Rex Stout

The Twisted Scarf

I

What I felt like doing was go out for a walk, but I wasn’t quite desperate enough for that, so I merely beat it down to the office, shutting the door from the hall behind me, went and sat at my desk with my feet up, leaned back and closed my eyes, and took some deep breaths.

I had made two mistakes. When Bill McNab, garden editor of the Gazette, had suggested to Nero Wolfe that the members of the Manhattan Flower Club be invited to drop in some afternoon to look at the orchids, I should have fought it. And when the date had been set and the invitations sent, and Wolfe had arranged that Fritz and Saul should do the receiving at the front door and I should stay up in the plant rooms with him and Theodore, mingling with the guests, if I had had an ounce of brains I would have put my foot down. But I hadn’t, and as a result I had been up there a good hour and a half, grinning around and acting pleased and happy. “No, sir, that’s not a brasso, it’s a laelio.” “No, madam, I doubt if you could grow that miltonia in a living room — so sorry.” “Quite all right, madam — your sleeve happened to hook it — it’ll bloom again next year.”

It wouldn’t have been so bad if there had been something for the eyes. It was understood that the Manhattan Flower Club was choosy about who it took in, but obviously its standards were totally different from mine. The men were just men, okay as men go, but the women! It was a darned good thing they had picked on flowers to love, because flowers don’t have to love back. I didn’t object to their being alive and well, since after all I’ve got a mother too, and three aunts, and I fully appreciate them, but it would have been a relief to spot just one who could have made my grin start farther down than the front of my teeth.

There had in fact been one — just one. I had got a glimpse of her at the other end of the crowded aisle as I went through the door from the cool room into the moderate room, after showing a couple of guys what a bale of osmundine looked like in the potting room. From ten paces off she looked absolutely promising, and when I had maneuvered close enough to make her an offer to answer questions if she had any, there was simply no doubt about it, and the first quick slanting glance she gave me said plainly that she could tell the difference between a flower and a man, but she just smiled and shook her head and moved on by with her companions, an older female and two males. Later I had made another try and got another brushoff, and still later, too long later, feeling that the damn grin might freeze on me for good if I didn’t take a recess, I had gone AWOL by worming my way through to the far end of the warm room and sidling on out.

All the way down the three flights of stairs new guests were coming up, though it was then four o’clock. Nero Wolfe’s old brownstone house on West Thirty-fifth Street had seen no such throng as that within my memory, which is long and good. One flight down I stopped off at my bedroom for a pack of cigarettes, and another flight down I detoured to make sure the door of Wolfe’s bedroom was locked. In the main hall downstairs I halted a moment to watch Fritz Brenner, busy at the door with both departures and arrivals, and to see Paul Panzer emerge from the front room, which was being used as a cloakroom, with someone’s hat and top-coat. Then, as aforesaid, I entered the office, shutting the door from the hall behind me, went and sat at my desk with my feet up, leaned back and closed my eyes, and took some deep breaths.

I had been there eight or ten minutes, and getting relaxed and a little less bitter, when the door opened and she came in. Her companions were not along. By the time she had closed the door and turned to me I had got to my feet, with a friendly leer, and had begun, “I was just sitting here thinking—”

The look on her face stopped me. There was nothing wrong with it basically, but something had got it out of kilter. She headed for me, got halfway, jerked to a stop, sank into one of the yellow chairs, and squeaked, “Could I have a drink?”

Upstairs her voice had not squeaked at all. I had liked it.

“Scotch?” I asked her. “Rye, bourbon, gin—”

She just fluttered a hand. I went to the cupboard and got a hooker of Old Woody. Her hand was shaking as she took the glass, but she didn’t spill any, and she got it down in two swallows, as if it had been milk, which wasn’t very ladylike. She shuddered all over and shut her eyes. In a minute she opened them again and said hoarsely, the squeak gone, “Did I need that!”

“More?”

She shook her head. Her bright brown eyes were moist, from the whisky, as she gave me a full straight look with her head tilted up. “You’re Archie Goodwin,” she stated.

I nodded. “And you’re the Queen of Egypt?”

“I’m a baboon,” she declared. “I don’t know how they ever taught me to talk.” She looked around for something to put the glass on, and I moved a step and reached for it. “Look at my hand shake,” she complained. “I’m all to pieces.”

She kept her hand out, looking at it, so I took it in mine and gave it some friendly but gentle pressure. “You do seem a little upset,” I conceded. “I doubt if your hand usually feels clammy. When I saw you upstairs—”

She jerked the hand away and blurted, “I want to see Nero Wolfe. I want to see him right away, before I change my mind.” She was gazing up at me, with the moist brown eyes. “My God, I’m in a fix now all right! I’m one scared baboon! I’ve made up my mind, I’m going to get Nero Wolfe to get me out of this somehow — why shouldn’t he? He did a job for Dazy Perrit, didn’t he? Then I’m through. I’ll get a job at Macy’s or marry a truck driver! I want to see Nero Wolfe!”

I told her it couldn’t be done until the party was over.

She looked around. “Are people coming in here?”

I told her no.

“May I have another drink, please?”

I told her she should give the first one time to settle, and instead of arguing she arose and got the glass from the corner of Wolfe’s desk, went to the cupboard, and helped herself. I sat down and frowned at her. Her line sounded fairly screwy for a member of the Manhattan Flower Club, or even for a daughter of one. She came back to her chair, sat, and met my eyes. Looking at her straight like that could have been a nice way to pass the time if there had been any chance for a meeting of minds, but it was easy to see that what her mind was fighting with was connected with me only accidentally.

“I could tell you,” she said, hoarse again.

“Many people have,” I said modestly.

“I’m going to.”

“Good. Shoot.”

“I’m afraid I’ll change my mind and I don’t want to.”

“Okay. Ready, go.”

“I’m a crook.”

“It doesn’t show,” I objected. “What do you do, cheat at canasta?”

“I didn’t say I’m a cheat.” She cleared her throat for the hoarseness. “I said I’m a crook. Remind me someday to tell you the story of my life, how my husband got killed in the war and I broke through the gate. Don’t I sound interesting?”

“You sure do. What’s your line, orchid-stealing?”

“No. I wouldn’t be small and I wouldn’t be dirty — that’s what I thought, but once you start it’s not so easy. You meet people and you get involved. You can’t go it alone. Two years ago four of us took over a hundred grand from a certain rich woman with a rich husband. I can tell you about that one, even names, because she couldn’t move anyhow.”

I nodded. “Blackmailers’ customers seldom can. What—”

“I’m not a blackmailer!” Her eyes were blazing.

“Excuse me. Mr. Wolfe often says I jump to conclusions.”

“You did that time.” She was still indignant. “A blackmailer’s not a crook, he’s a snake! Not that it really matters. What’s wrong with being a crook is the other crooks — they make it dirty whether you like it or not. I’ve been up to my knees in it. It makes a coward of you too — that’s the worst. I had a friend once — as close as a crook ever comes to having a friend — and a man killed her, strangled her, and if I had told what I knew about it they could have caught him, but I was afraid to go to the cops, so he’s still loose. And she was my friend! That’s getting down toward the bottom. Isn’t it?”

“Fairly low,” I agreed, eyeing her. “Of course I don’t know you any too well. I don’t know how you react to two stiff drinks. Maybe your hobby is stringing private detectives. If so, why don’t you wait for Mr. Wolfe? It would be more fun with two of us.”

She simply ignored it. “I realized long ago,” she went on as if it were a one-way conversation, “that I had made a mistake. I wasn’t what I had thought I was going to be — a romantic reckless outlaw. You can’t do it that way, or anyhow I couldn’t. I was just a crook and I knew it, and about a year ago I decided to break loose. A good way to do it would have been to talk to someone the way I’m talking to you now, but I didn’t have sense enough to see that. And so many people were involved. It was so involved! You know?”

I nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

“So I kept putting it off. We got a good one in December and I went to Florida for a vacation, but down there I met a man with a lead and we followed it up here just a week ago. That’s what I’m working on now. That’s what brought me here today. This man—”

She stopped abruptly.

“Well?” I invited her.

She looked dead serious, not more serious, but a different kind. “I’m not putting anything on him,” she declared. “I don’t owe him anything and I don’t like him, but this is strictly about me and no one else — only I had to explain why I’m here. I wish to God I’d never come!”

There was no question about that coming from her heart, unless she had done a lot of rehearsing in front of a mirror.

“It got you this talk with me,” I reminded her.

She was looking straight through me and beyond. “If only I hadn’t come! If only I hadn’t seen him!” She leaned toward me for emphasis. “I’m either too smart or not smart enough, that’s my trouble. I should have looked away from him, turned away quick, when I realized I knew who he was, before he turned and saw it in my eyes. But I was so shocked I couldn’t help it! For a second I couldn’t move. God, I was dumb! I stood there staring at him, thinking I wouldn’t have recognized him if he hadn’t had a hat on, and then he looked at me and saw what was happening. I knew then all right what an awful fool I was, and I turned away and moved off, but it was too late. I know how to manage my face with nearly anybody, anywhere, but that was too much for me. It showed so plain that Mrs. Orwin asked me what was the matter with me and I had to try to pull myself together — then seeing Nero Wolfe gave me the idea of telling him, only of course I couldn’t right there with the crowd — and then I saw you going out and as soon as I could break away I came down to find you.”

She tried smiling at me, but it didn’t work so good. “Now I feel some better,” she said hopefully.

I nodded. “That’s good bourbon. Is it a secret who you recognized?”

“No. I’m going to tell Nero Wolfe.”

“You decided to tell me.” I flipped a hand. “Suit yourself. Whoever you tell, what good will that do?”

“Why — then he can’t do anything to me.”

“Why not?”

“Because he wouldn’t dare. Nero Wolfe will tell him that I’ve told about him, so that if anything happened to me he would know it was him, and he’d know who he is — I mean Nero Wolfe would know — and so would you.”

“We would if we had his name and address.” I was studying her. “He must be quite a specimen, to scare you that bad. And speaking of names, what’s yours?”

She made a little noise that could have been meant for a laugh. “Do you like Marjorie?”

“So-so.”

“I used Evelyn Carter in Paris once. Do you like that?”

“Not bad. What are you using now?”

She hesitated, frowning.

“Good Lord,” I protested, “you’re not in a vacuum, and I’m a detective. They took the names down at the door.”

“Cynthia Brown,” she said.

“I like that fine. That’s Mrs. Orwin you came with?”

“Yes.”

“She’s the current customer? The lead you picked up in Florida?”

“Yes. But that’s—” She gestured. “That’s finished. That’s settled now, since I’m telling you and Nero Wolfe. I’m through.”

“I know. A job at Macy’s or marry a truck driver. There’s one thing you haven’t told me, though — who was it you recognized?”

She turned her head for a glance at the door and then turned it still farther to look behind her. When her face came back to me it was out of kilter again, with the teeth pinching the lower lip.

“Can anyone hear us?” she asked.

“Nope. That other door goes to the front room — today the cloakroom. Anyhow this room’s soundproofed, including the doors.”

She glanced at the hall door again, returned to me, and lowered her voice. “This has to be done the way I say.”

“Sure, why not?”

“I wasn’t being honest with you.”

“I wouldn’t expect it from a crook. Start over.”

“I mean—” She used the teeth on the lip again. “I mean I’m not just scared about myself. I’m scared all right, but I don’t just want Nero Wolfe for what I said. I want him to get him for murder, but he has to keep me out of it. I don’t want to have anything to do with any cops — not now I don’t especially. I’m through. If he won’t do it that way — do you think he will?”

I was feeling a faint tingle at the base of my spine. I only get that on special occasions, but this was unquestionably something special, if Marjorie Evelyn Carter Cynthia Brown wasn’t taking me for a ride to pay for the drinks.

I gave her a hard look and didn’t let the tingle get into my voice. “He might, for you, if you pay him. What kind of evidence have you got? Any?”

“I saw him.”

“You mean today?”

“I mean I saw him then.” She had her hands clasped tight. “I told you — I had a friend. I stopped in at her apartment that afternoon. I was just leaving — Doris was inside, in the bathroom — and as I got near the entrance door I heard a key turning in the lock, from the outside. I stopped, and the door came open and a man came in. When he saw me he just stood and stared. I had never met Doris’s bank account and I knew she didn’t want me to, and since he had a key I supposed of course it was him, making an unexpected call, so I mumbled something about Doris being in the bathroom and went past him, through the door and on out.”

She paused. Her clasped hands loosened and then tightened again.

“I’m burning my bridges,” she said, “but I can deny all this if I have to. I went and kept a cocktail date, and then phoned Doris’s number to ask if our dinner date was still on, considering the visit of the bank account. There was no answer, so I went back to her apartment and rang the bell, and there was no answer to that either. It was a self-service elevator place, no doorman or hallman, so there was no one to ask anything. Her maid found her body the next morning. The papers said she had been killed the day before. That man killed her. There wasn’t a word about him — no one had seen him enter or leave. And I didn’t open my mouth! I was a lousy coward!”

“And today all of a sudden there he is, looking at orchids?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a pretty good script,” I acknowledged. “Are you sure—”

“It’s no script! I wish to God it was!”

“Okay. Are you sure he knows you recognized him?”

“Yes. He looked straight at me, and his eyes—”

She was stopped by the house phone buzzing. Stepping to my desk, I picked it up and asked it, “Well?”

Nero Wolfe’s voice, peevish, came. “Archie!”

“Yes, sir.”

“What the devil are you doing? Come back up here!”

“Pretty soon. I’m talking with a prospective client—”

“This is no time for clients! Come at once!”

The connection went. He had slammed it down. I hung up and went back to the prospective client. “Mr. Wolfe wants me upstairs. He didn’t stop to think in time that the Manhattan Flower Club has women in it as well as men. Do you want to wait here?”

“Yes.”

“If Mrs. Orwin asks about you?”

“I didn’t feel well and went home.”

“Okay. I shouldn’t be long — the invitations said two-thirty to five. If you want a drink, help yourself. What name does this murderer use when he goes to look at orchids?”

She looked blank. I got impatient.

“Damn it, what’s his name? This bird you recognized.”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“Describe him.”

She thought it over a little, gazing at me, and then shook her head. “I don’t think—” she said doubtfully. She shook her head again, more positive. “Not now. I want to see what Nero Wolfe says first.” She must have seen something in my eyes, or thought she did, for suddenly she came up out of her chair and moved to me and put a hand on my arm. “That’s all I mean,” she said earnestly. “It’s not you — I know you’re all right.” Her fingers tightened on my forearm. “I might as well tell you — you’d never want any part of me anyhow — this is the first time in years, I don’t know how long, that I’ve talked to a man just straight — you know, just human? You know, not figuring on something one way or another. I—” She stopped for a word, and a little color showed in her cheeks. She found the word. “I’ve enjoyed it very much.”

“Good. Me too. Call me Archie. I’ve got to go, but describe him. Just sketch him.”

But she hadn’t enjoyed it that much. “Not until Nero Wolfe says he’ll do it,” she said firmly.

I had to leave it at that, knowing as I did that in three more minutes Wolfe might have a fit. Out in the hall I had the notion of passing the word to Saul and Fritz to give departing guests a good look, but rejected it because (a) they weren’t there, both of them presumably being busy in the cloakroom, (b) he might have departed already, and (c) I had by no means swallowed a single word of Cynthia’s story, let alone the whole works. So I headed for the stairs and breasted the descending tide of guests leaving.

Up in the plant rooms there were plenty left. When I came into Wolfe’s range he darted me a glance of cold fury, and I turned on the grin. Anyway, it was a quarter to five, and if they took the hint on the invitation it wouldn’t last much longer.

II

They didn’t take the hint on the dot, but it didn’t bother me because my mind was occupied. I was now really interested in them — or at least one of them, if he had actually been there and hadn’t gone home.

First there was a chore to get done. I found the three Cynthia had been with, a female and two males, over by the odontoglossum bench in the cool room. Getting through to them, I asked politely, “Mrs. Orwin?”

She nodded at me and said, “Yes?” Not quite tall enough but plenty plump enough, with a round full face and narrow little eyes that might have been better if they had been wide open, she struck me as a lead worth following. Just the pearls around her neck and the mink stole over her arm would have made a good haul, though I doubted if that was the kind of loot Cynthia specialized in.

“I’m Archie Goodwin,” I said. “I work here.”

I would have gone on if I had known how, but I needed a lead myself, since I didn’t know whether to say Miss Brown or Mrs. Brown. Luckily one of the males horned in.

“My sister?” he inquired anxiously.

So it was a brother-and-sister act. As far as looks went he wasn’t a bad brother at all. Older than me maybe, but not much, he was tall and straight, with a strong mouth and jaw and keen gray eyes. “My sister?” he repeated.

“I guess so. You are—”

“Colonel Brown. Percy Brown.”

“Yeah.” I switched back to Mrs. Orwin. “Miss Brown asked me to tell you that she went home. I gave her a little drink and it seemed to help, but she decided to leave. She asked me to apologize for her.”

“She’s perfectly healthy,” the colonel asserted. He sounded a little hurt. “There’s nothing wrong with her.”

“Is she all right?” Mrs. Orwin asked.

“For her,” the other male put in, “you should have made it three drinks. Three big ones. Or just hand her the bottle.”

His tone was mean and his face was mean, and anyhow that was no way to talk in front of the help in a strange house, meaning me. He was some younger than Colonel Brown, but he already looked enough like Mrs. Orwin, especially the eyes, to make it more than a guess that they were mother and son. That point was settled when she commanded him, “Be quiet, Gene!” She turned to the colonel. “Perhaps you should go and see about her?”

He shook his head, with a fond but manly smile at her. “It’s not necessary, Mimi. Really.”

“She’s all right,” I assured them and pushed off, thinking there were a lot of names in this world that could stand a reshuffle. Calling that overweight narrow-eyed pearl-and-mink proprietor Mimi was a paradox.

I moved around among the guests, being gracious. Fully aware that I was not equipped with a Geiger counter that would flash a signal if and when I established a contact with a strangler, the fact remained that I had been known to have hunches, and it would be something for my scrapbook if I picked one as the killer of Doris Hatten and it turned out later to be sunfast.

Cynthia Brown hadn’t given me the Hatten, only the Doris, but with the context that was enough. At the time it had happened, some five months ago, early in October, the papers had given it a big play of course. She had been strangled with her own scarf, of white silk with the Declaration of Independence printed on it, in her cozy fifth-floor apartment in the West Seventies, and the scarf had been left around her neck, knotted at the back. The cops had never got within a mile of charging anyone, and Sergeant Purley Stebbins of Homicide had told me that they had never even found out who was paying the rent, but there was no law against Purley being discreet.

I kept on the go through the plant rooms, leaving all switches open for a hunch. Some of them were plainly preposterous, but with everyone else I made an opportunity to exchange some words, fullface and close up. That took time, and it was no help to my current and chronic campaign for a raise in wages, since it was the women, not the men, that Wolfe wanted off his neck. I stuck at it anyhow. It was true that if Cynthia was on the level, and if she hadn’t changed her mind by the time I got Wolfe in to her, we would soon have specifications, but I had had that tingle at the bottom of my spine and I was stubborn.

As I say, it took time, and meanwhile five o’clock came and went, and the crowd thinned out. Going on five-thirty the remaining groups seemed to get the idea all at once that time was up and made for the entrance to the stairs. I was in the moderate room when it happened, and the first thing I knew I was alone there, except for a guy at the north bench, studying a row of dowianas. He didn’t interest me, as I had already canvassed him and crossed him off as the wrong type for a strangler, but as I glanced his way he suddenly bent forward to pick up a pot with a flowering plant, and as he did so I felt my back stiffening. The stiffening was a reflex, but I knew what had caused it: the way his fingers closed around the pot, especially the thumbs. No matter how careful you are of other people’s property, you don’t pick up a five-inch pot as if you were going to squeeze the life out of it.

I made my way around to him. When I got there he was holding the pot so that the flowers were only a few inches from his eyes.

“Nice flower,” I said brightly.

He nodded. “What color do you call the sepals?”

“Nankeen yellow.”

He leaned to put the pot back, still choking it. I swiveled my head. The only people in sight, beyond the glass partition between us and the cool room, were Nero Wolfe and a small group of guests, among whom were the Orwin trio and Bill McNab, the garden editor of the Gazette. As I turned my head back to my man he straightened up, pivoted on his heel, and marched off without a word. Whatever else he might or might not have been guilty of, he certainly had bad manners.

I followed him, on into the warm room and through, out to the landing, and down the three flights of stairs. Along the main hall I was courteous enough not to step on his heel, but a lengthened stride would have reached it. The hall was next to empty. A woman, ready for the street in a caracul coat, was standing there, and Saul Panzer was posted near the front door with nothing to do. I followed my man on into the front room, the cloakroom, where Fritz Brenner was helping a guest on with his coat. Of course the racks were practically bare, and with one glance my man saw his property and went to get it. His coat was a brown tweed that had been through a lot more than one winter. I stepped forward to help, but he ignored me without even bothering to shake his head. I was beginning to feel hurt. When he emerged to the hall I was beside him, and as he moved to the front door I spoke.

“Excuse me, but we’re checking guests out as well as in. Your name, please?”

“Ridiculous,” he said curtly, and reached for the knob, pulled the door open, and crossed the sill. Saul, knowing I must have had a reason for wanting to check him out, was at my elbow, and we stood watching his back as he descended the seven steps of the stoop.

“Tail?” Saul muttered at me.

I shook my head and was parting my lips to mutter something back, when a sound came from behind us that made us both whirl around — a screech from a woman, not loud but full of feeling. As we whirled, Fritz and the guest he had been serving came out of the front room, and all four of us saw the woman in the caracul coat come running out of the office into the hall. She kept coming, gasping something, and the guest, making a noise like an alarmed male, moved to meet her. I moved faster, needing about eight jumps to the office door and two inside. There I stopped.

Of course I knew the thing on the floor was Cynthia, but only because I had left her in there in those clothes. With the face blue and contorted, the tongue halfway out, and the eyes popping, it could have been almost anybody. I knelt and slipped my hand inside her dress front, kept it there ten seconds, and felt nothing.

Saul’s voice came from behind. “I’m here.”

I got up and went to the phone on my desk and started dialing, telling Saul, “No one leaves. We’ll keep what we’ve got. Have the door open for Doc Vollmer.” After only two whirs the nurse answered, and put Vollmer on, and I snapped it at him. “Doc, Archie Goodwin. Come on the run. Strangled woman. Yeah, strangled.”

I pushed the phone back, reached for the house phone and buzzed the plant rooms, and after a wait had Wolfe’s irritated bark in my ear. “Yes?”

“I’m in the office. You’d better come down. That prospective client I mentioned is here on the floor, strangled. I think she’s gone, but I’ve sent for Vollmer.”

“Is this flummery?” he roared.

“No, sir. Come down and look at her and then ask me.”

The connection went. He had slammed it down. I got a sheet of thin tissue paper from a drawer, tore off a corner, and went and placed it carefully over Cynthia’s mouth and nostrils. In ten seconds it hadn’t stirred.

Voices had been sounding from the hall. Now one of them entered the office. Its owner was the guest who had been in the cloakroom with Fritz when the screech came. He was a chunky broad-shouldered guy with sharp domineering dark eyes and arms like a gorilla’s. His voice was going strong as he started toward me from the door, but it stopped when he had come far enough to get a good look at the object on the floor.

“My God,” he said huskily.

“Yes, sir,” I agreed.

“How did it happen?”

“Don’t know.”

“Who is it?”

“Don’t know.”

He made his eyes come away from it and up until they met mine, and I gave him an A for control. It really was a sight.

“The man at the door won’t let us leave,” he stated.

“No, sir. You can see why.”

“I certainly can.” His eyes stayed with me, however. “But we know nothing about it. My name is Carlisle, Homer N. Carlisle. I am the executive vice-president of the North American Foods Company. My wife was merely acting under impulse; she wanted to see the office of Nero Wolfe, and she opened the door and entered. She’s sorry she did, and so am I. We have an appointment, and there’s no reason why we should be detained.”

“I’m sorry too,” I told him. “But one thing, if nothing else — your wife discovered the body. We’re stuck worse than you are, with a corpse here in our office, and we haven’t even got a wife who had an impulse. We got it for nothing. So I guess— Hello, Doc.”

Vollmer, entering and nodding at me on the fly, was panting a little as he set his black case on the floor and knelt beside it. His house was down the street and he had had only two hundred yards to trot, but he was taking on weight. As he opened the case and got out the stethoscope, Homer Carlisle stood and watched with his lips pressed tight, and I did likewise until I heard the sound of Wolfe’s elevator. Crossing to the door and into the hall, I surveyed the terrain. Toward the front Saul and Fritz were calming down the woman in the caracul coat, now Mrs. Carlisle to me. Nero Wolfe and Mrs. Mimi Orwin were emerging from the elevator. Four guests were coming down the stairs: Gene Orwin, Colonel Percy Brown, Bill McNab, and a middle-aged male with a mop of black hair.

I stayed by the office door to block the quartet on the stairs. As Wolfe headed for me, Mrs. Carlisle darted to him and grabbed his arm. “I only wanted to see your office! I want to go! I’m not—”

As she pulled at him and sputtered, I noted a detail. The caracul coat was unfastened, and the ends of a silk scarf, figured and gaily colored, were flying loose. Since at least half of the female guests had sported scarfs, I mention it only to be honest and admit that I had got touchy on that subject.

Wolfe, who had already been too close to too many women that day to suit him, tried to jerk away, but she hung on. She was the big-boned flat-chested athletic type, and it could have been quite a tussle, with him weighing twice as much as her and four times as big around, if Saul hadn’t rescued him by coming in between and prying her loose. That didn’t stop her tongue, but Wolfe ignored it and came on toward me.

“Has Dr. Vollmer come?”

“Yes, sir.”

The executive vice-president emerged from the office, talking. “Mr. Wolfe, my name is Homer N. Carlisle and I insist—”

“Shut up,” Wolfe growled. On the sill of the door to the office, he faced the audience. “Flower lovers,” he said with bitter scorn. “You told me, Mr. McNab, a distinguished group of sincere and devoted gardeners. Pfui! Saul!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you armed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Put them all in the dining room and keep them there. Let no one touch anything around this door, especially the knob. Archie, come with me.”

He wheeled and entered the office. Following, I used my foot to swing the door nearly shut, leaving no crack but not latching it. When I turned Vollmer was standing, facing Wolfe’s scowl.

“Well?” Wolfe demanded.

“Dead,” Vollmer told him. “With asphyxiation from strangling sometimes you can do something, but it wasn’t even worth trying.”

“How long ago?”

“I don’t know, but not more than an hour or two. Two hours at the outside, probably less.”

Wolfe looked at the thing on the floor, with no change in his scowl, and back at Doc. “You say strangling. Finger marks?”

“No. A constricting band of something with pressure below the hyoid bone. Not a stiff or narrow band; something soft like a strip of cloth — say a scarf.”

Wolfe switched to me. “You didn’t notify the police.”

“No, sir.” I glanced at Vollmer and back. “I need a word.”

“I suppose so.” He spoke to Doc. “If you will leave us for a moment? The front room?”

Vollmer hesitated, uncomfortable. “As a doctor called to a violent death I’d catch hell. Of course I could say—”

“Then go to a corner and cover your ears.”

He did so. He went to the farthest corner, the angle made by the partition of the bathroom, pressed his palms to his ears, and stood facing us.

I addressed Wolfe with a lowered voice. “I was here, and she came in. She was either scared good or putting on a very fine act. Apparently it wasn’t an act, and I now think I should have alerted Saul and Fritz, but it doesn’t matter what I now think. Last October a woman named Doris Hatten was killed — strangled — in her apartment. No one got elected. Remember?”

“Yes.”

“She said she was a friend of Doris Hatten’s and was at her apartment that day and saw the man that did the strangling, and that he was here this afternoon. She said he was aware that she had recognized him, that’s why she was scared, and she wanted to get you to help by telling him that we were wise and he’d better lay off. No wonder I didn’t gulp it down. I realize that you dislike complications and therefore might want to scratch this out, but at the end she touched a soft spot by saying that she had enjoyed my company, so I prefer to open up to the cops.”

“Then do so. Confound it!”

I went to the phone and started dialing Watkins 9-8241. Doc Vollmer came out of his corner and went to get his black case from the floor and put it on a chair. Wolfe was pathetic. He moved around behind his desk and lowered himself into his own oversized custom-made number, the only spot on earth where he was ever completely comfortable, but there smack in front of him was the object on the floor, so after a moment he made a face, got back onto his feet, grunted like an outraged boar, went across to the other side of the room to the shelves, and inspected the backbones of books.

But even that pitiful diversion got interrupted. As I finished with my phone call and hung up, sudden sounds of commotion came from the hall. Dashing across, getting fingernails on the edge of the door and pulling it open, and passing through, I saw trouble. A group was gathered in the open doorway of the dining room, which was across the hall. Saul Panzer went bounding past me toward the front. At the front door Colonel Percy Brown was stiff-arming Fritz Brenner with one hand and reaching for the doorknob with the other. Fritz, who is chef and housekeeper, is not supposed to double in acrobatics, but he did fine. Dropping to the floor, he grabbed the colonel’s ankles and jerked his feet out from under him. Then I was there, and Saul with his gun out; and there with us was the guest with the mop of black hair.

“You damn fool,” I told the colonel as he sat up. “If you’d got outdoors Saul would have winged you.”

“Guilt,” said the black-haired guest emphatically. “The compression got unbearable and he exploded. I was watching him. I’m a psychiatrist.”

“Good for you.” I took his elbow and turned him. “Go back in and watch all of ’em. With that wall mirror you can include yourself.”

“This is illegal,” stated Colonel Brown, who had scrambled to his feet and was short of breath.

Saul herded them to the rear. Fritz got hold of my sleeve. “Archie, I’ve got to ask Mr. Wolfe about dinner.”

“Nuts,” I said savagely. “By dinnertime this place will be more crowded than it was this afternoon. Company is coming, sent by the city. It’s a good thing we have a cloakroom ready.”

“But he has to eat; you know that. I should have the ducks in the oven now. If I have to stay here at the door and attack people as they try to leave, what will he eat?”

“Nuts,” I said. I patted him on the shoulder. “Excuse my manners, Fritz, I’m upset. I’ve just strangled a young woman.”

“Nuts,” he said scornfully.

“I might as well have,” I declared.

The doorbell rang. I reached for the switch and turned on the stoop light and looked through the panel of one-way glass. It was the first consignment of cops.

III

In my opinion Inspector Cramer made a mistake. Opinion, hell, of course he did. It is true that in a room where a murder has occurred the city scientists — measurers, sniffers, print-takers, specialists, photographers — may shoot the works, and they do. But except in rare circumstances the job shouldn’t take all week, and in the case of our office a couple of hours should have been ample. In fact, it was. By eight o’clock the scientists were through. But Cramer, like a sap, gave the order to seal it up until further notice, in Wolfe’s hearing. He knew damn well that Wolfe spent as least three hundred evenings a year in there, in the only chair and under the only light that he really liked, and that was why he did it. It was a mistake. If he hadn’t made it, Wolfe might have called his attention to a certain fact as soon as Wolfe saw it himself, and Cramer would have been saved a lot of trouble.

The two of them got the fact at the same time, from me. We were in the dining room — this was shortly after the scientists had got busy in the office, and the guests, under guard, had been shunted to the front room — and I was relating my conversation with Cynthia Brown. They wanted all of it, or Cramer did rather, and they got it. Whatever else my years as Wolfe’s assistant may have done for me or to me, they have practically turned me into a tape recorder, and Wolfe and Cramer didn’t get a rewrite of that conversation, they got the real thing, word for word. They also got the rest of my afternoon, complete. When I finished, Cramer had a slew of questions, but Wolfe not a one. Maybe he had already focused on the fact above referred to, but neither Cramer nor I had. The shorthand dick seated at one end of the dining table had the fact too, in his notebook along with the rest of it, but he wasn’t supposed to focus.

Cramer called a recess on the questions to take steps. He called men in and gave orders. Colonel Brown was to be photographed and fingerprinted and headquarters records were to be checked for him and Cynthia. The file on the murder of Doris Hatten was to be brought to him at once. The lab reports were to be rushed. Saul Panzer and Fritz Brenner were to be brought in.

They came. Fritz stood like a soldier at attention, grim and grave. Saul, only five feet seven, with the sharpest eyes and one of the biggest noses I have ever seen, in his unpressed brown suit, and his necktie crooked — he stood like Saul, not slouching and not stiff. He would stand like that if he were being awarded the Medal of Honor or if he were in front of a firing squad.

Of course Cramer knew both of them. He picked on Saul. “You and Fritz were in the hall all afternoon?”

Saul nodded. “The hall and the front room, yes.”

“Who did you see enter or leave the office?”

“I saw Archie go in about four o’clock — I was just coming out of the front room with someone’s hat and coat. I saw Mrs. Carlisle come out just after she screamed. In between those two I saw no one either enter or leave. We were busy most of the time, either in the hall or the front room.”

Cramer grunted. “How about you, Fritz?”

“I saw no one.” Fritz spoke louder than usual. “I didn’t even see Archie go in.” He took a step forward, still like a soldier. “I would like to say something.”

“Go ahead.”

“I think a great deal of all this disturbance is unnecessary. My duties here are of the household and not professional, but I cannot help hearing what reaches my ears, and I am aware of the many times that Mr. Wolfe has found the answer to problems that were too much for you. This happened here in his own house, and I think it should be left entirely to him.”

I yooped, “Fritz, I didn’t know you had it in you!”

“All this disturbance,” he insisted firmly.

“I’ll be goddamned.” Cramer was goggling at him. “Wolfe told you to say that, huh?”

“Bah.” Wolfe was contemptuous. “It can’t be helped, Fritz. Have we plenty of ham?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sturgeon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Later, probably. For the guests in the front room, but not the police. Are you through with them, Mr. Cramer?”

“No.” Cramer went back to Saul. “You checked the guests in?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I had a list of the members of the Manhattan Flower Club. They had to show their membership cards. I checked on the list those who came. If they brought a wife or husband, or any other guest, I took the names.”

“Then you have a record of everybody?”

“Yes.”

“How complete is it?”

“It’s complete and it’s accurate.”

“About how many names?”

“Two hundred and nineteen.”

“This place wouldn’t hold that many.”

Saul nodded. “They came and went. There wasn’t more than a hundred or so at any one time.”

“That’s a help.” Cramer was getting more and more disgusted, and I didn’t blame him. “Goodwin says he was there at the door with you when that woman screamed and came running out of the office, but that you hadn’t seen her enter the office. Why not?”

“We had our backs turned. We were watching a man who had just left go down the steps. Archie had asked him for his name and he had said that was ridiculous. If you want it, his name is Malcolm Vedder.”

“The hell it is. How do you know?”

“I had checked him in along with the rest.”

Cramer stared. “Are you telling me that you could fit that many names to that many faces after seeing them just once?”

Saul’s shoulders went slightly up and down. “There’s more to people than faces. I might go wrong on a few, but not many. I was at that door to do a job and I did it.”

“You should know by this time,” Wolfe rumbled, “that Mr. Panzer is an exceptional man.”

Cramer spoke to a dick standing by the door. “You heard that name, Levy — Malcolm Vedder. Tell Stebbins to check it on that list and send a man to bring him in.”

The dick went. Cramer returned to Saul. “Put it this way. Say I sit you here with that list, and a man or woman is brought in, and I point to a name on the list and ask you if that person came this afternoon under that name. Could you tell me positively?”

“I could tell you positively whether the person had been here or not, especially if he was wearing the same clothes and hadn’t been disguised. On fitting him to his name I might go wrong in a few cases, but I doubt it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Mr. Wolfe does,” Saul said complacently. “Archie does. I have developed my faculties.”

“You sure have. All right, that’s all for now. Stick around.”

Saul and Fritz went. Wolfe, in his own chair at the end of the dining table, where ordinarily, at this hour, he sat for a quite different purpose than the one at hand, heaved a deep sigh and closed his eyes. I, seated beside Cramer at the side of the table that put us facing the door to the hall, was beginning to appreciate the kind of problem we were up against. The look on Cramer’s face indicated that he was appreciating it too. The look was crossing my bow, direct at Wolfe.

“Goodwin’s story,” Cramer growled. “I mean her story. What do you think?”

Wolfe’s eyes came open a little. “What followed seems to support it. I doubt if she would have arranged for that” — he flipped a hand in the direction of the office across the hall — “just to corroborate a tale. I accept it. I credit it.”

“Yeah. I don’t need to remind you that I know you well and I know Goodwin well. So I wonder how much chance there is that in a day or so you’ll suddenly remember that she had been here before today, or one or more of the others had, and you’ve got a client, and there was something leading up to this.”

“Bosh,” Wolfe said dryly. “Even if it were like that, and it isn’t, you would be wasting time. Since you know us, you know we wouldn’t remember until we got ready to.”

Cramer glowered. Two scientists came in from across the hall to report. Stebbins came to announce the arrival of an assistant district attorney. A dick came to relay a phone call from a deputy commissioner. Another dick came in to say that Homer Carlisle was raising hell in the front room. Meanwhile Wolfe sat with his eyes shut, but I got an idea of his state of mind from the fact that intermittently his forefinger was making little circles on the polished top of the table.

Cramer looked at him. “What do you know,” he asked abruptly, “about the killing of that Doris Hatten?”

“Newspaper accounts,” Wolfe muttered. “And what Mr. Stebbins has told Mr. Goodwin, casually.”

“Casual is right.” Cramer got out a cigar, conveyed it to his mouth, and sank his teeth in it. He never lit one. “Those damn houses with self-service elevators are worse than walk-ups for a checking job. No one ever sees anyone coming or going. If you’re not interested, I’m talking to hear myself.”

“I am interested.” Wolfe’s eyes stayed shut.

“Good. I appreciate it. Even so, self-service elevator or not, the man who paid the rent for that apartment was lucky. He may have been clever and careful, but also he was lucky. Never to have anybody see him enough to give a description of him — that took luck.”

“Possibly Miss Hatten paid the rent herself.”

“Sure,” Cramer conceded, “she paid it all right, but where did she get it from? No visible means of support — he sure wasn’t visible, and three good men spent a month trying to start a trail, and one of them is still at it. There was no doubt about its being that kind of a setup; we did get that far. She had only been living there two months, and when we found out how well the man who paid for it had kept himself covered, as tight as a drum, we decided that maybe he had installed her there just for the purpose. That was why we gave it all we had. Another reason was that the papers started hinting that we knew who he was and that he was such a big shot we were sitting on the lid.”

Cramer shifted his cigar one tooth over to the left. “That kind of thing used to get me sore, but what the hell, for newspapers that’s just routine. Big shot or not, he didn’t need us to do any covering for him — he had done too good a job himself. Now, if we’re to take it the way this Cynthia Brown gave it to Goodwin, it might have been the man who paid the rent and it might not. That makes it pie. I would hate to tell you what I think of the fact that Goodwin sat there in your office and was told right here on these premises and all he did was go upstairs and watch to see if anybody squeezed a flowerpot!”

“You’re irritated,” I said charitably. “Not that he was on the premises, that he had been. Also I was taking it with salt. Also she was saving specifications for Mr. Wolfe. Also—”

“Also I know you. How many of those two hundred and nineteen people were men?”

“I would say a little over half.”

“Then how do you like it?”

“I hate it.”

Wolfe grunted. “Judging from your attitude, Mr. Cramer, something that has occurred to me has not occurred to you.”

“Naturally. You’re a genius. What is it?”

“Something that Mr. Goodwin told us. I want to consider it a little.”

“We could consider it together.”

“Later. Those people in the front room are my guests. Can’t you dispose of them?”

“One of your guests,” Cramer rasped, “was a beaut, all right.” He spoke to the dick by the door. “Bring in that woman — what’s her name? Carlisle.”

IV

Mrs. Homer N. Carlisle came in with all her belongings: her caracul coat, her gaily colored scarf, and her husband. Perhaps I should say that her husband brought her. As soon as he was through the door he strode across to the dining table and delivered a harangue. I don’t suppose Cramer had heard that speech, with variations, more than a thousand times. This time it was pretty offensive. Solid and broad-shouldered, Mr. Carlisle looked the part. His sharp dark eyes flashed, and his long gorilla-like arms were good for gestures. At the first opening Cramer, controlling himself, said he was sorry and asked them to sit down.

Mrs. Carlisle did. Mr. Carlisle didn’t.

“We’re nearly two hours late now,” he stated. “I know you have your duty to perform, but citizens have a few rights left, thank God. Our presence here is purely adventitious.” I would have been impressed by the adventitious if he hadn’t had so much time to think it up. “I warn you that if my name is published in connection with this miserable affair, a murder in the house of a private detective, I’ll make trouble. I’m in a position to. Why should it be? Why should we be detained? What if we had left five or ten minutes earlier, as others did?”

“That’s not quite logical,” Cramer objected.

“Why not?”

“No matter when you left it would have been the same if your wife had acted the same. She discovered the body.”

“By accident!”

“May I say something, Homer?” the wife put in.

“It depends on what you say.”

“Oh,” Cramer said significantly.

“What do you mean, oh?” Carlisle demanded.

“I mean that I sent for your wife, not you, but you came with her, and that tells me why. You wanted to see to it that she wasn’t indiscreet.”

“What the hell has she got to be indiscreet about?”

“I don’t know. Apparently you do. If she hasn’t, why don’t you sit down and relax while I ask her a few questions?”

“I would, sir,” Wolfe advised him. “You came in here angry, and you blundered. An angry man is a jackass.”

It was a struggle for the executive vice-president, but he made it. He clamped his jaws and sat. Cramer went to the wife.

“You wanted to say something, Mrs. Carlisle?”

“Only that I’m sorry.” Her bony hands, the fingers twined, were on the table before her. “For the trouble I’ve caused.”

“I wouldn’t say you caused it exactly — except for yourself and your husband.” Cramer was mild. “The woman was dead, whether you went in there or not. But, if only as a matter of form, it was essential for me to see you, since you discovered the body. That’s all there is to it as far as I know. There’s no question of your being involved more than that.”

“How the hell could there be?” Carlisle blurted.

Cramer ignored him. “Goodwin here saw you standing in the hall not more than two minutes, probably less, prior to the moment you screamed and ran out of the office. How long had you then been downstairs?”

“We had just come down. I was waiting for my husband to get his things.”

“Had you been downstairs before that?”

“No — only when we came in.”

“What time did you arrive?”

“A little after three, I think—”

“Twenty past three,” the husband put in.

“Were you and your husband together all the time? Continuously?”

“Of course. Well — you know how it is — he would want to look longer at something, and I would move on a little—”

“Certainly we were,” Carlisle said irritably. “You can see why I made that remark about it depending on what she said. She has a habit of being vague. This is no time to be vague.”

“I am not actually vague,” she protested with no heat, not to her husband but to Cramer. “It’s just that everything is relative. There would be no presence if there were no absence. There would be no innocence if there were no sin. Nothing can be cut off sharp from anything else. Who would have thought my wish to see Nero Wolfe’s office would link me with a horrible crime?”

“My God!” Carlisle exploded. “Hear that? Link. Link!”

“Why did you want to see Wolfe’s office?” Cramer inquired.

“Why, to see the globe.”

I gawked at her. I had supposed that naturally she would say it was curiosity about the office of a great and famous detective. Apparently Cramer reacted the same as me. “The globe?” he demanded.

“Yes, I had read about it and I wanted to see how it looked. I thought a globe that size, three feet in diameter, would be fantastic in an ordinary room — Oh!”

“Oh what?”

“I didn’t see it!”

Cramer nodded. “You saw something else instead. By the way, I forgot to ask, did you know her? Had you ever seen her before?”

“You mean — her?”

“Yes. Her name was Cynthia Brown.”

“We had never known her or seen her or heard of her,” the husband declared.

“Had you, Mrs. Carlisle?”

“No.”

“Of course she came as the guest of a Mrs. Orwin; she wasn’t a member of this flower club. Are you a member?”

“My husband is.”

“We both are,” Carlisle stated. “Vague again. It’s a joint membership. In my greenhouse at my country home I have over four thousand plants, including several hundred orchids.” He looked at his wrist watch. “Isn’t this about enough?”

“Plenty,” Cramer conceded. “Thank you, both of you. We won’t bother you again unless we have to. Levy, pass them out.”

Mrs. Carlisle got to her feet and moved off, but halfway to the door she turned. “I don’t suppose — would it be possible for me to look at the globe now? Just a peek?”

“For God’s sake!” Her husband took her by the arm. “Come on. Come on!”

When the door had closed behind them Cramer glared at me and then at Wolfe. “This is sure a sweet one,” he said grimly. “Say it’s within the range of possibility that Carlisle is it, and the way it stands right now, why not? So we look into him. We check back on him for six months, and try doing it without getting roars out of him — a man like that, in his position. However, it can be done — by three or four men in two or three weeks. Multiply that by what? How many men were here?”

“Around a hundred and twenty,” I told him. “Ten dozen. But you’ll find that at least half of them are disqualified one way or another. As I told you, I took a survey. Say sixty.”

“All right, multiply it by sixty. Do you care for it?”

“No.”

“Neither do I.” Cramer took the cigar from his mouth, removed a nearly severed piece with his fingers and put it in an ashtray, and replaced the cigar with a fresh tooth-hold. “Of course,” he said sarcastically, “when she sat in there telling you about him the situation was different. You wanted her to enjoy being with you. You couldn’t reach for the phone and tell us you had a self-confessed crook who could put a quick finger on a murderer and let us come and take over — hell no! You had to save it for a fee for Wolfe! You had to sit and admire her legs!”

“Don’t be vulgar,” I said severely.

“You had to go upstairs and make a survey! You had to— Well?”

Lieutenant Rowcliff had opened the door and entered. There were some city employees I liked, some I admired, some I had no feeling about, some I could have done without easy — and one whose ears I was going to twist someday. That was Rowcliff. He was tall, strong, handsome, and a pain in the neck.

“We’re all through in there, sir,” he said importantly. “We’ve covered everything. Nothing is being taken away, and it is all in order. We were especially careful with the contents of the drawers of Wolfe’s desk, and also we—”

“My desk!” Wolfe roared.

“Yes, your desk,” Rowcliff said precisely, smirking.

The blood was rushing into Wolfe’s face.

“She was killed there,” Cramer said gruffly. “She was strangled with something, and murderers have been known to hide things. Did you get anything at all?”

“I don’t think so,” Rowcliff admitted. “Of course the prints have to be sorted, and there’ll be lab reports. How do we leave it?”

“Seal it up and we’ll see tomorrow. You stay here and keep a photographer. The others can go. Tell Stebbins to send that woman in — Mrs. Irwin.”

“Orwin, sir.”

“I’ll see her.”

“Yes, sir.” Rowcliff turned to go.

“Wait a minute,” I objected. “Seal what up? The office?”

“Certainly,” Rowcliff sneered.

I said firmly, to Cramer, not to him, “You don’t mean it. We work there. We live there. All our stuff is there.”

“Go ahead, Lieutenant,” Cramer told Rowcliff, and he wheeled and went.

I set my jaw. I was full of both feelings and words, but I knew they had to be held in. This was not for me. This was far and away the worst Cramer had ever pulled. It was up to Wolfe. I looked at him. The blood had gone back down again; he was white with fury, and his mouth was pressed to so tight a line that there were no lips.

“It’s routine,” Cramer said aggressively.

Wolfe said icily, “That’s a lie. It is not routine.”

“It’s my routine — in a case like this. Your office is not just an office. It’s the place where more fancy tricks have been played than any other spot in New York. When a woman is murdered there, soon after a talk with Goodwin for which we have no word but his, I say sealing it is routine.”

Wolfe’s head came forward an inch, his chin out. “No, Mr. Cramer. I’ll tell you what it is. It is the malefic spite of a sullen little soul and a crabbed and envious mind. It is the childish rancor of a primacy too often challenged and offended. It is the feeble wriggle—”

The door came open to let Mrs. Orwin in.

V

With Mrs. Carlisle the husband had come along. With Mrs. Orwin it was the son. His expression and manner were so different I would hardly have known him. Upstairs his tone had been mean and his face had been mean. Now his narrow little eyes were doing their damnedest to look frank and cordial and one of the boys. He leaned across the table at Cramer, extending a hand.

“Inspector Cramer? I’ve been hearing about you for years! I’m Eugene Orwin.” He glanced to his right. “I’ve already had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Wolfe and Mr. Goodwin — earlier today, before this terrible thing happened. It is terrible.”

“Yes,” Cramer agreed. “Sit down.”

“I will in a moment. I do better with words standing up. I would like to make a statement on behalf of my mother and myself, and I hope you’ll permit it. I’m a member of the bar. My mother is not feeling well. At the request of your men she went in with me to identify the body of Miss Brown, and it was a bad shock, and we’ve been detained now more than two hours.”

His mother’s appearance corroborated him. Sitting with her head propped on a hand and her eyes closed, obviously she didn’t care as much about the impression they made on the inspector as her son did. It was doubtful whether she was paying any attention to what her son was saying.

“A statement would be welcome,” Cramer told him, “if it’s relevant.”

“I thought so,” Gene said approvingly. “So many people have an entirely wrong idea of police methods! Of course you know that Miss Brown came here today as my mother’s guest, and therefore it might be supposed that my mother knows her well. But actually she doesn’t. That’s what I want to make clear.”

“Go ahead.”

Gene glanced at the shorthand dick. “If it’s taken down I would like to go over it when convenient.”

“You may.”

“Then here are the facts. In January my mother was in Florida. You meet all kinds in Florida. My mother met a man who called himself Colonel Percy Brown — a British colonel in the Reserve, he said. Later on he introduced his sister Cynthia to her. My mother saw a great deal of them. My father is dead, and the estate, a rather large one, is in her control. She lent Brown some money — not much; that was just an opener. A week ago—”

Mrs. Orwin’s head jerked up. “It was only five thousand dollars, and I didn’t promise him anything,” she said wearily, and propped her head on her hand again.

“All right, Mother.” Gene patted her shoulder. “A week ago she returned to New York, and they came along. The first time I met them I thought they were impostors. He didn’t sound like an Englishman, and certainly she didn’t. They weren’t very free with family details, but from them and Mother, chiefly Mother, I got enough to inquire about and sent a cable to London. I got a reply Saturday and another one this morning, and there was more than enough to confirm my suspicion, but not nearly enough to put it up to my mother. When she likes people she can be very stubborn about them — not a bad trait, not at all; I don’t want to be misunderstood and I don’t want her to be. I was thinking it over, what step to take next. Meanwhile, I thought it best not to let them be alone with her if I could help it — as you see, I’m being utterly frank. That’s why I came here with them today — my mother is a member of that flower club; I’m no gardener myself.”

His tone implied a low opinion of male gardeners, which was none too bright if his idea was to get solid with Wolfe as well as Cramer.

He turned a palm up. “That’s what brought me here. My mother came to see the orchids, and she invited Brown and his sister to come simply because she is good-hearted. But actually she doesn’t know them, she knows nothing about them, because what they have told her is one thing and what they really are is something else. Then this happened, and in the past hour, after she recovered a little from the shock of being taken in there to identify the corpse, I have explained to her what the situation is.”

He put his hands on the table and leaned on them, forward at Cramer. “I’m going to be quite frank, Inspector. Under the circumstances, I can’t see that it would serve any useful purpose to let it be published that that woman came here with my mother. What good would it do? How would it further the cause of justice? I want to make it perfectly clear that we have no desire to evade our responsibility as citizens. But how would it help to get my mother’s name in the headlines?”

He straightened, backed up a step, and looked affectionately at Mother.

“Names in headlines aren’t what I’m after,” Cramer told him, “but I don’t run the newspapers. If they’ve already got it I can’t stop them. I’d like to say I appreciate your frankness. So you only met Miss Brown a week ago. How many times had you seen her altogether?”

Three times, Gene said. Cramer had plenty of questions for both mother and son. It was in the middle of them that Wolfe passed me a slip of paper on which he had scribbled:

Tell Fritz to bring sandwiches and coffee for you and me. Also for those left in the front room. No one else. Of course Saul and Theodore.

I left the room, found Fritz in the kitchen, delivered the message, and returned.

Gene stayed cooperative to the end, and Mrs. Orwin tried, though it was an effort. They said they had been together all the time, which I happened to know wasn’t so, having seen them separated at least twice during the afternoon — and Cramer did too, since I had told him. They said a lot of other things, among them that they hadn’t left the plant rooms between their arrival and their departure with Wolfe; that they had stayed until most of the others were gone because Mrs. Orwin wanted to persuade Wolfe to sell her some plants; that Colonel Brown had wandered off by himself once or twice; that they had been only mildly concerned about Cynthia’s absence because of assurances from Colonel Brown and me; and so on and so forth. Before they left, Gene made another try for a commitment to keep his mother’s name out of it, and Cramer appreciated his frankness so much that he promised to do his best. I couldn’t blame Cramer; people like them might be in a position to call almost anybody, even the commissioner or the mayor, by his first name.

Fritz had brought trays for Wolfe and me, and we were making headway with them. In the silence that followed the departure of the Orwins, Wolfe could plainly be heard chewing a mouthful of mixed salad.

Cramer sat frowning at us. He spoke not to Wolfe but to me. “Is that imported ham?”

I shook my head and swallowed before I answered. “No, Georgia. Pigs fed on peanuts and acorns. Cured to Mr. Wolfe’s specifications. It smells good but it tastes even better. I’ll copy the recipe for you — no, damn it, I can’t, because the typewriter’s in the office. Sorry.” I put the sandwich down and picked up another. “I like to alternate — first a bit of ham, then sturgeon, then ham, then sturgeon…”

I could see him controlling himself. He turned his head. “Levy! Get that Colonel Brown in.”

“Yes, sir. That man you wanted — Vedder — he’s here.”

“Then I’ll take him first.”

VI

Up in the plant rooms Malcolm Vedder had caught my eye by the way he picked up a flowerpot and held it. As he took a chair across the dining table from Cramer and me, I still thought he was worth another good look, but after his answer to Cramer’s third question I relaxed and concentrated on my sandwiches. He was an actor and had had parts in three Broadway plays. Of course that explained it. No actor would pick up a flowerpot just normally, like you or me. He would have to dramatize it some way, and Vedder had happened to choose a way that looked to me like fingers closing around a throat.

Now he was dramatizing this by being wrought up and indignant about the cops dragging him into an investigation of a sensational murder. He kept running the long fingers of both his elegant hands through his hair in a way that looked familiar, and I remembered I had seen him the year before as the artist guy in The Primitives.

“Typical!” he told Cramer, his eyes flashing and his voice throaty with feeling. “Typical of police clumsiness! Pulling me into this! The newspapermen out front recognized me, of course, and the damned photographers! My God!”

“Yeah,” Cramer said sympathetically. “It’ll be tough for an actor, having your picture in the paper. We need help, us clumsy police, and you were among those present. You’re a member of this flower club?”

No, Vedder said, he wasn’t. He had come with a friend, a Mrs. Beauchamp, and when she had left to keep an appointment he had remained to look at more orchids. If only he had departed with her he would have avoided this dreadful publicity. They had arrived about three-thirty, and he had remained in the plant rooms continuously until leaving with me at his heels. He had seen no one that he had ever known or seen before, except Mrs. Beauchamp. He knew nothing of any Cynthia Brown or Colonel Percy Brown. Cramer went through all the regulation questions and got all the expected negatives, until he suddenly asked, “Did you know Doris Hatten?”

Vedder frowned. “Who?”

“Doris Hatten. She was also—”

“Ah!” Vedder cried. “She was also strangled! I remember!”

“Right.”

Vedder made fists of his hands, rested them on the table, and leaned forward. His eyes had flashed again and then gone dead. “You know,” he said tensely, “that’s the worst of all, strangling — especially a woman.” His fists opened, the fingers spread apart, and he gazed at them. “Imagine strangling a beautiful woman!”

“Did you know Doris Hatten?”

“Othello,” Vedder said in a deep resonant tone. His eyes lifted to Cramer, and his voice lifted too. “No, I didn’t know her; I only read about her.” He shuddered all over and then, abruptly, he was out of his chair and on his feet. “Damn it all,” he protested shrilly, “I only came here to look at orchids! God!”

He ran his fingers through his hair, turned, and made for the door. Levy looked at Cramer with his brows raised, and Cramer shook his head impatiently.

I muttered at Wolfe, “He hammed it, maybe?”

Wolfe wasn’t interested.

The next one in was Bill McNab, garden editor of the Gazette. I knew him a little, but not well, most of my newspaper friends not being on garden desks. He looked unhappier than any of the others, even Mrs. Orwin, as he walked across to the table, to the end where Wolfe sat.

“I can’t tell you how much I regret this, Mr. Wolfe,” he said miserably.

“Don’t try,” Wolfe growled.

“I wish I could, I certainly do. What a really, really terrible thing! I wouldn’t have dreamed such a thing could happen — the Manhattan Flower Club! Of course, she wasn’t a member, but that only makes it worse in a way.” McNab turned to Cramer. “I’m responsible for this.”

“You are?”

“Yes. It was my idea. I persuaded Mr. Wolfe to arrange it. He let me word the invitations. And I was congratulating myself on the great success! The club has only a hundred and eighty-nine members, and there were over two hundred people here. Then this! What can I do?” He turned. “I want you to know this, Mr. Wolfe. I got a message from my paper; they wanted me to do a story on it for the news columns, and I refused point-blank. Even if I get fired — I don’t think I will.”

“Sit down a minute,” Cramer invited him.

McNab varied the monotony on one detail, at least. He admitted that he had left the plant rooms three times during the afternoon, once to accompany a departing guest down to the ground floor, and twice to go down alone to check on who had come and who hadn’t. Aside from that, he was more of the same. He had never heard of Cynthia Brown. By now it was beginning to seem not only futile but silly to spend time on seven or eight of them merely because they happened to be the last to go and so were at hand. Also it was something new to me from a technical standpoint. I had never seen one stack up like that. Any precinct dick knows that every question you ask of everybody is aimed at one of the three targets: motive, means, and opportunity. In this case there were no questions to ask because those were already answered. Motive: the guy had followed her downstairs, knowing she had recognized him, had seen her enter Wolfe’s office and thought she was doing exactly what she was doing, getting set to tell Wolfe, and had decided to prevent that the quickest and best way he knew. Means: any piece of cloth; even his handkerchief would do. Opportunity: he was there — all of them on Saul’s list were.

So if you wanted to learn who strangled Cynthia Brown, first you had to find out who had strangled Doris Hatten, and the cops had already been working on that for five months.

As soon as Bill McNab had been sent on his way, Colonel Percy Brown was brought in.

Brown was not exactly at ease, but he had himself well in hand. You would never have picked him for a con man, and neither would I. His mouth and jaw were strong and attractive, and as he sat down he leveled his keen gray eyes at Cramer and kept them there. He wasn’t interested in Wolfe or me. He said his name was Colonel Percy Brown, and Cramer asked him which army he was a colonel in.

“I think,” Brown said in a cool even tone, “it will save time if I state my position. I will answer fully and freely all questions that relate to what I saw or heard or did since I arrived here this afternoon. To that extent I’ll help you all I can. Answers to any other questions will have to wait until I consult my attorney.”

Cramer nodded. “I expected that. The trouble is I’m pretty sure I don’t give a damn what you saw or heard this afternoon. We’ll come back to that. I want to put something to you. As you see, I’m not even wanting to know why you tried to break away before we got here.”

“I merely wanted to phone—”

“Forget it.” Cramer put the remains of his second cigar, not more than a scraggly inch, in the ashtray. “On information received, I think it’s like this. The woman who called herself Cynthia Brown, murdered here today, was not your sister. You met her in Florida six or eight weeks ago. She went in with you on an operation of which Mrs. Orwin was the subject, and you introduced her to Mrs. Orwin as your sister. You two came to New York with Mrs. Orwin a week ago, with the operation well under way. As far as I’m concerned, that is only background. Otherwise I’m not interested in it. My work is homicide, and that’s what I’m working on now.”

Brown was listening politely.

“For me,” Cramer went on, “the point is that for quite a period you have been closely connected with this Miss Brown, associating with her in a confidential operation. You must have had many intimate conversations with her. You were having her with you as your sister, and she wasn’t, and she’s been murdered. We could give you merry hell on that score alone.”

Brown had no use for his tongue. His face said no comment.

“It’ll never be too late to give you hell,” Cramer assured him, “but I wanted to give you a chance first. For two months you’ve been on intimate terms with Cynthia Brown. She certainly must have mentioned an experience she had last October. A friend of hers named Doris Hatten was murdered — strangled. Cynthia Brown had information about the murderer which she kept to herself; if she had come out with it she’d be alive now. She must have mentioned that to you; you can’t tell me she didn’t. She must have told you all about it. Now you can tell me. If you do we can nail him for what he did here today, and it might even make things a little smoother for you. Well?”

Brown had pursed his lips. They straightened out again, and his hand came up for a finger to scratch his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?”

“I’m sorry I can’t help.”

“Do you expect me to believe that during all those weeks she never mentioned the murder of her friend Doris Hatten?”

“I’m sorry I can’t help.”

Cramer got out another cigar and rolled it between his palms, which was wasted energy since he didn’t intend to draw smoke through it. Having seen him do it before, I knew what it meant. He still thought he might get something from this customer and was taking time out to control himself.

“I’m sorry too,” he said, trying not to make it a growl. “But she must have told you something of her previous career, didn’t she?”

“I’m sorry.” Brown’s tone was firm and final.

“Okay. We’ll move on to this afternoon. On that you said you’d answer fully and freely. Do you remember a moment when something about Cynthia Brown’s appearance — some movement she made or the expression on her face — caused Mrs. Orwin to ask her what was the matter with her?”

A crease was showing on Brown’s forehead. “I don’t believe I do,” he stated.

“I’m asking you to try. Try hard.”

Silence. Brown pursed his lips and the crease in his forehead deepened. Finally he said, “I may not have been right there at the moment. In those aisles — in a crowd like that — we weren’t rubbing elbows continuously.”

“You do remember when she excused herself because she wasn’t feeling well?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, this moment I’m asking about came shortly before that. She exchanged looks with some man nearby, and it was her reaction to that that made Mrs. Orwin ask her what was the matter. What I’m interested in is that exchange of looks. If you saw it and can remember it, and can describe the man she exchanged looks with, I wouldn’t give a damn if you stripped Mrs. Orwin clean and ten more like her.”

“I didn’t see it.”

“You didn’t.”

“No.”

“You didn’t say you’re sorry.”

“I am, of course, if it would help—”

“To hell with you!” Cramer banged his fist on the table so hard the trays danced. “Levy! Take him out and tell Stebbins to send him down and lock him up. Material witness. Put more men on him. He’s got a record somewhere. Find it!”

“I wish to phone my attorney,” Brown said quietly but emphatically.

“There’s a phone down where you’re going,” Levy told him. “If it’s not out of order. This way, Colonel.”

As the door closed behind them Cramer glared at me as if daring me to say that I was sorry too. Letting my face show how bored I was, I remarked casually, “If I could get in the office I’d show you a swell book on disguises; I forget the name of it. The world record is sixteen years — a guy in Italy fooled a brother and two cousins who had known him well. So maybe you ought to—”

Cramer turned from me rudely and said, “Gather up, Murphy. We’re leaving.” He shoved his chair back, stood up, and shook his ankles to get his pants legs down. Levy came back in, and Cramer addressed him. “We’re leaving. Everybody out. To my office. Tell Stebbins one man out front will be enough — no, I’ll tell him—”

“There’s one more, sir.”

“One more what?”

“In the front room. A man.”

“Who?”

“His name is Nicholson Morley. He’s a psychiatrist.”

“Let him go. This is a goddam joke.”

“Yes, sir.”

Levy went. The shorthand dick had collected notebooks and other papers and was putting them into a battered briefcase. Cramer looked at Wolfe. Wolfe looked back at him.

“A while ago,” Cramer rasped, “you said something had occurred to you.”

“Did I?” Wolfe inquired coldly.

Their eyes went on clashing until Cramer broke the connection by turning to go. I restrained an impulse to knock their heads together. They were both being childish. If Wolfe really had something, anything at all, he knew damn well Cramer would gladly trade the seals on the office doors for it sight unseen. And Cramer knew damn well he could make the deal himself with nothing to lose. But they were both too sore and stubborn to show any horse sense.

Cramer had circled the end of the table on his way out when Levy re-entered to report, “That man Morley insists on seeing you. He says it’s vital.”

Cramer halted, glowering. “What is he, a screwball?”

“I don’t know, sir. He may be.”

“Oh, bring him in.” Cramer came back around the table to his chair.

VII

This was my first really good look at the middle-aged male with the mop of black hair. His quick-darting eyes were fully as black as his hair, and the appearance of his chin and jowls made it evident that his beard would have been likewise if he gave it half a chance. He sat down and was telling Cramer who and what he was.

Cramer nodded impatiently. “I know. You have something to say, Dr. Morley?”

“I have. Something vital.”

“Let’s hear it.”

Morley got better settled in his chair. “First, I assume that no arrest has been made. Is that correct?”

“Yes — if you mean an arrest with a charge of murder.”

“Have you a definite object of suspicion, with or without evidence in support?”

“If you mean am I ready to name the murderer, no. Are you?”

“I think I may be.”

Cramer’s chin went up. “Well? I’m in charge here.”

Dr. Morley smiled. “Not quite so fast. The suggestion I have to offer is sound only with certain assumptions.” He placed the tip of his right forefinger on the tip of his left little finger. “One: that you have no idea who committed this murder, and apparently you haven’t.” He moved over a finger. “Two: that this was not a commonplace crime with a commonplace discoverable motive.” To the middle finger. “Three: that nothing is known to discredit the hypothesis that this girl — I understand from Mrs. Orwin that her name was Cynthia Brown — that she was strangled by the man who strangled Doris Hatten on October seventh last year. May I make those assumptions?”

“You can try. Why do you want to?”

Morley shook his head. “Not that I want to. That if I am permitted to, I have a suggestion. I wish to make it clear that I have great respect for the competence of the police, within proper limits. If the man who murdered Doris Hatten had been vulnerable to police techniques and resources, he would almost certainly have been caught. But he wasn’t. You failed utterly. Why?”

“You’re telling me.”

“Because he was out of bounds for you. Because your exploration of motive is restricted by your preconceptions.” Morley’s black eyes gleamed. “You’re a layman, so I won’t use technical terms. The most powerful motives on earth are motives of the personality, which cannot be exposed by any purely objective investigation. If the personality is twisted, distorted, as it is with a psychotic, then the motives are twisted too. As a psychiatrist I was deeply interested in the published reports of the murder of Doris Hatten — especially the detail that she was strangled with her own scarf. When your efforts to find the culprit — thorough, no doubt, and even brilliant — ended in complete failure, I would have been glad to come forward with a suggestion, but I was as helpless as you.”

“Get down to it,” Cramer muttered.

“Yes.” Morley put his elbows on the table and paired all his fingertips. “Now today. On the basis of the assumptions I began with, it is a tenable theory, worthy to be tested, that this was the same man. If so he has made a mistake. Apparently no one got in here today without having his name checked; the man at the door was most efficient. So it is no longer a question of finding him among thousands or millions; it’s a mere hundred or so, and I am willing to contribute my services. I don’t think there are more than three or four men in New York qualified for such a job, and I am one of them. You can verify that.”

The black eyes flashed. “I admit that for a psychiatrist this is a rare opportunity. Nothing could be more dramatic than a psychosis exploding into murder. I don’t pretend that my suggestion is entirely unselfish. All you have to do is to have them brought to my office — one at a time, of course. With some of them ten minutes will be enough, but with others it may take hours. When I have—”

“Wait a minute,” Cramer put in. “Are you suggesting that we deliver everyone that was here today to your office for you to work on?”

“No, not everyone, only the men. When I have finished I may have nothing that can be used as evidence, but there’s an excellent chance that I can tell you who the strangler is, and when you once know that—”

“Excuse me,” Cramer said. He was on his feet. “Sorry to cut you off, Doctor, but I must get downtown.” He was on his way. “I’m afraid your suggestion wouldn’t work. I’ll let you know—”

He went, and Levy and Murphy with him.

Dr. Morley pivoted his head to watch them go, kept it that way a moment, and then came back to us. He looked disappointed but not beaten. The black eyes, after resting on me briefly, darted to Wolfe.

“You,” he said, “are intelligent and literate. I should have had you more in mind. May I count on you to explain to that policeman why my suggestion is the only hope for him?”

“No,” Wolfe said curtly.

“He’s had a hard day,” I told Morley. “So have I. Would you mind closing the door after you?”

He looked as if he had a notion to start on me as a last resort, so I got up and circled around to the door, which had been left open, and remarked to him, “This way, please.”

He arose and walked out without a word. I shut the door, had a good stretch and yawn, crossed to open a window and stick my head out for a breath of air, closed the window, and looked at my wrist watch.

“Twenty minutes to ten,” I announced.

Wolfe muttered, “Go look at the office door.”

“I just did, as I let Morley out. It’s sealed. Malefic spite.”

“See if they’re gone and bolt the door. Send Saul home and tell him to come at nine in the morning. Tell Fritz I want beer.”

I obeyed. The hall and front room were uninhabited. Saul, whom I found in the kitchen with Fritz, said he had made a complete tour upstairs and everything was in order. I stayed for a little chat with him while Fritz took a tray to the dining room. When I left him and went back Wolfe, removing the cap from a bottle of beer with the opener Fritz had brought on the tray, was making a face, which I understood. The opener he always used, a gold item that a satisfied client had given him years ago, was in the drawer of his desk in the office. I sat and watched him pour beer.

“This isn’t a bad room to sit in,” I said brightly.

“Pfui! I want to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“I want your opinion of this. Assume that we accept without reservation the story Miss Brown told you. By the way, do you?”

“In view of what happened, yes.”

“Then assume it. Assume also that the man she had recognized, knowing she had recognized him, followed her downstairs and saw her enter the office; that he surmised that she intended to consult me; that he postponed joining her in the office either because he knew you were in there with her or for some other reason; that he saw you come out and go upstairs; that he took an opportunity to enter the office unobserved, got her off guard, killed her, got out unobserved, and returned upstairs. All of those assumptions seem to be required, unless we discard all that and dig elsewhere.”

“I’ll take it that way.”

“Very well. Then we have significant indications of his character. Consider it. He has killed her and is back upstairs, knowing that she was in the office talking with you for some time. He would like to know what she said to you. Specifically, he would like to know whether she told you about him, and if so how much. Had she or had she not named or described him in his current guise? With that question unanswered, would a man of his character as indicated leave the house? Or would he prefer the challenge and risk of remaining until the body had been discovered, to see what you would do? And I too, of course, after you had talked with me, and the police?”

“Yeah.” I chewed my lip. There was a long silence. “So that’s how your mind’s working. I could offer a guess.”

“I prefer a calculation to a guess. For that a basis is needed, and we have it. We know the situation as we have assumed it, and we know something of his character.”

“Okay,” I conceded, “a calculation. I’ll be damned. The answer I get, he would stick around until the body was found, and if he did, then he is one of the bunch Cramer has been talking with. So that’s what occurred to you, huh?”

“No. By no means. That’s a different matter. This is merely a tentative calculation for a starting point. If it is sound, I know who the murderer is.”

I gave him a look. Sometimes I can tell how much he is putting on and sometimes I can’t. I decided to buy it. With the office sealed up by the crabbed and envious mind of Inspector Cramer, he was certainly in no condition to entertain himself by trying to string me.

“That’s interesting,” I said admiringly. “If you want me to get him on the phone I’ll have to use the one in the kitchen.”

“I want to test the calculation.”

“So do I.”

“But there’s a difficulty. The test I have in mind, the only one I can contrive to my satisfaction — only you can make it. And in doing so you would have to expose yourself to great personal risk.”

“For God’s sake.” I gawked at him. “This is a brand-new one. The errands you’ve sent me on! Since when have you flinched or faltered in the face of danger to me?”

“This danger is extreme.”

“So is the fix you’re in. The office is sealed, and in it are the book you’re reading and the television set. Let’s hear the test. Describe it. All I ask is ninety-nine chances in a hundred.”

“Very well.” He turned a hand over. “The decision will be yours. The typewriter in the office is inaccessible. Is that old one in your room in working order?”

“Fair.”

“Bring it down here, and some sheets of blank paper — any kind. I’ll need a blank envelope.”

“I have some.”

“Bring one. Also the telephone book, Manhattan, from my room.”

I went to the hall and up two flights of stairs. Having collected the first three items in my room, I descended a flight, found that the door of Wolfe’s room was still locked, and had to put the typewriter on the floor to get out my keys. With a full cargo I returned to the dining room, unloaded, and was placing the typewriter in position on the table when Wolfe spoke.

“No, bring it here. I’ll use it myself.”

I lifted my brows at him. “A page will take you an hour.”

“It won’t be a page. Put a sheet of paper in it.”

I did so, got the paper squared, lifted the machine, and put it in front of him. He sat and frowned at it for a long minute and then started pecking. I turned my back on him to make it easier to withhold remarks about his two-finger technique, and passed the time by trying to figure his rate. That was hopeless, because at one moment he would be going at about twelve words a minute and then would come a sudden burst of speed, stepping it up to twenty or more. All at once there was the sound of the ratchet turning as he pulled the paper out, and I supposed he had ruined it and was going to start over, but when I turned to look his hand was extended to me with the sheet in it.

“I think that will do,” he said.

I took it and read what he had typed:

She told me enough this afternoon so that I know who to send this to, and more. I have kept it to myself because I haven’t decided what is the right thing to do. I would like to have a talk with you first, and if you will phone me tomorrow, Tuesday, between nine o’clock and noon, we can make an appointment; please don’t put it off or I will have to decide myself.

I read it over three times. I looked at Wolfe. He had put an envelope in the typewriter and was consulting the phone book.

“It’s all right,” I said, “except that I don’t care for the semicolon after ‘appointment.’ I would have put a period and started a new sentence.”

He began pecking, addressing the envelope. I waited until he had finished and rolled the envelope out.

“Just like this?” I asked. “No name or initials signed?”

“No.”

“I admit it’s nifty,” I admitted. “Hell, we could forget the calculation and send this to every guy on that list and wait to see who phoned. He has just about got to phone — and also make a date.”

“I prefer to send it only to one person — the one indicated by your report of that conversation. That will test the calculation.”

“And save postage.” I glanced at the paper. “The extreme danger, I suppose, is that I’ll get strangled. Or of course in an emergency like this he might try something else. He might even arrange for help. If you want me to mail this I’ll need that envelope.”

“I don’t want to minimize the risk of this, Archie.”

“Neither do I. I’ll have to borrow a gun from Saul; ours are in the office. May I have that envelope? I’ll have to go to Times Square to mail it.”

“Yes. Before you do so, copy that note; we should have a copy. Keep Saul here in the morning. If and when the phone call comes you will have to use your wits to arrange the appointment as advantageously as possible. Discussion of plans will have to wait upon that.”

“Right. The envelope, please?”

He handed it to me.

VIII

As far as Wolfe was concerned, the office being sealed made no difference in the morning up to eleven o’clock, since his schedule had him in the plant rooms from nine to eleven. With me it did. From breakfast on was the best time for my office chores, including the morning mail.

That Tuesday morning, however, it didn’t matter much, since I was kept busy from eight o’clock on by the phone and the doorbell. After nine Saul was there to help, but not with the phone because the orders were that I was to answer all calls. They were mostly from newspapers, but there were a couple from Homicide — once Rowcliff and once Purley Stebbins — and a few scattered ones, including one with comic relief from the president of the Manhattan Flower Club. I took them on the extension in the kitchen. Every time I lifted the thing and told the transmitter, “Nero Wolfe’s office, Archie Goodwin speaking,” my pulse went up a notch and then had to level off again. I had one argument, with a bozo in the District Attorney’s office who had the strange idea that he could order me to report for an interview at eleven-thirty sharp, which ended by my agreeing to call later to fix an hour.

A little before eleven I was in the kitchen with Saul, who at Wolfe’s direction had been briefed to date, trying to come to terms on a bet. I was offering him even money that the call would come by noon and he was holding out for five to three, having originally asked for two to one. I was suggesting sarcastically that we change sides when the phone rang and I got it and said distinctly, “Nero Wolfe’s office, Archie Goodwin speaking.”

“Mr. Goodwin?”

“Right.”

“You sent me a note.”

My hand wanted to grip the phone the way Vedder had gripped the flowerpot, but I wouldn’t let it.

“Did I? What about?”

“You suggested that we make an appointment. Are you in a position to discuss it?”

“Sure. I’m alone and no extensions are on. But I don’t recognize your voice. Who is this?”

That was just putting a nickel’s worth of breath on a long shot. Saul, at a signal from me, had raced up to the extension in Wolfe’s room, and this bird might possibly be completely loony. But no.

“I have two voices. This is the other one. Have you made a decision yet?”

“No. I was waiting to hear from you.”

“That’s wise, I think. I’m willing to discuss the matter. Are you free for this evening?”

“I can wiggle free.”

“With a car to drive?”

“Yeah, I have a car.”

“Drive to a lunchroom at the northeast corner of Fifty-first Street and Eleventh Avenue. Get there at eight o’clock. Park your car on Fifty-first Street, but not at the corner. Got that?”

“Yes.”

“You will be alone, of course. Go in the lunchroom and order something to eat. I won’t be there, but you will get a message. You’ll be there at eight o’clock?”

“Yes. I still don’t recognize your voice. I don’t think you’re the person I sent the note to.”

“I am. It’s good, isn’t it?”

The connection went.

I hung up, told Fritz he could answer calls now, and hot-footed it to the stairs and up a flight. Saul was there on the landing.

“Whose voice was that?” I demanded.

“Search me. You heard all I did.” His eyes had a gleam in them, and I suppose mine did too.

“Whoever it was,” I said, “I’ve got a date. Let’s go up and tell the genius. I’ve got to admit he saved a lot of postage.”

We mounted the other two flights and found Wolfe in the cool room, inspecting a bench of dendrobiums for damage from the invasion of the day before. When I told him about the call he merely nodded, not even taking the trouble to smirk, as if picking a murderer first crack out of ten dozen men was the sort of thing he did between yawns.

“That call,” he said, “validates our assumptions and verifies our calculation, but that’s all. If it had done more than that it wouldn’t have been made. Has anyone come to take those seals off?”

I told him no. “I asked Stebbins about it and he said he’d ask Cramer.”

“Don’t ask again,” he snapped. “We’ll go down to my room.”

If the strangler had been in Wolfe’s house the rest of that day he would have felt honored — or anyway he should. Even during Wolfe’s afternoon hours in the plant rooms, from four to six, his mind was on my appointment, as was proved by the crop of new slants and ideas that poured out of him when he came down to the kitchen. Except for a trip to Leonard Street to answer an hour’s worth of questions by an assistant district attorney, my day was devoted to it too. My most useful errand, though at the time it struck me as a waste of time and money, was one made to Doc Vollmer for a prescription and then to a drugstore under instructions from Wolfe.

When I got back from the D.A.’s office Saul and I got in the sedan and went for a reconnaissance. We didn’t stop at Fifty-first Street and Eleventh Avenue, but drove past it four times. The main idea was to find a place for Saul. He and Wolfe both insisted that he had to be there with his eyes and ears open, and I insisted that he had to be covered enough not to scare off my date, who could spot his big nose a mile off. We finally settled for a filling station across the street from the lunchroom. Saul was to have a taxi drive in there at eight o’clock, and stay in the passenger’s seat while the driver tried to get his carburetor adjusted. There were so many contingencies to be agreed on that if it had been anyone but Saul I wouldn’t have expected him to remember more than half. For instance, in case I left the lunchroom and got in my car and drove off Saul was not to follow unless I cranked my window down.

Trying to provide for contingencies was okay in a way, but at seven o’clock, as the three of us sat in the dining room, finishing the roast duck, I had the feeling that we might as well have spent the day playing pool. Actually it was strictly up to me, since I had to let the other guy make the rules until and unless it got to where I felt I could take over and win. And with the other guy making the rules no one gets very far, not even Nero Wolfe, arranging for contingencies ahead of time; you meet them as they come, and if you meet one wrong it’s too bad.

Saul left before I did, to find a taxi driver that he liked the looks of. When I went to the hall for my hat and raincoat, Wolfe came along, and I was really touched, since he wasn’t through yet with his afterdinner coffee.

“I still don’t like the idea,” he insisted, “of your having that thing in your pocket. I think you should slip it inside your sock.”

“I don’t.” I was putting the raincoat on. “If I get frisked, a sock is as easy to feel as a pocket.”

“You’re sure that gun is loaded?”

“For God’s sake. I never saw you so anxious. Next you’ll be telling me to put on my rubbers.”

He even opened the door for me.

It wasn’t actually raining, merely trying to make up its mind whether to or not, but after a couple of blocks I reached to switch on the windshield wiper. As I turned uptown on Tenth Avenue the dash clock said 7:47; as I turned left on Fifty-first Street it had only got to 7:51. At that time of day in that district there was plenty of space, and I rolled to the curb and stopped about twenty yards short of the corner, stopped the engine and turned off the lights, and cranked my window down for a good view of the filling station across the street. There was no taxi there. I glanced at my wrist watch and relaxed. At 7:59 a taxi pulled in and stopped by the pumps, and the driver got out and lifted the hood and started peering. I put my window up, locked three doors, pulled the key out, got myself out, locked the door, walked to the lunchroom, and entered.

There was one hash slinger behind the counter and five customers scattered along on the stools. I picked a stool that left me elbow room, sat, and ordered ice cream and coffee. That made me slightly conspicuous in those surroundings, but I refused to insult Fritz’s roast duck, which I could still taste. The counterman served me and I took my time. At 8:12 the ice cream was gone and my cup empty, and I ordered a refill. I had about got to the end of that too when a male entered, looked along the line, came straight to me, and asked me what my name was. I told him, and he handed me a folded piece of paper and turned to go.

He was barely old enough for high school, and I made no effort to hold him, thinking that the bird I had a date with was not likely to be an absolute sap. Unfolding the paper, I saw neatly printed in pencil:

Go to your car and get a note under the windshield wiper. Sit in the car to read it.

I paid what I owed, walked to my car and got the note as I was told, unlocked the car and got in, turned on the light, and read in the same print:

Make no signal of any kind. Follow instructions precisely. Turn right on 11th Ave. and go slowly to 56th St. Turn right on 56th and go to 9th Ave. Turn right on 9th Ave. Right again on 45th. Left on 11th Ave. Left on 38th. Right on 7th Ave. Right on 27th St. Park on 27th between 9th and 10th Aves. Go to No. 814 and tap five times on the door. Give the man who opens the door this note and the other one. He will tell you where to go.

I didn’t like it much, but I had to admit it was a handy arrangement for seeing to it that I went to the conference unattached or there wouldn’t be any conference. It had now decided to rain. Starting the engine, I could see dimly through the misty window that Saul’s taxi driver was still monkeying with his carburetor, but of course I had to resist the impulse to crank the window down to wave so long. Keeping the instructions in my left hand, I rolled to the corner, waited for the light to change, and turned right on Eleventh Avenue. Since I had not been forbidden to keep my eyes open I did so, and as I stopped at Fifty-second for the red light I saw a black or dark blue sedan pull away from the curb behind me and creep in my direction. I took it for granted that that was my chaperon, but even so I followed directions and kept to a crawl until I reached Fifty-sixth and turned right.

In spite of all the twistings and turnings and the lights we had to stop at, I didn’t get the license number of the black sedan for certain until the halt at Thirty-eighth Street and Seventh Avenue. Not that that raised my pulse any, license plates not being welded on, but what the hell, I was a detective, wasn’t I? It was at that same corner, seeing a flatfoot on the sidewalk, that I had half a notion to jump out, summon him, and tackle the driver of the sedan. If it was the strangler, I had the two printed notes in my possession, and I could at least have made it stick enough for an escorted trip to the Fourteenth Precinct Station for a chat. I voted it down, and was soon glad of it.

The guy in the sedan was not the strangler, as I soon learned. On Twenty-seventh Street there was space smack in front of Number 814 and I saw no reason why I shouldn’t use it. The sedan went to the curb right behind me. After locking my car I stood on the sidewalk a moment, but my chaperon just sat tight, so I kept to the instructions, mounted the steps to the stoop of the run-down old brownstone, entered the vestibule, and knocked five times on the door. Through the glass panel the dimly lit hall looked empty. As I peered in, thinking I would either have to knock a lot louder or ignore instructions and ring the bell, I heard footsteps behind and turned. It was my chaperon.

“Well, we got here,” I said cheerfully.

“You damn near lost me at one light,” he said accusingly. “Give me them notes.”

I handed them to him — all the evidence I had. As he unfolded them for a look I took him in. He was around my age and height, skinny but with muscles, with outstanding ears and a purple mole on his right jaw. If it was him I had a date with I sure had been diddled. “They look like it,” he said, and stuffed the notes in a pocket. From another pocket he produced a key, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. “Follow me.”

I did so, to the stairs and up. As we ascended two flights, with him in front, it would have been a cinch for me to reach and take a gun off his hip if there had been one there, but there wasn’t. He may have preferred a shoulder holster like me. The stair steps were bare worn wood, the walls had needed plaster since at least Pearl Harbor, and the smell was a mixture I wouldn’t want to analyze. On the second landing he went down the hall to a door at the rear, opened it, and signaled me through with a jerk of his head.

There was another man there, but still it wasn’t my date — anyway I hoped not. It would be an overstatement to say the room was furnished, but I admit there was a table, a bed, and three chairs, one of them upholstered. The man, who was lying on the bed, pushed himself up as we entered, and as he swung around to sit, his feet barely reached the floor. He had shoulders and a torso like a heavyweight wrestler, and legs like an underweight jockey. His puffed eyes blinked in the light from the unshaded bulb as if he had been asleep.

“That him?” he demanded and yawned.

Skinny said it was. The wrestler-jockey, W-J for short, got up and went to the table, picked up a ball of thick cord, approached me and spoke. “Take off your hat and coat and sit there.” He pointed to one of the straight chairs.

“Hold it,” Skinny commanded him. “I haven’t explained yet.” He faced me. “The idea is simple. This man that’s coming to see you don’t want any trouble. He just wants to talk. So we tie you in that chair and leave you, and he comes and you have a talk, and after he leaves we come back and cut you loose and out you go. Is that plain enough?”

I grinned at him. “It sure is, brother. It’s too damn plain. What if I won’t sit down? What if I wiggle when you start to tie me?”

“Then he don’t come and you don’t have a talk.”

“What if I walk out now?”

“Go ahead. We get paid anyhow. If you want to see this guy, there’s only one way: we tie you in the chair.”

“We get more if we tie him,” W-J objected. “Let me persuade him.”

“Lay off,” Skinny commanded him.

“I don’t want any trouble either,” I stated. “How about this? I sit in the chair and you fix the cord to look right but so I’m free to move in case of fire. There’s a hundred bucks in the wallet in my breast pocket. Before you leave you help yourselves.”

“A lousy C?” W-J sneered. “For Chrissake shut up and sit down.”

“He has his choice,” Skinny said reprovingly.

I did indeed. It was a swell illustration of how much good it does to try to consider contingencies in advance. In all our discussions that day none of us had put the question, what to do if a pair of smooks offered me my pick of being tied in a chair or going home to bed. As far as I could see, standing there looking them over, that was all there was to it, and it was too early to go home to bed.

Thinking it would help to know whether they really were smooks or merely a couple of rummies on the payroll of some fly-specked agency, I decided to try something. Not letting my eyes know what my hand was about to do, I suddenly reached inside my coat to the holster, and then they had something more interesting than my face to look at: Saul’s clean shiny automatic.

The wrestler-jockey put his hands up high and froze. Skinny looked irritated.

“For why?” he demanded.

“I thought we might all go for a walk down to my car. Then to the Fourteenth Precinct, which is the closest.”

“What do we do then?”

There he had me.

“You either want to see this guy or you don’t,” Skinny explained patiently. “Seeing how you got that gun out, I guess he must know you. I don’t blame him wanting your hands arranged for.” He turned his palms up. “Make up your mind.”

I put the gun back in the holster, took off my hat and raincoat and hung them on a hook on the wall, moved one of the straight chairs so the light wouldn’t glare in my eyes, and sat.

“Okay,” I told them, “but by God don’t overdo it. I know my way around and I can find you if I care enough, don’t think I can’t.”

They unrolled the cord, cutting pieces off, and went to work. W-J tied my left wrist to the rear left leg of the chair while Skinny did the right. They were both thorough, but to my surprise Skinny was rougher. I insisted it was too tight, and he gave a stingy thirty-second of an inch. They wanted to do my ankles the same way, to the bottoms of the front legs of the chair, but I claimed I would get cramps sitting like that, and I was already fastened to the chair, and it would be just as good to tie my ankles together. They discussed it, and I had my way. Skinny made a final inspection of the knots and then went over me. He took the gun from my shoulder holster and tossed it on the bed, made sure I didn’t have another one, and left the room.

W-J picked up the gun and scowled at it. “These goddam things,” he muttered. “They make more trouble.” He went to the table and put the gun down on it, tenderly, as if it were something that might break. Then he crossed to the bed and stretched out on it.

“How long do we have to wait?” I asked.

“Not long. I wasn’t to bed last night.” He closed his eyes.

He got no nap. His barrel chest couldn’t have gone up and down more than a dozen times before the door opened and Skinny came in. With him was a man in a gray pin-stripe suit and a dark gray Homburg, with a gray topcoat over his arm. He had gloves on. W-J got off the bed and onto his toothpick legs. Skinny stood by the open door. The man put his hat and coat on the bed, came and took a look at my fastenings, and told Skinny, “All right, I’ll come for you.” The two rummies departed, shutting the door. The man stood facing me, looking down at me, and I looked back.

He smiled. “Would you have known me?”

“Not from Adam,” I said, both to humor him and because it was true.

IX

I wouldn’t want to exaggerate how brave I am. It wasn’t that I was too damn fearless to be impressed by the fact that I was thoroughly tied up and the strangler was standing there smiling at me: I was simply astounded. It was an amazing disguise. The two main changes were the eyebrows and eyelashes; these eyes had bushy brows and long thick lashes, whereas yesterday’s guest hadn’t had much of either one. The real change was from the inside. I had seen no smile on the face of yesterday’s guest, but if I had it wouldn’t have been like this one. The hair made a difference too, of course, parted on the side and slicked down.

He pulled the other straight chair around and sat. I admired the way he moved. That in itself could have been a dead giveaway, but the movements fitted the getup to a T. Finding the light straight in his eyes, he shifted the chair a little.

“So she told you about me?” he said, making it a question.

It was the voice he had used on the phone. It was actually different, pitched lower for one thing, but with it, as with the face and movements, the big change was from the inside. The voice was stretched tight, and the palms of his gloved hands were pressed against his kneecaps with the fingers straight out.

I said, “Yes,” and added conversationally, “When you saw her go in the office why didn’t you follow her in? Why did you wait?”

“That isn’t—” he said, and stopped.

I waited politely.

He spoke. “I had seen you leave, upstairs, and I suspected you were in there.”

“Why didn’t she scream or fight?”

“I talked to her. I talked a little first.” His head gave a quick jerk, as if a fly were bothering him and his hands were too occupied to attend to it. “What did she tell you?”

“About that day at Doris Hatten’s apartment — you coming in and her going out. And of course her recognizing you there yesterday.”

“She is dead. There is no evidence. You can’t prove anything.”

I grinned. “Then you’re wasting a lot of time and energy and the best disguise I ever saw. Why didn’t you just toss my note in the wastebasket? Let me answer. You didn’t dare. In getting evidence, knowing exactly what and who to look for makes all the difference. And you knew I knew.”

“And you haven’t told the police?”

“No.”

“Nor Nero Wolfe?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I shrugged — not much of a shrug, on account of my status quo. “I may not put it very well,” I said, “because this is the first time I have ever talked with my hands and feet tied and I find it cramps my style. But it strikes me as the kind of coincidence that doesn’t happen very often. I’m fed up with the detective business and I’d like to quit. I have something that’s worth a good deal to you — say fifty thousand dollars. It can be arranged so that you get what you pay for. I’ll go the limit on that, but it has to be closed damn quick. If you don’t buy I’m going to have a tough time explaining why I didn’t remember sooner what she told me. Twenty-four hours from now is the absolute limit.”

“It couldn’t be arranged so I would get what I paid for.”

“Sure it could. If you don’t want me on your neck the rest of your life, believe me, I don’t want you on mine either.”

“I suppose you don’t.” He smiled, or at least he apparently thought he was smiling. “I suppose I’ll have to pay.”

There was a sudden noise in his throat as if he had started to choke. He stood up. “You’re working your hand loose,” he said huskily and moved toward me.

It might have been guessed from his voice, thick and husky from the blood rushing to his head, but it was plain as day in his eyes, suddenly fixed and glassy like a blind man’s eyes. Evidently he had come there fully intending to kill me and had now worked himself up to it. I felt a crazy impulse to laugh. Kill me with what?

“Hold it!” I snapped at him.

He halted, muttered, “You’re getting your hand loose,” and moved again, passing me to get behind.

With what purchase I could get on the floor with my bound feet, I jerked my body and the chair violently aside and around and had him in front of me again.

“No good,” I told him. “They only went down one flight. I heard ’em. It’s no good anyway. I’ve got another note for you — from Nero Wolfe — here in my breast pocket. Help yourself, but stay in front of me.”

His eyes stayed glassy on me.

“Don’t you want to know what it says?” I demanded. “Get it!”

He was only two steps from me, but it took him four small slow ones. His gloved hand went inside my coat to the breast pocket, and came out with a folded slip of yellow paper — a sheet from one of Wolfe’s memo pads. From the way his eyes looked, I doubted if he would be able to read, but apparently he was. I watched his face as he took it in, in Wolfe’s straight precise handwriting:

If Mr. Goodwin is not home by midnight the information given him by Cynthia Brown will be communicated to the police and I shall see that they act immediately.

Nero Wolfe

He looked at me, and slowly his eyes changed. No longer glassy, they began to let light in. Before he had just been going to kill me. Now he hated me.

I got voluble. “So it’s no good, see? He did it this way because if you had known I had told him you would have sat tight. He figured that you would think you could handle me, and I admit you tried your best. He wants fifty thousand dollars by tomorrow at six o’clock, no later. You say it can’t be arranged so you’ll get what you pay for, but we say it can and it’s up to you. You say we have no evidence, but we can get it — don’t you think we can’t. As for me, I wouldn’t advise you even to pull my hair. It would make him sore at you, and he’s not sore now, he just wants fifty thousand bucks.”

He had started to tremble and knew it, and was trying to stop.

“Maybe,” I conceded, “you can’t get that much that quick. In that case he’ll take your IOU. You can write it on the back of that note he sent you. My pen’s here in my vest pocket. He’ll be reasonable about it.”

“I’m not such a fool,” he said harshly. He had stopped trembling.

“Who said you were?” I was sharp and urgent and thought I had loosened him. “Use your head, that’s all. We’ve either got you cornered or we haven’t. If we haven’t, what are you doing here? If we have, a little thing like your name signed to an IOU won’t make it any worse. He won’t press you too hard. Here, get my pen, right here.”

I still think I had loosened him. It was in his eyes and the way he stood, sagging a little. If my hands had been free, so I could have got the pen myself and uncapped it and put it between his fingers, I would have had him. I had him to the point of writing and signing, but not to the point of taking my pen out of my pocket. But of course if my hands had been free I wouldn’t have been bothering about an IOU and a pen.

So he slipped from under. He shook his head, and his shoulders stiffened. The hate that filled his eyes was in his voice too. “You said twenty-four hours. That gives me tomorrow. I’ll have to decide. Tell Nero Wolfe I’ll decide.”

He crossed to the door and pulled it open. He went out, closing the door, and I heard his steps descending the stairs; but he hadn’t taken his hat and coat, and I nearly cracked my temples trying to use my brain. I hadn’t got far when there were steps on the stairs again, coming up, and in they came, all three of them. W-J was blinking again; apparently there was a bed where they had been waiting. My host ignored him and spoke to Skinny.

“What time does your watch say?”

Skinny glanced at his wrist. “Nine-thirty-two.”

“At half-past ten, not before that, untie his left hand. If he has a knife where he can get at it with his left hand, take it and — no, keep it. Leave him like that and go. It will take him five minutes or more to get his other hand and his feet free. Have you any objection to that?”

“Hell no. He’s got nothing on us.”

“Will you do it that way?”

“Right. Ten-thirty on the nose.”

The strangler took a roll of bills from his pocket, having a little difficulty on account of his gloves, peeled off two twenties, went to the table with them, and gave them a good rub on both sides with his handkerchief.

He held the bills out to Skinny. “I’ve paid the agreed amount, as you know. This extra is so you won’t get impatient and leave before half-past ten.”

“Don’t take it!” I called sharply.

Skinny, the bills in his hand, turned. “What’s the matter, they got germs?”

“No, but they’re peanuts, you sap! He’s worth ten grand to you! As is! Ten grand!”

“Nonsense,” the strangler said scornfully and started for the bed to get his hat and coat.

“Gimme my twenty,” W-J demanded.

Skinny stood with his head cocked, regarding me. He looked faintly interested but skeptical, and I saw it would take more than words. As the strangler picked up his hat and coat and turned, I jerked my body violently to the left and over I went, chair and all. I have no idea how I got across the floor to the door. I couldn’t simply roll on account of the chair, I couldn’t crawl without hands, and I didn’t even try to jump. But I made it, and not slow, and was there, down on my right side, the chair against the door and me against the chair, before any of them snapped out of it enough to reach me.

“You think,” I yapped at Skinny, “it’s just a job? Let him go and you’ll find out! Do you want his name? Mrs. Carlisle — Mrs. Homer N. Carlisle. Do you want her address?”

The strangler, on his way to me, stopped and froze. He — or I should say she — stood stiff as a bar of steel, the long-lashed eyes aimed at me.

“Missus?” Skinny demanded incredulously. “Did you say Missus?”

“Yes. She’s a woman. I’m tied up, but you’ve got her. I’m helpless, so you can have her. You might give me a cut of the ten grand.” The strangler made a movement. “Watch her!”

W-J, who had started for me and stopped, turned to face her. I had banged my head and it hurt. Skinny stepped to her, jerked both sides of her double-breasted coat open, released them, and backed up a step. “It could be a woman,” he said judiciously.

“Hell, we can find that out easy enough.” W-J moved. “Dumb as I am, I can tell that.”

“Go ahead,” I urged. “That will check her and me both. Go ahead!”

She made a noise in her throat. W-J got to her and put out a hand. She shrank away and screamed, “Don’t touch me!”

“I’ll be goddamned,” W-J said wonderingly.

“What’s this gag,” Skinny demanded, “about ten grand?”

“It’s a long story,” I told him, “but it’s there if you want it. If you’ll cut me in for a third it’s a cinch. If she gets out of here and gets safe home we can’t touch her. All we have to do is connect her as she is — here now, disguised — with Mrs. Homer N. Carlisle, which is what she’ll be when she gets home. If we do that we’ve got her shirt. As she is here now, she’s red hot. As she is at home, you couldn’t even get in.”

I had to play it that way. I just didn’t dare say call a cop, because if he felt about cops the way some rummies do he might have dragged me away from the door and let her go.

“So what?” Skinny asked. “I didn’t bring my camera.”

“I’ve got something better. Get me loose and I’ll show you.”

Skinny didn’t like that. He eyed me a moment and turned for a look at the others. Mrs. Carlisle was backed against the bed, and W-J stood studying her with his fists on his hips. Skinny returned to me. “I’ll do it. Maybe. What is it?”

“Damn it,” I snapped, “at least put me right side up. These cords are eating my wrists.”

He came and got the back of the chair with one hand and my arm with the other, and I clamped my feet to the floor to give us leverage. He was stronger than he looked. Upright on the chair again, I was still blocking the door.

“Get a bottle,” I told him, “out of my right-hand coat pocket — no, here, the coat I’ve got on. I hope to God it didn’t break.”

He fished it out. It was intact. He held it to the light to read the label.

“What is it?”

“Silver nitrate. It makes a black indelible mark on most things, including skin. Pull up her pants leg and mark her with it.”

“Then what?”

“Let her go. We’ll have her. With the three of us able to explain how and when she got marked, she’s sunk.”

“How come you’ve got this stuff?”

“I was hoping for a chance to mark her myself.”

“How much will it hurt her?”

“None at all. Put some on me — anywhere you like, as long as it don’t show.”

“You’d better give me the story — why she’ll be sunk. I don’t care how long it is.”

“Not till she’s marked.” I was firm. “I will as soon as you mark her.”

He studied the label again. I watched his face, hoping he wouldn’t ask if the mark would be permanent because I didn’t know what answer would suit him, and I had to sell him.

“A woman,” he muttered. “By God, a woman!”

“Yeah,” I said sympathetically. “She sure made a monkey of you.”

He swiveled his head and called, “Hey!”

W-J turned. Skinny commanded him, “Pin her up! Don’t hurt her.”

W-J reached for her. But, as he did so, all of a sudden she was neither man nor woman, but a cyclone. Her first leap, away from his reaching hand, was side-wise, and by the time he had realized he didn’t have her she had got to the table and grabbed the gun. He made for her and she pulled the trigger and down he went, tumbling right at her feet. By that time Skinny was almost to her and she whirled and blazed away again. He kept going, and from the force of the blow on my left shoulder I might have calculated, if I had been in a mood for calculating, that the bullet had not gone through Skinny before it hit me. She pulled the trigger a third time, but by then Skinny had her wrist and was breaking her arm.

“She got me!” W-J was yelling indignantly. “She got me in the leg!”

Skinny had her down on her knees.

“Come and cut me loose,” I called to him, “and give me that gun, and go find a phone.”

Except for my wrists and ankles and shoulder and head, I felt fine all over.

X

“I hope you’re satisfied,” Inspector Cramer said sourly. “You and Goodwin have got your pictures in the paper again. You got no fee, but a lot of free publicity. I got my nose wiped.”

Wolfe grunted comfortably.

It was seven o’clock the next evening, and the three of us were in the office, me at the desk with my arm in a sling, Cramer in the red leather chair, and Wolfe on his throne back of his desk, with a glass of beer in his hand and a second unopened bottle on the tray in front of him. The seals had been removed by Sergeant Stebbins a little before noon, in between other chores. The whole squad had been busy with chores: visiting W-J at the hospital, conversing with Mr. and Mrs. Carlisle at the D.A.’s office, starting to round up circumstantial evidence to show that Mr. Carlisle had furnished the necessary for Doris Hatten’s rent and Mrs. Carlisle knew it, pestering Skinny, and other items. I had been glad to testify that Skinny, whose name was Herbert Marvel and who ran a little agency in a mid-town one-room office, was one hundred proof and that, as soon as I had convinced him that his well-dressed male client was a female public enemy, he had been simply splendid. Of course, when Skinny had returned to the room after going to phone, he and I had had a full three minutes for a meeting of minds before the cops came. I had used twenty seconds of the three minutes satisfying my curiosity. In Mrs. Carlisle’s right-hand coat pocket was a slip noose made of strong cord. So that was her idea when she had moved to get behind me. Someday, when the trial is over and Cramer has cooled off, I’ll try getting it for a souvenir.

Cramer had refused the beer Wolfe had courteously offered. “What I chiefly came for,” he went on, “was to let you know that I realize there’s nothing I can do. I know damn well Cynthia Brown described her to Goodwin, and probably gave him her name too, and Goodwin told you. And you wanted to hog it. I suppose you thought you could pry a fee out of somebody. Both of you suppressed evidence.”

He gestured. “Okay, I can’t prove it. But I know it, and I want you to know I know it. And I’m not going to forget it.”

Wolfe drank, wiped his lips, and put the glass down. “The trouble is,” he murmured, “that if you can’t prove you’re right, and of course you can’t, neither can I prove you’re wrong.”

“Oh, yes, you can. But you haven’t and you won’t!”

“I would gladly try. How?”

Cramer leaned forward. “Like this. If she hadn’t been described to Goodwin, how did you pick her for him to send that blackmail note to?”

Wolfe shrugged. “It was a calculation, as I told you. I concluded that the murderer was among those who remained until the body had been discovered. It was worth testing. If there had been no phone call in response to Mr. Goodwin’s note the calculation would have been discredited, and I would—”

“Yeah, but why her?”

“There were only two women who remained. Obviously it couldn’t have been Mrs. Orwin; with her physique she would be hard put to pass as a man. Besides, she is a widow, and it was a sound presumption that Doris Hatten had been killed by a jealous wife, who—”

“But why a woman? Why not a man?”

“Oh, that.” Wolfe picked up the glass and drained it with more deliberation than usual, wiped his lips with extra care, and put the glass down. He was having a swell time. “I told you in my dining room” — he pointed a finger — “that something had occurred to me and I wanted to consider it. Later I would have been glad to tell you about it if you had not acted so irresponsibly and spitefully in sealing up this office. That made me doubt if you were capable of proceeding properly on any suggestion from me, so I decided to proceed myself. What had occurred to me was simply this: that Miss Brown had told Mr. Goodwin that she wouldn’t have recognized ‘him’ if he hadn’t had a hat on. She used the masculine pronoun, naturally, throughout that conversation, because it had been a man who had called at Doris Hatten’s apartment that October day, and he was fixed in her mind as a man. But it was in my plant rooms that she had seen him that afternoon, and no man wore his hat up there. The men left their hats downstairs. Besides, I was there and saw them. But nearly all the women had hats on.” Wolfe upturned a palm. “So it was a woman.”

Cramer eyed him. “I don’t believe it,” he said flatly.

“You have a record of Mr. Goodwin’s report of that conversation. Consult it.”

“I still wouldn’t believe it.”

“There were other little items.” Wolfe wiggled a finger. “For example: the strangler of Doris Hatten had a key to the door. But surely the provider, who had so carefully avoided revealment, would not have marched in at an unexpected hour to risk encountering strangers. And who so likely to have found an opportunity, or contrived one, to secure a duplicate key as the provider’s jealous wife?”

“Talk all day. I still don’t believe it.”

Well, I thought to myself, observing Wolfe’s smirk and for once completely approving of it, Cramer the office-sealer has his choice of believing it or not and what the hell.

As for me, I had no choice.

Content

Rex Stout
The Twisted Scarf

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X