

“You kissed me good night when you put me in the taxi.”

“So I did. It’s nice of you to remember.”

“Would you kiss me now?”

It was a little complicated. When Wolfe is investigating a murder case for a client, and I am helping, I do not go around kissing the suspects. But we had no client, and I was working on Sarah Yare, not Bianca Voss. Besides, if I declined, she would think I had decided there was something repellent about her, and I hadn’t decided a thing about her or anyone else. So I arose. So did she, which was sensible. One on his feet and one in a chair is no way to kiss.

She drew away. “Then you still like me.”

“I think I do. I could tell better after a few more.”

“Then I can ask you. I couldn’t ask if you were not — if you were my enemy. Now I can. Why are you asking all of us about Sarah Yare?”

“Because Mr. Wolfe told me to.”

“Why did he tell you to?”

“I don’t know.”

“Or course you know. He tells you everything. Why?”

I shook my head. “No good, Finger. Either I don’t know or I do know but am not saying. What’s the difference? It happens that I really don’t know, but it doesn’t matter whether you believe that or not.”

“I don’t. You’re lying to me. You are my enemy. You told Carl Drew that someone engaged Mr. Wolfe to make an inquiry. Who engaged him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Of course you know. Was it Carl Drew?”

“Don’t know.”

“Was it Emmy Thorne?”

“Don’t know.”

“Was it Anita Prince?”

“Don’t know.”

She grabbed my arms. I wouldn’t have thought her little hands had so much muscle. Her face was right under mine, tilted up to me. “I have to know, Archie. There’s a reason why I must know. What can I do? What can I do to make you tell me?”

Instructions or no instructions, that was too much. I would find out what was biting her. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” I said, “but maybe I can help. Sit down and calm down and we’ll see. It’s quite possible—”

The door opened. I was facing it. Flora let go of my arms and turned. A voice which I had myself frequently heard croak more or less like a frog sounded. “Huh? You?”

It was my old friend and foe, Sergeant Purley Stebbins, of Homicide. In two steps he stopped and was glaring. Behind one of his shoulders appeared the saggy cheeks and puffy eyes of Carl Drew. Behind the other appeared an attractive display of hair about the color of white gold, a nice smooth brow, a pair of blue eyes not at all puffed, and a nose that went with them fine. The rest of her was shielded by Purley Stebbins’ broad frame.

Purley took another step, and another. He probably thought a slow and measured advance would be more impressive and menacing, and, as a matter of fact, it was, or would have been if I hadn’t seen it before.

“Greetings,” I said.

“The scene of a murder,” he said, “and you.” He came to a stop an arm’s length from me.

I grinned at him. “This time,” I said, “you’re in for a disappointment. I haven’t got the answer ready for you because I’m not interested. Sorry, but my mind is elsewhere. Actually I’m just on a fishing trip.” My eyes went to Carl Drew, who had approached on the left. “If that’s Miss Thorne, would you mind introducing me, Mr. Drew?”

“That’s me,” she said. “No introduction required. You’re Archie Goodwin.” Now that all of her was in view, I could see that the mouth and chin were no letdown from the other details.

“Fishing,” Purley croaked. “For what?”

“Fish.” I put one brow up. He thinks I do that because I know he can’t, but my motives are my business. “Listen, sergeant. Don’t let’s start ring-around-a-rosy and end in a squat. If you demand to know why I’m poking my nose in a murder, you know darned well what you’ll get, so what’s the use? Even if I told you what I’m here for — and I’m not going to — you wouldn’t have the faintest idea if or how it’s connected with what you’re here for. Neither have I. Anyhow, I’m about finished and I’ve had no lunch. All I want is a few words in private with Miss Thorne... If you will be so good, Miss Thorne?”

“Certainly,” she said. “My room is down the hall.”

“Just a minute,” Stebbins growled. “Maybe you’d like a ride downtown.” To me.

“I’ve already been downtown. I spent two hours at the D.A.’s office this morning.”

“Did you tell them you were coming here?”

“I didn’t know I was coming here. I went home, and Mr. Wolfe sent me on an errand.”

“And I find you here. And you’re obstructing justice and withholding evidence, as usual.”

“Nuts. What evidence?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll find out. I’m not going to waste time horsing around with you.” He moved. “Miss Gallant, what has this guy been saying to you?”

That would not do. Wolfe hadn’t told me he wanted to keep his conjecture to himself, but I took it for granted that he did, since he hadn’t even told me, and he certainly wouldn’t want Purley Stebbins sticking his big thumb in, not to mention Cramer and the rest of the Homicide gang. And if Flora didn’t spill it, one of the others probably would.

Action was called for. I stepped in front of Purley and told Flora, “Come on, I want to tell your brother something I want you to hear. Come along.” She took half a second for a glance at Purley, then left her chair, and I took her arm. As we headed for the door I told Carl Drew and Emmy Thorne, “You too. I want you all to hear. Come along.”

They came. Going down the hall they were right behind Flora and me, and on their heels was Stebbins. On past the elevator. At Gallant’s room I turned the knob and swung the door wide, and stood on the sill to say my piece.

“Sorry to interrupt you again, Mr. Gallant, but Sergeant Stebbins is trying to exceed his authority, as usual. He wants me to tell him what I came to see you people about, and I won’t, and he thinks he’s going to squeeze it out of you. Of course you can tell him if you want to, but there’s no reason why you should, and if you ask me, I wouldn’t. Sometimes the police are entirely too inquisitive. They mean well, but so did the boy who aimed a rock at a rabbit and hit his sister.”

Flora slid past me to enter the room. Carl Drew wanted in, too, and I moved aside for him, and Stebbins followed him, glaring at me as he passed. I felt a touch on my elbow and turned.

“That was quite a speech,” Emmy Thorne said. “I would have clapped if I had known you were through.”

“Glad you liked it. Absolutely unrehearsed. No script.”

“Wonderful. If you want some words in private, my room is at the end of the hall. This way.”

Her room was about half the size of the two others I had seen, and there was no display of either women or clothes. A table had piles of magazines and portfolios, and there was only one chair besides the one at her desk. I stood until she was seated and then pulled the other chair up.

“Flora says you dance well,” she said.

“Good for her. I can chin myself twenty times too.”

“I’ve never tried that.” Her left eye had more blue in it than the right one, or maybe it was the light. “What is this nonsense about letters from Sarah Yare?”

“You know,” I said, “my tie must be crooked or I’ve got a grease spot. Mr. Drew resented me, and Mr. Gallant was going to throw an ash tray at me. Now you start in. Why is it nonsense to ask a simple question politely and respectfully?”

“Well,” she conceded, “maybe ‘nonsense’ isn’t exactly the word. Maybe ‘gall’ would be better. What right have you to march in here and ask questions at all? Polite or not.”

“None. It’s not a right, it’s a liberty. And you’re at liberty to tell me to go climb a tree if you find the question ticklish. Have you any letters from Sarah Yare?”

She laughed. She had good teeth. Then, abruptly, she cut the laugh off. “Good Lord,” she said, “I didn’t think I would ever laugh again. This awful business, what happened here yesterday, and then Sarah. No, I have no letters from her.” Her blue eyes, straight at me, were cool and keen. “Why should I find the question ticklish?”

“No reason that I know of. You said I had gall to ask it.”

“If it hurt your feelings I take it back. What else?”

Again I had to resist temptation. With Drew the temptation had been purely professional; with her it was only partly professional and only partly pure. Cramer had said she was in charge of contacts, and one more might be good for her.

Having resisted, I shook my head. “Nothing else, unless you know of something. For instance, if you know of anyone who might have letters.”

“I don’t.” She regarded me. “Of course I’m curious. I’m wondering what it’s about — your coming here. You told Mr. Drew that you don’t know, that you don’t even know who hired Nero Wolfe to inquire about her.”

“That’s right. I don’t.”

“Then you can’t tell me. I can’t turn on the charm and coax it out of you. Can I?”

“I’m afraid not.” I stood up. “Too bad. I would enjoy seeing you try. You’re probably pretty good at it.”

In the hall, on my way to the elevator, I stopped at Gallant’s door and cocked an ear. I heard a rumble (that was Purley); and a soprano murmur (that was Anita Prince); and a bellicose baritone (that was Gallant). But the door was too thick for me to get the words.

Emerging from the building, I turned left, found a phone booth on Madison Avenue, dialed the number I knew best, got Fritz and asked for Wolfe.

His voice came, “Yes, Archie?”

“It’s full of fish. Swarming. Sarah Yare bought her clothes there for two years and they all loved her. Apparently she never wrote letters. They all want to know who hired you and why, especially Flora Gallant. I’ve had no lunch and I’m half starved, but I stopped to phone because there may be some urgency. Stebbins walked in on me, and of course he wanted to know what I was doing there.”

“You didn’t tell him?”

“Certainly not. When he said he would get it out of them, I got them all together and made a speech — you know, a man’s brain is his castle. But one of them might spill it any minute, and I thought you ought to know right away, in case that would mess up your program, if you’ve really got one.”

“It won’t. Not if I get on with it. I have further instructions for you. You will go—”

“No, sir. I can kid my stomach along with a sandwich and a glass of milk, but no more errands until I get some idea of where we’re headed for. Do you want to tell me on the phone?”

“No. But very well. It is not exigent, and Fritz is keeping your lunch warm. Come home.”

“Right. Fifteen minutes.”

I hung up and went out and flagged a taxi.

Ordinarily Wolfe and I lunch in the dining room, but when I’m eating solo I prefer the kitchen, so I headed for it. When I was ready for coffee, I took it to the office with me.

“I feel better,” I told Wolfe. “I wish Purley were here now. How do you want it, from start to finish?”

“No.” He put his book down. “You’ve told me all I need to know.”

“You don’t want any of it? Not even the speech I made?”

“You can type it for the files, for posterity. As I told you, I have instructions.”

“Yeah.” I sipped coffee. “But first what are we doing and why?”

“Very well.” He leaned back. “As I told you this morning, I thought I might have been hoodwinked and I intended to find out. It was quite possible that that performance here yesterday — getting us on the phone just in time to hear a murder committed — was flummery. Indeed, it was more than possible. Must I expound that?”

“No. Even Cramer suspected it.”

“So he did. But his theory that Bianca Voss had been killed earlier and that another woman, not the murderer, was there beside the corpse, waiting for a phone call, was patently ridiculous. Must I expound that?”

“No, unless it was a lunatic. Anyone who would do that, even the murderer, with the chance that someone might come in any second, would be batty.”

“Of course. But if she wasn’t killed at the time we heard those sounds, she must have been killed earlier, since you phoned almost immediately and sent someone to that room. Therefore the sounds didn’t come from there. Miss Gallant did not dial that number. She dialed the number of some other person whom she had persuaded to perform that hocus-pocus.”

He turned a hand over. “I had come to that conclusion, or call it conjecture, before I went to bed last night, and I had found it intolerable. I will not be mistaken for a jackass. Reading the paper at breakfast this morning, I came upon the item about the death of Sarah Yare, and my attention was caught by the fact that she had been an actress. An actress can act a part. Also she had been in distress. Also she had died. If she had been persuaded to act that part, it would have been extremely convenient — for the one who persuaded her — for her to die before she learned that a murder had been committed and that she had been an accessory after the fact. Certainly that was mere speculation, but it was not idle, and when I came down to the office I looked in the phone book to see if Sarah Yare was listed, found that she was, and dialed her number. Algonquin nine, one-eight-four-seven.”

“What for? She was dead.”

“I didn’t lift the receiver. I merely dialed it, to hear it. Before doing so I strained my memory. I had to recall a phenomenon that was filed somewhere in my brain, having reached it through my ears. As you know, I am trained to attend, to observe and to register. So are you. That same phenomenon is filed in your brain. Close your eyes and find it. Stand up. Take your ears back to yesterday, when you were standing there, having surrendered your chair to Miss Gallant, and she was at the phone, dialing. Not the first number she dialed; you dialed that one yourself later. Concentrate on the second one, when, according to her, she was dialing the number of the direct line to Bianca Voss’ office.”

I did so. I got up and stood where I had stood while she was dialing, shut my eyes and brought it back. In ten seconds I said, “O.K. Shoot.”

The sound came of his dialing. I held my breath till the end, then opened my eyes and said positively, “No. Wrong. The first and third and fourth were wrong. I’m not sure about the second, but those three—”

“Close your eyes and try it again. This will be another number.”

The dialing sound came, the seven units. I opened my eyes. “That’s more like it. I would say that was it; anyway the first four. Beyond that, I’m a little lost. But in that case—”

“Satisfactory.” He pushed the phone away and sat back. “The first four were enough. The first number, which you rejected, as I did this morning, was Plaza two, nine-oh-two-two, the number of Bianca Voss’ direct line according to the phone book — the number which Miss Gallant pretended to be dialing. The second, which you accepted, was Sarah Yare’s number, Algonquin nine, one-eight-four-seven.”

“I see.” I sat down and took a gulp of coffee, which had cooled enough for gulping. “Quite a performance.”

He didn’t acknowledge the applause. “So it was still a plausible conjecture, somewhat strengthened, but no more than that. If those people, especially Miss Gallant, could not be shown to have had some association with Sarah Yare, it would be untenable. So I sent you to inquire, and what you found promoted the conjecture to an assumption, and surely a weighty one. What time is it?”

He would have had to twist his neck a whole quarter turn to look at the wall clock. I obliged. “Five to four.”

“Then instructions for your errand must be brief, and they can be.” He mustn’t be late for his afternoon session in the plant rooms. “You will go to Sarah Yare’s address on Thirteenth Street and look at her apartment. Her phone might have been discontinued since that book was issued. I need to know that the instrument is still there and operable before I proceed. If I intend to see that whoever tried to make a fool of me regrets it, I must take care not to make a fool of myself.” He pushed his chair back, gripped the arms and hoisted his bulk. “Have I satisfied you?”

I drank the last of the coffee, now cold, then went to the hall for my coat and hat, and departed.

It was not my day. At the address of the late Sarah Yare on East 13th Street I stubbed my toe again. I was dead wrong about the janitor of that old walk-up. He looked as if anything would go, so I merely told him to let me into Sarah Yare’s apartment to check the telephone, and the bum insisted on seeing my credentials. So I misjudged him again. I offered him a sawbuck and told him I only wanted two minutes for a look at the phone with him at my elbow, and he turned me down. The upshot was that I went back home for an assortment of keys, returned, posted myself across the street, waited a full hour to be sure the enemy was not peeking, and broke and entered, technically.

I won’t describe it; it was too painful. It was an awful dump for a Sarah Yare — even for a down-and-outer who had once been Sarah Yare. But the telephone was there, and it was working. I dialed to make sure, and got Fritz, and told him I just wanted to say hello and would be home in fifteen minutes, and he said that would please Mr. Wolfe because Inspector Cramer was there.

“Is Stebbins with him?”

“No, he’s alone.”

“When did he come?”

“Ten minutes ago. At six o’clock. Mr. Wolfe said to admit him and is with him in the office. Their voices are very loud. Hurry home, Archie.”

I did so. Ascending the stoop and letting myself in, not banging the door, I tiptoed down the hall and stopped short of the office door, thinking to get a sniff of the atmosphere before entering.

Wolfe’s voice came: “... and I didn’t say I have never known you to be right, Mr. Cramer. I said I have never known you to be more wrong. That is putting it charitably, under provocation. You have accused me of duplicity. Pfui!”

“Nuts.” Cramer had worked up to his grittiest rasp. “I have accused you of nothing. I have merely stated facts. The time of the murder was supposed to be established by you and Goodwin hearing it on the phone. Is that a fact? Those five people all have alibis for that time. One of them was here with you. Is that a fact? When I put it to you yesterday that that phone business might have been faked, that she might have been killed earlier, all I got was a run-around. You could challenge it circumstantially, but not intrinsically — whatever that means. Is that a fact? So that if you and Goodwin got to the witness stand you might both swear that you were absolutely satisfied that you had heard her get it at exactly half past eleven. Is that a fact? Giving me to understand that you weren’t interested, you weren’t concerned, you had no—”

“No,” Wolfe objected. “That was broached.”

“You said you had never had any association with any of those people besides what was in your statement, so how could you be concerned, with Bianca Voss dead? Tell me this: did any of them approach you, directly or indirectly, between seven o’clock yesterday and noon today?”

“No.”

“But—” He bore down on the “but.”

“But you sent Goodwin there today. And when Stebbins ran into him and asked him what he was there for, he said he was on a fishing trip. And they all refuse to tell what Goodwin said to them or what they said to him. That is a fact. They say it was a private matter and had no connection with the murder of Bianca Voss. And when I come and ask you what you sent Goodwin there for, you say you will probably be ready to tell me within twenty-four hours. And what I said was absolutely justified. I did not accuse you of duplicity. You know what I said.”

“I do indeed, Mr. Cramer.” I couldn’t see Wolfe, but I knew he had upturned a palm. “This is childish and futile. If a connection is established between your murder investigation and the topic of Mr. Goodwin’s talks with those people today it will be only because I formed a conjecture and acted on it. I hope to establish it within twenty-four hours, and meanwhile it will do no harm to give you a hint. Have you any information on the death of a woman named Sarah Yare?

A pause. Cramer was certainly interrupting his glare to blink. “Why?” he demanded.

“I merely put the question.”

“All right, I’ll answer it. I have some — yes. Presumed a suicide, but it’s being checked. I have two men on it. What about it?”

“I suggest that you assign more men to it, good ones, and explore it thoroughly. I think we shall both find it helpful. I may soon have a more concrete suggestion, but for the present that should serve. You know quite well—”

The doorbell rang. I wheeled and looked through the one-way glass pane of the front door. It wasn’t a visitor on the stoop, it was a mob. All of them were there: Gallant, Flora, Anita Prince, Emmy Thorne and Carl Drew. Fritz appeared from the kitchen, saw me and stopped. I got my notebook and pen from pockets and wrote:

I told Fritz to stand by, tore out the sheet, entered the office and crossed to Wolfe’s desk, and handed it to him.

Wolfe read it, frowned at it for three seconds, turned his head and called “Fritz!”

He appeared at the door. “Yes, sir?”

“Put the chain bolt on and tell those people they will be admitted shortly. Stay there.”

“Yes, sir.” He went.

Wolfe looked at Cramer. “Mr. Gallant, his sister, Miss Prince, Miss Thorne and Mr. Drew have arrived, uninvited and unexpected. You’ll have to leave without being seen. In the front room until they have entered. I’ll communicate with you later.”

“Like hell I’ll leave.” Cramer was on his feet. “Like hell they’re unexpected.” He was moving toward the hall, his intention plain — taking over as receptionist.

“Mr. Cramer!” It snapped at his back, turning him. “Would I lie so clumsily if they had been expected, would I have let you in? Would I have sat here bickering with you? Either you leave or I do. If you admit them, you’ll have them to yourself, and I wish you luck.”

Cramer’s jaw was clamped. “You think I’m going to sneak out and sit on your stoop until you whistle?”

“That would be unseemly,” Wolfe conceded. “Very well.” He pointed at a picture on the wall to his left behind him — a pretty waterfall. “You know about that. You may take that station, but only if you engage not to disclose yourself unless you are invited. Unequivocally.”

The waterfall covered a hole in the wall. On the other side, in a wing of the hall across from the kitchen, the hole was covered by nothing, and you could not only see through but also hear through. Cramer had used it once before, a couple of years ago.

He stood, considering, his jaw clamped again. Wolfe demanded, “Well? They’re waiting. For you or for me?”

Cramer said, “O.K., I’ll try it your way,” turned and marched to the hall, and turned left.

“All right, Archie. Bring them in.”

While I was in the hall, admitting the guests and helping with coats, Fritz was in the office moving chairs, and when we entered, there was a row of them lined up facing Wolfe’s desk. And then, when I had pronounced their names and Wolfe had acknowledged each one by inclining his head an eighth of an inch, Flora wouldn’t accept my idea of the proper seating arrangement. I thought it would be desirable to have her handy, in the chair nearest me — for professional reasons, not personal ones — but she didn’t agree. She took the one at the other end of the row, farthest from me, presumably because it was near her brother in the red leather chair beyond the end of Wolfe’s desk. Next to her was Carl Drew, then Anita Prince, then Emmy Thorne at my end.

When they were all seated, including me, Wolfe turned to Gallant. “I presume, sir, you are the spokesman?”

“I speak for us, yes, but it is enough that I speak for myself. I want to know why you sent a man to ask me questions about Sarah Yare.”

Wolfe nodded. “Of course. Naturally your curiosity was aroused. But evidently you have been provoked to more than curiosity; you have been impelled to call on me in a body; so I want to know something too. Why were Mr. Goodwin’s questions so provocative?”

“Pah!” Gallant hit a chair arm with a fist. “I answered his question; you can answer mine! I have asked it!”

Anita Prince put in, “We came because we think it is important, but we don’t know why. The police insist on knowing why Mr. Goodwin was there, what he wanted.”

“And you refused to say. Only because Mr. Goodwin advised you to?”

“No,” Emmy Thorne declared. “Because it was none of their business. And we have a right to know why you sent him, whether his questions were provocative or not.” That girl was strong on rights.

Wolfe’s eyes went from right to left and back again. “There’s no point in dragging this out. I sent Mr. Goodwin to see you because I suspected I had been gulled and wanted to find out; and further, because I had guessed that there was a connection between Sarah Yare and her death, and the murder of Bianca Voss. By coming here en masse, you have made that guess a conviction, if any doubt had remained.”

“I knew it,” Flora mumbled. She looked at her brother. “I knew it! That was why—”

“Tais toi,” Gallant commanded her. He jerked back to Wolfe: “I’ll tell you why we came here. We came for an explanation. We came—”

Carl Drew put in, “For an understanding,” he declared. “We’re in trouble, all of us, you know that, and we need your help, and we’re ready to pay for it. First we have to know what the connection is between Sarah Yare and what happened to Bianca Voss.”

Wolfe shook his head. “You don’t mean that. You mean you have to know whether I have established the connection, and if so, how. I’m prepared to tell you, but before I do so I must clarify matters. There must be no misunderstanding. For instance, I understand that all of you thought yourselves gravely endangered by Miss Voss’ presence. You, Miss Prince; you, Miss Thorne; and you, Mr. Drew — your dearest ambitions were threatened. Your future was committed to the success and glory of that enterprise, and you were convinced that Miss Voss was going to cheapen it, and perhaps destroy it. Do you challenge that?”

“Of course not.” Emmy Thorne was scornful. “Everybody knew it.”

“Then that’s understood... That applied equally to you, Miss Gallant, but with special emphasis. You also had a more intimate concern, for your brother. You told me so... As for you, Mr. Gallant, you are manifestly not a man to truckle, yet you let that woman meddle in your affairs. Presumably you were under severe constraint. Were you?”

Gallant opened his mouth and closed it. He looked at his sister, returned to Wolfe, and again opened his mouth and closed it. He was under constraint now, no doubt about that.

He forced it out, “Yes. I was under her heel.” He set his jaw. He unset it. “The police know. They found out enough, and I have told them the rest. She was a bad woman, though I didn’t know it until too late. I met her in France during the war. We were in the Résistance together when I married her. Only afterwards I learned that she was perfide. She had been a traitor to France; I couldn’t prove it, but I knew it. I left her and changed my name and came to America — and then last year she found me and made demands. I was under her heel.”

Wolfe grunted. “That won’t do, Mr. Gallant. I doubt if it has satisfied the police, and it certainly doesn’t satisfy me. In this situation you might have killed her, but surely you wouldn’t have let her take charge of your business and your life. What else was there?”

“Nothing. Nothing!”

“Pfui. Of course there was. And if the investigation is prolonged, the police will discover it. I advise you to disclose it and let me get on and settle this affair. Didn’t her death remove her heel?”

“Yes. Thank God, it did. And I am not blind; I can see that that points at me.” Gallant hit the arms of the chair with his palms. “But she is gone and I can tell you. With her gone, there is no evidence to fear. She had two brothers, and they, like her, were traitors, and I killed them. I would have killed her, too, but she escaped me. During the war it would have been merely an episode, but it was later, much later, when I found out about them, and by then it was a crime. With her evidence I was an assassin, and I was doomed. Now she is gone, thank God, but I did not kill her. You know I did not. At half past eleven yesterday morning I was in my workshop with Miss Prince and many others, and you can swear that she was killed at that moment. That is why we came to see you, to arrange to pay—”

“You are in error, Mr. Gallant. I cannot swear that Bianca Voss was killed ‘at that moment.’ On the contrary, I’m sure she wasn’t, for a variety of reasons. There are such minor ones as the extraordinary billingsgate she spat at me on the phone, quite gratuitous; and her calling me a gob of fat. A woman who still spoke the language with so marked an accent would not have the word ‘gob’ so ready, and probably wouldn’t have it at all.”

He waved “gob” away. “But the major reasons are more cogent. In the first place, it was too pat. Since the complexities of nature permit a myriad of coincidences, we cannot reject one offhand, but we can discriminate. That one — that the attack had come just at the moment when Miss Gallant had got Mr. Goodwin and me on the phone with Miss Voss — that was highly suspect. Besides, it was indiscreet of the murderer to strike exactly then. Indeed, foolhardy. Why not wait until she had hung up? Whoever was talking with her would certainly hear the sounds and take alarm. As I told Mr. Cramer, it was open to challenge circumstantially, though not intrinsically. However, there was another challenge, on surer ground. In fact, conclusive. Miss Gallant did not dial Plaza two, nine-oh-two-two, Miss Voss’ number, as she pretended. She dialed Algonquin nine, one-eight-four-seven, Sarah Yare’s number.”

A noise, a sort of low growl, came from the waterfall. I was farthest away, and I heard it distinctly, so it must have reached their ears, too, but Wolfe’s last words had so riveted their attention that it didn’t register.

It did with Wolfe, and he added hastily, “I didn’t know that yesterday. I became certain of it only after you rang my doorbell, when Mr. Goodwin handed me this note.” He tapped it there on his desk. “It’s first words are, ‘That phone works.’ I had sent him to learn if Sarah Yare’s phone was in operation. Obviously, Miss Gallant had arranged with Miss Yare to impersonate Bianca Voss, and it is a reasonable—”

“Wait a minute,” Gallant had come forward in the red leather chair. “You can’t prove that.”

“Directly, no. Inferentially, yes.

“And how do you know she dialed Sarah Yare’s number? You weren’t where you could see the dial, and neither was Goodwin.”

Wolfe nodded. “Evidently you have discussed it with her. You’re quite right, Mr. Gallant; we couldn’t see the dial. Nevertheless, we can supply evidence, and we think it will be persuasive. I am not—”

“What kind of evidence?”

“That’s no good, Alec.” It was Emmy Thorne, the contact girl. “You can’t push Nero Wolfe. He has his teeth in it, you can see that. You know what we decided.”

“I’m not sure,” Anita Prince objected, “that we decided right.”

“I am. Carl?”

“Yes.” Drew was chewing his lip. “I think so. Yes.”

“Flora? It’s up to you.”

“I guess so.” Flora’s voice didn’t want to work, and she tried again. “I guess so.” A little better.

Emmy nodded. “Go ahead, Alec. You can’t push him.”

Gallant looked at his sister and back at Wolfe. “All right. We will pay you to help us. I will pay you. My sister is innocent and she must not suffer. It would be an offense against nature, against God Himself. She has told me all about it, and she was stupid, but she is innocent. She did arrange with Sarah Yare, as you said, but only to move you. She had read much about you and had a great opinion of your abilities. She was desperate about Bianca Voss. She knew you demanded high fees, much beyond her resources, so she conceived a plan. She would persuade you to talk with Bianca Voss on the phone, and she would get Sarah instead, and Sarah would abuse you with such violence that you would be offended and resent it, and you would be moved to move against Bianca Voss. It was stupid — yes, very stupid — but it was not criminal.”

Wolfe’s eyes, on him, were half closed. “And you want to pay me to help her.”

“Yes. When she learned that your man was there asking about Sarah Yare, and after she had talked with him, I saw that she was frightened and asked her why, and she told me what she had done. I consulted the others, and it was apparent that you suspected what had happened, and that was dangerous. We decided to come and ask you to help. My sister must not suffer.”

Wolfe’s eyes moved. “Miss Gallant, you heard your brother. Do you corroborate it?”

“Yes!” That time it was too loud.

“You did those things? As he related them?”

“Yes!”

“When did you arrange with Sarah Yare to impersonate Bianca Voss? Yesterday morning before you came here?”

“No. Monday night. Late. After Mr. Goodwin put me in a taxi. After he left me.”

Wolfe returned to Gallant. “Again, sir, I am being mistaken for a ninny. I agree with you that your sister was stupid, but you are not the one to proclaim it. You say that she arranged with Sarah Yare to abuse me on the phone, but Miss Yare didn’t stop at that. She ended by making noises indicating that she had been violently attacked, and jerked the phone off onto the floor, and made other noises, and then hung up the phone and cut the connection. Was that on her own initiative? Her own idea? Your sister’s stupidity can bow to yours if you expected me to overlook that point — or worse, if you missed it yourself.”

“I am not stupid, Mr. Wolfe.”

“Then you are devious beyond my experience.”

“Devious?”

“Rusé. Subtil.”

“No. I am not.” Gallant took a deep breath, and then another. “Bien. We are at the point. Suppose — only to suppose — she arranged that, too, that comedy. Suppose even that she killed Bianca Voss. Was that a crime? No. It was justice. It was the hand of God. Bianca Voss was an evil woman. She was vilaine. Are you so filled with virtue that you must condemn my sister? Are you a paragon? For she is in your hands, at your mercy. You know about Sarah Yare, but the police do not. You know she dialed that number, but the police do not, and they will not unless you tell them. By your word it can be that my sister was here with you at the time that Bianca Voss was killed. As I have said, I will pay you. Pay you well. It will be a great service from you, and it deserves payment. I will pay you now.”

Wolfe grunted. “That was an admirable speech.”

“It was not a speech. I do not make speeches. It was an appeal to your charity. From my heart.”

“And to my cupidity.” Wolfe shook his head. “No. I am not a paragon. I am not even a steward of the law. But you have ignored two important factors. One, my self-esteem. Even if Bianca Voss deserved to die, I will not permit myself to be taken for a simpleton. Two, another woman died too. Was Sarah Yare also evil? Was she vilaine?”

Gallant gawked. I don’t suppose Lord Byron ever gawked, but Gallant did. “But she — Sarah killed herself!”

“No. I don’t believe it. That’s another coincidence I reject. Granted that she may have been wretched enough for that extreme, why did she choose that particular moment? Again too pat. According to the published account, the medical examiner says she died between ten o’clock yesterday morning and two in the afternoon, but now that is narrowed a little. Since she spoke with Mr. Goodwin and me on the phone at eleven-thirty, she died between that hour and two o’clock. I believe that the person who killed Bianca Voss at some time prior to eleven-thirty, having arranged with Sarah Yare to enact that comedy, as you call it, went to Sarah Yare’s apartment later and killed her. Indeed, prudence demanded it. So you ask too much of my charity. If only Bianca Voss had died—”

“No!” Gallant exploded. “Impossible! Totally impossible! My sister loved Sarah! She killed her? Insane!”

“But you believe she killed Bianca Voss. You came here believing that. All but one of you did. That was stupid too. She didn’t.”

Gallant’s jaw dropped and he froze with his mouth open. The others made noises. Flora gasped and sat stiffly in her chair.

Carl Drew demanded, “Didn’t? You say she didn’t?”

“What is this, Mr. Wolfe? A game?” Emmy Thorne asked, coming to her feet.

“No, madam, not a game. Nor a comedy — Mr. Gallant’s word. As a man I know said yesterday, murder is no joke.” Wolfe’s eyes went to Flora. “There was much against you, Miss Gallant, especially the fact that you dialed that other number before you dialed Sarah Yare’s, and asked someone you called Doris if Miss Voss was around. Are you too rattled to remember that?”

“No.” She was still rigid in her chair. “I’m not rattled, I’m just—” She let it hang. “I remember.”

“Of course, the reason for it was obvious, if you had killed Bianca Voss before you came here; you had to know that the body had not been found before you proceeded with your stratagem. But since you had not killed Bianca Voss, why did you make that call?”

“I wanted to make sure that she hadn’t gone out. That she was there in her office. You might call her again after I left and find out she hadn’t been there. I didn’t care if you called her and she denied she had talked to you like that. I thought you would think she was lying. I suppose that was stupid too.” Her mouth worked. “How did you know I didn’t kill her?”

“You told me. You showed me... If you had killed Bianca Voss and devised that elaborate humbug, certainly you would have decided how to act at the moment of crisis. You would have decided to be surprised, and shocked, and even perhaps a little dazed. But it wasn’t like that. You were utterly stunned with bewilderment. When Mr. Goodwin told us what Mr. Drew had said, you exclaimed, ‘He said she is dead?’ Then you said, ‘But how?’ And repeated it, ‘But how?’ If you had killed Bianca Voss you would have had to be a master dramatist to write such lines, and an actress of genius to deliver them as you did, and you are neither.”

Wolfe waved it away. “But that was for me. For others, for a judge and jury, I must do better, and I think I can. The fact remains that Bianca Voss was murdered. If you are innocent, someone else is guilty. Someone else learned of the arrangement you had made with Sarah Yare, either from you or from her, and persuaded her to add a dramatic climax on some pretext. Someone else killed Bianca Voss and then established an invulnerable alibi for the crucial period. Someone else had secured the required amount of cyanide — it doesn’t take much. Someone else, having established the alibi, went to Sarah Yare’s apartment and poisoned her glass of whisky. That was done before two o’clock, and that should make it simple. Indeed, it has made it simple. Shortly before you came I learned from Mr. Cramer of the police that you arrived at your brother’s place yesterday a few minutes after noon. Since you left here at a quarter of twelve, you hadn’t time to go first to Thirteenth Street and dispose of Sarah Yare; and you were continuously under the eyes of policemen the remainder of the afternoon. That is correct?”

“Yes,” Flora said. “When I left here I wanted to go and see what happened to Sarah, but I was afraid. I didn’t know—”

“It’s a good thing you didn’t, madam... I also learned from Mr. Cramer that you, Mr. Gallant; you, Mr. Drew; and you, Miss Prince, were also constantly under surveillance, for hours, from the time the police arrived. That accounts for four of you and leaves only one.”

His eyes narrowed at Emmy Thorne. “It leaves you, Miss Thorne. You were with three men in an office on Forty-sixth Street from eleven-twenty until a quarter to twelve. You arrived at Mr. Gallant’s place, and found the police there, shortly before three o’clock. You may be able to account for the interim satisfactorily. Do you want to try?”

“I don’t have to try.” Her eyes were narrowed, too, and she kept them straight at Wolfe. “So it is a game.”

“Not one you’ll enjoy, I fear. Nor will I; I’m out of it now. To disclose your acquisition of the cyanide you would need for Sarah Yare; to show that you entered Bianca Voss’ room yesterday morning, or could have, before you left for your business appointment; to find evidence of your visit to Thirteenth Street after your business appointment; to decide which homicide you will be put on trial for — all that is for others. You must see now that it was a mistake... Archie!”

I was up, but halted. Gallant, out of his chair and moving, wasn’t going to touch her. His fists were doubled, but not to swing; they were pressed against his chest.

He stopped squarely in front of her and commanded, “Look at me, Emmy.”

To do so she would have had to move her head, tilt it back, and she moved nothing.

“I have loved you,” he said. “Did you kill Sarah?”

Her lips moved, but no sound came.

His fists opened for his fingers to spread on his chest. “So you heard us that day, and you knew I couldn’t marry you because I was married to Bianca, and you killed her. That I can understand, for I loved you. But that you killed Sarah, no. No! And even that is not the worst! Today, when I told you and the others what Flora had told me, you accepted it, you allowed us to accept it, that Flora had killed Bianca, though she denied it. You would have let her suffer for it. Look at me! You would have let my sister—”

Flora was there, tugging at his sleeve, sputtering at him. “You love her, Alec! Don’t hurt her now! Don’t—”

“Miss Gallant!” Wolfe’s voice was a whip cracking. “It’s too late for compassion. And I doubt if this is any surprise to you. You told Miss Thorne of your appointment with me and your arrangement with Sarah Yare. Didn’t you? Answer me.”

“I can’t—” She swallowed it.

I thought she needed help. “Come on, Finger,” I told her. “It only takes one word. Yes or no?”

“Yes,” she told me, not Wolfe. “Yes, I did.”

“When? Monday night?”

“Yes. I phoned her.”

“Did you tell anyone else?”

“No.”

She was still holding Gallant’s sleeve. He jerked loose, backed up, folded his arms and breathed; and Emmy Thorne moved. She came up out of her chair, stood rigid long enough to give Gallant a straight hard look, shook her head, spun away from him, and headed for the door, brushing against Flora. Her route took her past Anita Prince, who tilted her head back to look up at her, and on past Carl Drew.

I didn’t budge, thinking I wouldn’t be needed. The understanding had been that Cramer wouldn’t butt in unless he was invited, but circumstances alter understandings. As she made the hall and turned toward the front there were heavy footsteps and a hand gripped her arm — a hand that had had plenty of practice gripping arms.

“Take it easy, Miss Thorne,” Cramer said. “We’ll have to have a talk.”

“Grand Dieu!” Gallant groaned, and covered his face with his hands.