Rex Stout

The Body in the Hall

I

I do sometimes treat myself to a walk in the rain, though I prefer sunshine when there’s not enough wind to give the dust a whirl. That rainy Wednesday, however, there was a special inducement: I wanted his raincoat to be good and wet when I delivered it. So with it on my back and my old brown felt on my head, I left the house and set out for Arbor Street, some two miles south in the Village.

Halfway there the rain stopped and my blood had pumped me warm, so I took the coat off, folded it wet side in, hung it on my arm, and proceeded. Arbor Street, narrow and only three blocks long, had on either side an assortment of old brick houses, mostly of four stories, which were neither spick nor span. Number 29 would be about the middle of the first block.

I reached it, but I didn’t enter it. There was a party going on in the middle of the block. A police car was double-parked in front of the entrance to one of the houses, and a uniformed cop was on the sidewalk in an attitude of authority toward a small gathering of citizens confronting him. As I approached I heard him demanding, “Whose dog is this?” — referring, evidently, to an animal with a wet black coat standing behind him. I heard no one claim the dog, but I wouldn’t have anyway, because my attention was diverted. Another police car rolled up and stopped behind the first one, and a man got out, pushed through the crowd to the sidewalk, nodded to the cop without halting, and went in the entrance, above which appeared the number 29.

The trouble was, I knew the man, which is an understatement. I do not begin to tremble at the sight of Sergeant Purley Stebbins of Manhattan Homicide West, which is also an understatement, but his presence and manner made it a cinch that there was a corpse in that house, and if I demanded entry on the ground that I wanted to swap raincoats with a guy who had walked off with mine, there was no question what would happen. My prompt appearance at the scene of a homicide would arouse all of Purley’s worst instincts, backed up by reference to various precedents, and I might not get home in time for dinner, which was going to be featured by grilled squab with a brown sauce which Fritz calls Vénitienne and is one of his best.

Purley had disappeared within without spotting me. The cop was a complete stranger. As I slowed down to detour past him on the narrow sidewalk he gave me an eye and demanded, “That your dog?”

The dog was nuzzling my knee, and I stooped to give him a pat on his wet black head. Then, telling the cop he wasn’t mine, I went on by. At the next corner I turned right, heading back uptown. I kept my eye peeled for a taxi the first couple of blocks, saw none, and decided to finish the walk. A wind had started in from the west, but everything was still damp from the rain.

Marching along, I was well on my way before I saw the dog. Stopping for a light on Ninth Avenue in the Twenties, I felt something at my knee, and there he was. My hand started for his head in reflex, but I pulled it back. I was in a fix. Apparently he had picked me for a pal, and if I just went on he would follow, and you can’t chase a dog on Ninth Avenue by throwing rocks. I could have ditched him by taking a taxi the rest of the way, but that would have been pretty rude after the appreciation he had shown of my charm. He had a collar on with a tag, and could be identified, and the station house was only a few blocks away, so the simplest and cheapest way was to convoy him there. I moved to the curb to look for a taxi coming downtown, and as I did so a cyclone sailed around the corner and took my hat with it into the middle of the avenue.

I didn’t dash out into the traffic, but you should have seen that dog. He sprang across the bow of a big truck, wiping its left front fender with his tail, braked landing to let a car by, sprang again, and was under another car — or I thought he was — and then I saw him on the opposite sidewalk. He snatched the hat from under the feet of a pedestrian, turned on a dime, and started back. This time his crossing wasn’t so spectacular, but he didn’t dally. He came to me and stood, lifting his head and wagging his tail. I took the hat. It had skimmed a puddle of water on its trip, but I thought he would be disappointed if I didn’t put it on, so I did. Naturally that settled it. I flagged a cab, took the dog in with me, and gave the driver the address of Wolfe’s house.

My idea was to take my hat hound upstairs to my room, give him some refreshment, and phone the ASPCA to send for him. But there was no sense in passing up such an opportunity for a little buzz at Wolfe, so after letting us in and leaving my hat and the raincoat on the rack in the hall, I proceeded to the door to the office and entered.

“Where the devil have you been?” Wolfe asked grumpily. “We were going over some lists at six o’clock, and it’s a quarter to seven.”

He was in his oversized chair behind his desk with a book, and his eyes hadn’t left the page to spare me a glance. I answered him. “Taking that damn raincoat. Only I didn’t deliver it, because—”

“What’s that?” he snapped. He was glaring at my companion.

“A dog.”

“I see it is. I’m in no temper for buffoonery. Get it out of here.”

“Yes, sir, right away. I can keep him in my room most of the time, but of course he’ll have to come downstairs and through the hall when I take him out. He’s a hat hound. There is a sort of a problem. His name is Nero, which, as you know, means ‘black,’ and of course I’ll have to change it. Ebony would do, or Jet, or Inky, or—”

“Bah. Flummery!”

“No, sir. I get pretty darned lonesome around here, especially during the four hours a day you’re up in the plant rooms. You have your orchids, and Fritz has his turtle, and Theodore has his parakeets up in the potting room, and why shouldn’t I have a dog? I admit I’ll have to change his name, though he is registered as Champion Nero Charcoal of Bantyscoot. I have suggested...”

I went on talking only because I had to. It was a fizzle. I had expected to induce a major outburst, even possibly something as frantic as Wolfe leaving his chair to evict the beast himself, and there he was gazing at Nero with an expression I had never seen him aim at any human, including me. I went on talking, forcing it.

He broke in. “It’s not a hound. It’s a Labrador retriever.”

That didn’t faze me. I’m never surprised at a display of knowledge by a bird who reads as many books as Wolfe does. “Yes, sir,” I agreed. “I only said hound because it would be natural for a private detective to have a hound.”

“Labradors,” he said, “have a wider skull than any other dog, for brain room. A dog I had when I was a boy, in Montenegro, a small brown mongrel, had a rather narrow skull, but I did not regard it as a defect. I do not remember that I considered that dog to have a defect. Today I suppose I would be more critical. When you smuggled that creature in here did you take into account the disruption it would cause in this household?”

It had backfired on me. I had learned something new about the big fat genius: he would enjoy having a dog around, provided he could blame it on me and so be free to beef when he felt like it. As for me, when I retire to the country I’ll have a dog, and maybe two, but not in town.

I snapped into reverse. “I guess I didn’t,” I confessed. “I do feel the need for a personal pet, but what the hell, I can try a canary or a chameleon. Okay, I’ll get rid of him. After all, it’s your house.”

“I do not want to feel responsible,” he said stiffly, “for your privation. I would almost rather put up with its presence than with your reproaches.”

“Forget it.” I waved a hand. “I’ll try to. I promise not to rub it in.”

“Another thing,” he persisted. “I refuse to interfere with any commitment you have made.”

“I have made no commitment.”

“Then where did you get it?”

“Well, I’ll tell you.”

I went and sat at my desk and did so. Nero, the four-legged one, came and lay at my feet with his nose just not touching the toe of my shoe. I reported the whole event, with as much detail as if I had been reporting a vital operation in a major case, and, when I had finished, Wolfe was of course quite aware that my presentation of Nero as a permanent addition to the staff had been a plant. Ordinarily he would have made his opinion of my performance clear, but this time he skipped it, and it was easy to see why. The idea of having a dog that he could blame on me had got in and stuck.

When I came to the end and stopped there was a moment’s silence, and then he said, “Jet would be an acceptable name for that dog.”

“Yeah.” I swiveled and reached for the phone. “I’ll call the ASPCA to come for him.”

“No.” He was emphatic.

“Why not?”

“Because there is a better alternative. Call someone you know in the Police Department — anyone. Give him the number on the dog’s tag, and ask him to find out who the owner is. Then you can inform the owner directly.”

He was playing for time. It could happen that the owner was dead or in jail or didn’t want the dog back, and if so Wolfe could take the position that I had committed myself by bringing the dog home in a taxi and that it would be dishonorable to renege. However, I didn’t want to argue, so I phoned a precinct sergeant who I knew was disposed to do me small favors. He took Nero’s number and said it might take a while at that time of day, and he would call me back. As I hung up, Fritz entered to announce dinner.

The squabs with that sauce were absolutely edible, as they always are, but other phenomena in the next couple of hours were not so pleasing. The table talk in the dining room was mostly one-sided and mostly about dogs. Wolfe kept it on a high level — no maudlin sentiment. He maintained that the basenji was the oldest breed on earth, having originated in Central Africa around 5000 B.C., whereas there was no trace of the Afghan hound earlier than around 4000 B.C. To me all it proved was that he had read a book I hadn’t noticed him with.

Nero ate in the kitchen with Fritz and made a hit. Wolfe had told Fritz to call him Jet. When Fritz brought in the salad he announced that Jet had wonderful manners and was very smart.

“Nevertheless,” Wolfe asked, “wouldn’t you think him an insufferable nuisance as a cohabitant?”

On the contrary, Fritz declared, he would be most welcome.

After dinner, feeling that the newly formed Canine Canonizing League needed slowing down, I first took Nero out for a brief tour and, returning, escorted him up the two flights to my room and left him there. I had to admit he was well behaved. If I had wanted to take on a dog in town it could have been him. In my room I told him to lie down, and he did, and when I went to the door to leave, his eyes, which were the color of caramel, made it plain that he would love to come along, but he didn’t get up.

Down in the office Wolfe and I got at the lists. They were special offerings from orchid growers and collectors from all over the world, and it was quite a job to check the thousands of items and pick the few that Wolfe might want to give a try. I sat at his desk, across from him, with trays of cards from our files, and we were in the middle of it, around ten-thirty, when the doorbell rang. I went to the hall and flipped a light switch and saw out on the stoop, through the one-way glass panel in the door, a familiar figure — Inspector Cramer of Homicide.

I went to the door, opened it six inches, and asked politely, “Now what?”

“I want to see Wolfe.”

“It’s pretty late. What about?”

“About a dog.”

It is understood that no visitor, and especially no officer of the law, is to be conducted to the office until Wolfe has been consulted, but this seemed to rate an exception. Wolfe had been known to refuse an audience to people who topped inspectors, and, told that Cramer had come to see him about a dog, there was no telling how he might react in the situation as it had developed.

I considered the matter for about two seconds and then swung the door open and invited cordially, “Step right in.”

II

“Properly speaking,” Cramer declared as one who wanted above all to be perfectly fair and square, “it’s Goodwin I want information from.”

He was in the red leather chair at the end of Wolfe’s desk, just about filling it. His big round face was no redder than usual, his gray eyes no colder, his voice no gruffer. Merely normal.

Wolfe came at me. “Then why did you bring him in here without even asking?”

Cramer interfered for me. “I asked for you. Of course you’re in it. I want to know where the dog fits in. Where is it, Goodwin?”

That set the tone — again normal. He does sometimes call me Archie, after all the years, but it’s exceptional. I inquired, “Dog?”

His lips tightened. “All right, I’ll spell it. You phoned the precinct and gave them a tag number and wanted to know who owns the dog. When the sergeant learned that the owner was a man named Philip Kampf, who was murdered this afternoon in a house at twenty-nine Arbor Street, he notified Homicide. The officer who had been on post in front of that house had told us that the dog had gone off with a man who had said it wasn’t his dog. After we learned of your inquiry about the owner, the officer was shown a picture of you and said it was you who enticed the dog. He’s outside in my car. Do you want to bring him in?”

“No, thanks. I didn’t entice.”

“The dog followed you.”

I gestured modestly. “Girls follow me, dogs follow me, sometimes even your own dicks follow me. I can’t help—”

“Skip the comedy. The dog belonged to a murder victim, and you removed it from the scene of the murder. Where is it?”

Wolfe butted in. “You persist,” he objected, “in imputing an action to Mr. Goodwin without warrant. He did not ‘remove’ the dog. I advise you to shift your ground if you expect us to listen.”

His tone was firm but not hostile. I cocked an eye at him. He was probably being indulgent because he had learned that Jet’s owner was dead.

“I’ve got another ground,” Cramer asserted. “A man who lives in that house, named Richard Meegan, and who was in it at the time Kampf was murdered, has stated that he came here to see you this morning and asked you to do a job for him. He says you refused the job. That’s what he says.” Cramer jutted his chin. “Now. A man at the scene of a murder admits he consulted you this morning. Goodwin shows up at the scene half an hour after the murder was committed, and he entices — okay, put it that the dog goes away with him, the dog that belonged to the victim and had gone to that house with him. How does that look?” He pulled his chin in. “You know damn well the last thing I want in a homicide is to find you or Goodwin anywhere within ten miles of it, because I know from experience what to expect. But when you’re there, there you are, and I want to know how and why and what, and by God I intend to. Where’s the dog?”

Wolfe sighed and shook his head. “In this instance,” he said, almost genial, “you’re wasting your time. As for Mr. Meegan, he phoned this morning to make an appointment and came at eleven. Our conversation was brief. He wanted a man shadowed, but divulged no name or any other specific detail because in his first breath he mentioned his wife — he was overwrought — and I gathered that his difficulty was marital. As you know, I don’t touch that kind of work, and I stopped him. My vanity bristles even at an offer of that sort of job. My bluntness enraged him, and he dashed out. On his way he took his hat from the rack in the hall, and he took Mr. Goodwin’s raincoat instead of his own. Archie. Proceed.”

Cramer’s eyes came to me, and I obeyed. “I didn’t find out about the switch in coats until the middle of the afternoon. His was the same color as mine, but mine’s newer. When he phoned for an appointment this morning he gave me his name and address, and I wanted to phone him to tell him to bring my coat back, but he wasn’t listed, and Information said she didn’t have him, so I decided to go get it. I walked, wearing Meegan’s coat. There was a cop and a crowd and a PD car in front of twenty-nine Arbor Street, and, as I approached, another PD car came, and Purley Stebbins got out and went in, so I decided to skip it, not wanting to go through the torture. There was a dog present, and he nuzzled me, and I patted him. I will admit, if pressed, that I should not have patted him. The cop asked me if the dog was mine, and I said no and went on, and headed for home. I was—”

“Did you call the dog or signal it?”

“No. I was at Twenty-eighth and Ninth Avenue before I knew he was tailing me. I did not entice or remove. If I did, if there’s some kind of a dodge about the dog, please tell me why I phoned the precinct to get the name of his owner.”

“I don’t know. With Wolfe and you I never know. Where is it?”

I blurted it out before Wolfe could stop me. “Upstairs in my room.”

“Bring it down here.”

“Right.”

I was up and going, but Wolfe called me sharply. “Archie!”

I turned. “Yes, sir.”

“There’s no frantic urgency.” He went to Cramer. “The animal seems intelligent, but I doubt if it’s up to answering questions. I don’t want it capering around my office.”

“Neither do I.”

“Then why bring it down?”

“I’m taking it downtown. We want to try something with it.”

Wolfe pursed his lips. “I doubt if that’s feasible. Sit down, Archie. Mr. Goodwin has assumed an obligation and will have to honor it. The creature has no master, and so, presumably, no home. It will have to be tolerated here until Mr. Goodwin gets satisfactory assurance of its future welfare. Archie?”

If we had been alone I would have made my position clear, but with Cramer there I was stuck. “Absolutely,” I agreed.

“You see,” he told Cramer. “I’m afraid we can’t permit the dog’s removal.”

“Nuts. I’m taking it.”

“Indeed? What writ have you? Replevin? Warrant for arrest as a material witness?”

Cramer opened his mouth and shut it again. He put his elbows on the chair arms, interlaced his fingers, and leaned forward. “Look. You and Meegan check, either because you’re both telling it straight, or because you’ve framed it, I don’t know which, and we’ll see. But I’m taking the dog. Kampf, the man who was killed, lived on Perry Street, a few blocks away from Arbor Street. He arrived at twenty-nine Arbor Street, with the dog on a leash, about five-twenty this afternoon. The janitor of the house, named Olsen, lives in the basement, and he was sitting at his front window, and he saw Kampf arrive with the dog and turn in at the entrance. About ten minutes later he saw the dog come out, with no leash, and right after the dog a man came out. The man was Victor Talento, a lawyer, the tenant of the ground-floor apartment. Talento says he left his apartment to go to an appointment, saw the dog in the hall, thought it was a stray, and chased it out, and that’s all he knows. Anyhow, Olsen says Talento walked off, and the dog stayed there on the sidewalk.”

Cramer unlaced his fingers and sat back. “About twenty minutes later, around ten minutes to six, Olsen heard someone yelling his name and went to the rear and up one flight to the ground-floor hall. Two men were there, a live one and a dead one. The live one was Ross Chaffee, a painter, the tenant of the top-floor studio — that’s the fourth floor. The dead one was the man that had arrived with the dog. He had been strangled with the dog’s leash, and the body was at the bottom of the stairs leading up. Chaffee says he found it when he came down to go to an appointment, and that’s all he knows. He stayed there while Olsen went downstairs to phone. A squad car arrived at five-fifty-eight. Sergeant Stebbins arrived at six-ten. Goodwin arrived at six-ten. Excellent timing.”

Wolfe merely grunted. Cramer continued, “You can have it all. The dog’s leash was in the pocket of Kampf’s raincoat, which was on him. The laboratory says it was used to strangle him. The routine is still in process. I’ll answer questions within reason. The four tenants of the house were all there when Kampf arrived: Victor Talento, the lawyer, on the ground floor; Richard Meegan, whose job you say you wouldn’t take, second floor; Jerome Aland, a night-club performer, third floor; and Ross Chaffee, the painter with the studio. Aland says he was sound asleep until we banged on his door and took him down to look at the corpse. Meegan says he heard nothing and knows nothing.”

Cramer sat forward again. “Okay, what happened? Kampf went there to see one of those four men, and had his dog with him. It’s possible he took the leash off in the lower hall to leave the dog there, but I doubt it. At least it’s just as possible that he took the dog along to the door of one of the apartments, and the dog was wet and the tenant wouldn’t let it enter, so Kampf left it outside. Another possibility is that the dog was actually present when Kampf was killed, but we’ll know more about that after we see and handle the dog. The particular thing we want — we’re going to take the dog in that house and see which door it goes to. We’re going to do that now. There’s a man out in my car who knows dogs.” Cramer stood up.

Wolfe shook his head. “You must be hard put. You say Mr. Kampf lived on Perry Street. With a family?”

“No. Bachelor. Some kind of a writer. He didn’t have to make a living; he had means.”

“Then the beast is orphaned. He’s in your room, Archie?”

“Yes, sir.” I got up and started for the door.

Wolfe halted me. “One moment. Go up and in, lock your door, and stay there till I notify you. Go!”

I went. It was either that or quit my job on the spot, and I resign only when we haven’t got company. Also, assuming that there was a valid reason for refusing to surrender the dog to the cops, Wolfe was justified. Cramer, needing no warrant to enter the house because he was already in, wouldn’t hesitate to mount to my room to do his own fetching, and stopping him physically would have raised some delicate points. Whereas breaking through a locked door would be another matter.

I didn’t lock it, because it hadn’t been locked for years and I didn’t remember which drawer of my chest the key was in, and while I was searching Cramer might conceivably have made it up the carpeted stairs and come right in, so I left it open and stood on the sill to listen. If I heard him coming I would shut it and brace it with my foot. Nero, or Jet, depending on where you stand, came over to me, but I ordered him back, and he went without a murmur. From below came voices, not cordial, but not raised enough for me to get words. Before long there was the sound of Cramer’s heavy steps leaving the office and tramping along the hall, and then the slam of the front door.

I called down, “All clear?”

“No!” It was a bellow. “Wait till I bolt it!” And after a moment: “All right!”

I shut my door and went to the stairs and descended. Wolfe was back in his chair behind his desk, sitting straight. As I entered he snapped at me, “A pretty mess! You sneak a dog in here to badger me, and what now?”

I crossed to my desk, sat, and spoke calmly. “We’re way beyond that. You will never admit you bollixed it up yourself, so forget it. When you ask me what now, that’s easy. I could say I’ll take the dog down and deliver him at Homicide, but we’re beyond that too. Not only have you learned that he is orphaned, as you put it, which sounds terrible, and therefore adopting him will probably be simple, but also you have taken a stand with Cramer, and of course you won’t back up. If we sit tight with the door bolted I suppose I can take the dog out back for his outings, but what if the law shows up tomorrow with a writ?”

He leaned back and shut his eyes. I looked up at the wall clock: two minutes past eleven. I looked at my wristwatch: also two minutes past eleven. They both said six minutes past when Wolfe opened his eyes.

“From Mr. Cramer’s information,” he said, “I doubt if that case holds any formidable difficulties.”

I had no comment.

“If it were speedily solved,” he went on, “your commitment to the dog could be honored at leisure. I had thought until now that my disinclination to permit a policeman to storm in here and commandeer any person or object in this house that struck his fancy was shared by you.”

“It is. Within reason.”

“That’s an ambiguous phrase, and I must be allowed my own interpretation short of absurdity. Clearly the simplest way to settle this matter is to find out who killed Mr. Kampf. It may not be much of a job; if it proves otherwise we can reconsider. An immediate exploration is the thing, and luckily we have a pretext for it. You can go there to get your raincoat, taking Mr. Meegan’s with you, and proceed as the occasion offers. The best course would be to bring him here, but, as you know, I wholly rely on your discretion and enterprise in such a juncture.”

“Thank you very much,” I said bitterly. “You mean now.”

“Yes.”

“They may still have Meegan downtown.”

“I doubt if they’ll keep him overnight. In the morning they’ll probably have him again.”

“I’ll have to take the dog out first.”

“Fritz will take him out back in the court.”

“I’ll be damned.” I arose. “No client, no fee, no nothing except a dog with a wide skull for brain room.” I crossed to the door, turned, said distinctly, “I will be damned,” went to the rack for my hat and Meegan’s coat, and beat it.

III

The rain had ended, and the wind was down. After dismissing the taxi at the end of Arbor Street, I walked to number 29, with the raincoat hung over my arm. There was light behind the curtains of the windows on the ground floor, but none anywhere above, and none in the basement. Entering the vestibule, I inspected the labels in the slots between the mailboxes and the buttons. From the bottom up they read: Talento, Meegan, Aland, and Chaffee. I pushed the button above Meegan, put my hand on the doorknob, and waited. No click. I twisted the knob, and it wouldn’t turn. Another long push on the button, and a longer wait. I varied it by trying four short pushes. Nothing doing.

I left the vestibule and was confronted by two couples standing on the sidewalk staring at me, or at the entrance. They exchanged words, decided they didn’t care for my returning stare, and passed on. I considered pushing the button of Victor Talento, the lawyer who lived on the ground floor, where light was showing, voted to wait a while for Meegan, with whom I had an in, moved down ten paces to a fire hydrant, and propped myself against it.

I hadn’t been there long enough to shift position more than a couple of times when the light disappeared on the ground floor of number 29, and a little later the vestibule door opened and a man came out. He turned toward me, gave me a glance as he passed, and kept going. Thinking it unlikely that any occupant of that house was being extended the freedom of the city that night, I cast my eyes around, and sure enough, when the subject had gone some thirty paces a figure emerged from an areaway across the street and started strolling. I shook my head in disapproval. I would have waited until the guy was ten paces farther. Saul Panzer would have made it ten more than that, but Saul is the best tailer alive.

As I stood deploring that faulty performance, an idea hit me. They might keep Meegan downtown another two hours, or all night, or he might even be up in his bed asleep. This was at least a chance to take a stab at something. I shoved off, in the direction taken by the subject, who was now a block away. Stepping along, I gained on him. A little beyond the corner I was abreast of the city employee, who was keeping to the other side of the street; but I wasn’t interested in him. It seemed to me that the subject was upping the stroke a little, so I did too, really marching, and as he reached the next intersection I was beside him. He had looked over his shoulder when he heard me coming up behind, but hadn’t slowed. As I reached him I spoke.

“Victor Talento?”

“No comment,” he said and kept going. So did I.

“Thanks for the compliment,” I said, “but I’m not a reporter. My name’s Archie Goodwin, and I work for Nero Wolfe. If you’ll stop a second I’ll show you my credentials.”

“I’m not interested in your credentials.”

“Okay. If you just came out for a breath of air you won’t be interested in this either. Otherwise you may be. Please don’t scream or look around, but you’ve got a Homicide dick on your tail. Don’t look or he’ll know I’m telling you. He’s across the street, ninety feet back.”

“Yes,” he conceded, without changing pace, “that’s interesting. Is this your good deed for the day?”

“No. I’m out dowsing for Mr. Wolfe. He’s investigating a murder just for practice, and I’m looking for a seam. I thought if I gave you a break you might feel like reciprocating. If you’re just out for a walk, forget it, and sorry I interrupted. If you’re headed for something you’d like to keep private maybe you could use some expert advice. In this part of town at this time of night there are only two approved methods for shaking a tail, and I’d be glad to oblige.”

He looked it over for half a block, with me keeping step, and then spoke. “You mentioned credentials.”

“Right. We might as well stop under that light. The dick will keep his distance.”

We stopped. I got out my wallet and let him have a look at my licenses, detective and driver’s. He didn’t skimp it, being a lawyer. I put my wallet back.

“Of course,” he said, “I was aware that I might be followed.”

“Sure.”

“I intended to take precautions. But it may not be — I suppose it’s not as simple as it seems. I have had no experience at this kind of maneuver. Who hired Wolfe to investigate?”

“I don’t know. He says he needs practice.”

“All right, if it’s qualified.” He stood sizing me up by the street light. He was an inch shorter than me, and some older, with his weight starting to collect around the middle. He was dark-skinned, with eyes to match, and his nose hooked to point down. I didn’t prod him. My lucky stab had snagged him, and it was his problem. He was working on it.

“I have an appointment,” he said.

I waited.

He went on. “A woman phoned me, and I arranged to meet her. My wire could have been tapped.”

“I doubt it. They’re not that fast.”

“I suppose not. The woman had nothing to do with the murder, and neither had I, but of course anything I do and anyone I see is suspect. I have no right to expose her to possible embarrassment, and I can’t be sure of shaking that man off.”

I grinned at him. “And me too.”

“You mean you would follow me?”

“Certainly, for practice. And I’d like to see how you handle it.”

He wasn’t returning my grin. “I see you’ve earned your reputation, Goodwin. You’d be wasting your time, because this woman has no connection with this business, but I should have known better than to make this appointment. I won’t keep it. It’s only three blocks from here. You might be willing to go and tell her I’m not coming, and I’ll get in touch with her tomorrow. Yes?”

“Sure, if it’s only three blocks. If you’ll return the favor by calling on Nero Wolfe for a little talk. That’s what I meant by reciprocating.”

He considered it. “Not tonight.”

“Tonight would be best.”

“No. I’m all in.”

“Tomorrow morning at eleven?”

“Yes, I can make it then.”

“Okay.” I gave him the address. “If you forget it, it’s in the book. Now brief me.”

He took a respectable roll of bills from his pocket and peeled off a twenty. “Since you’re acting as my agent, you have a right to a fee.”

I grinned again. “That’s a neat idea, you being a lawyer, but I’m not acting as your agent. I’m doing you a favor on request and expecting one in return. Where’s the appointment?”

He put the roll back. “Have it your way. The woman’s name is Jewel Jones, and she’s at the south-east corner of Christopher and Grove Streets, or will be.” He looked at his wrist. “We were to meet there at midnight. She’s medium height, slender, dark hair and eyes, very goodlooking. Tell her why I’m not coming, and say she’ll hear from me tomorrow.”

“Right. You’d better take a walk in the other direction to keep the dick occupied, and don’t look back.”

He wanted to shake hands to show his appreciation, but that would have been just as bad as taking the twenty, since before another midnight Wolfe might be tagging him for murder, so I pretended not to notice. He headed east, and I headed west, moving right along without turning my head for a glimpse of the dick. I had to make sure that he didn’t see a vision and switch subjects, but I let that wait until I got to Christopher Street. Reaching it, I turned the corner, went twenty feet to a stoop, slid behind it with only my head out, and counted a slow hundred. There were passers-by, a couple and a guy in a hurry, but no dick. I went on a block to Grove Street, passed the intersection, saw no loitering female, continued for a distance, and turned and backtracked. I was on the fifth lap, and it was eight minutes past twelve, when a taxi stopped at the corner, a woman got out, and the taxi rolled off.

I approached. The light could have been better, but she seemed to meet the specifications. I stopped and asked, “Jones?” She drew herself up. I said, “From Victor.”

She tilted her head back to get my face. “Who are you?” She seemed a little out of breath.

“Victor sent me with a message, but naturally I have to be sure it reaches the right party. I’ve ante’d half of your name and half of his, so it’s your turn.”

“Who are you?”

I shook my head. “You go first, or no message from Victor.”

“Where is he?”

“No. I’ll count ten and go. One, two, three, four—”

“My name is Jewel Jones. His is Victor Talento.”

“That’s the girl. I’ll tell you.” I did so. Since it was desirable for her to grasp the situation fully, I started with my propping myself on the fire hydrant in front of 29 Arbor Street and went on from there, as it happened, including, of course, my name and status. By the time I finished she had developed a healthy frown.

“Damn it,” she said with feeling. She moved and put a hand on my arm. “Come and put me in a taxi.”

I stayed planted. “I’ll be glad to, and it will be on me. We’re going to Nero Wolfe’s place.”

“We?” She removed the hand. “You’re crazy.”

“One will get you ten I’m not. Look at it. You and Talento made an appointment at a street corner, so you had some good reason for not wanting to be seen together tonight. It must have been something fairly urgent. I admit the urgency didn’t have to be connected with the murder of Philip Kampf, but it could be, and it certainly has to be discussed. I don’t want to be arbitrary. I can take you to a Homicide sergeant named Stebbins, and you can discuss it with him; or I’ll take you to Mr. Wolfe. I should think you’d prefer Mr. Wolfe, but suit yourself.”

She had well-oiled gears. For a second, as I spoke, her eyes flashed like daggers, but then they went soft and appealing. She took my arm again, this time with both hands. “I’ll discuss it with you,” she said, in a voice she could have used to defrost her refrigerator. “I wouldn’t mind that. We’ll go somewhere.”

I said come on, and we moved, with her maintaining contact with a hand hooked cozily on my arm. We hadn’t gone far, toward Seventh Avenue, when a taxi came along and I flagged it and we got in. I told the driver, “Nine-eighteen West Thirty-fifth,” and he started.

“What’s that?” Miss Jones demanded.

I told her, Nero Wolfe’s house. The poor girl didn’t know what to do. If she called me a rat that wouldn’t help her any. If she kicked and screamed I would merely give the hackie another address. Her best bet was to try to thaw me, and if she had had time for a real campaign, say four or five hours, she might conceivably have made some progress, because she had a knack for it. She didn’t coax or argue; she just told me how she knew I was the kind of man she could tell anything to and I would believe her and understand her, and after she had done that she would be willing to go anywhere or do anything I advised, but she was sure I wouldn’t want to take advantage...

There just wasn’t time enough. The taxi rolled to the curb, and I had a bill ready for the driver. I got out, gave her a hand, and escorted her up the seven steps of the stoop, applauding her economy in not wasting breath on protests. My key wouldn’t let us in, since the chain bolt would be on, so I pushed the button, and in a moment the stoop light shone on us, and in another the door opened. I motioned her in and followed. Fritz was there.

“Mr. Wolfe up?” I asked.

“In the office.” He was giving Miss Jones a look, the look he gives any strange female who enters that house. There is always in his mind the possibility, however remote, that she will bewitch Wolfe into a mania for a mate. After asking him to conduct her to the front room, and putting my hat and the raincoat on the rack, I went on down the hall and entered the office.

Wolfe was at his desk, reading, and curled up in the middle of the room, on the best rug in the house, which was given to Wolfe years ago as a token of gratitude by an Armenian merchant who had got himself in a bad hole, was the dog. The dog greeted me by lifting his head and tapping the rug with his tail. Wolfe greeted me by raising his eyes from the book and grunting.

“I brought company,” I told him. “Before I introduce her I should—”

“Her? The tenants of that house are all men! I might have known you’d dig up a woman!”

“I can chase her if you don’t want her. This is how I got her.” I proceeded, not dragging it out, but including all the essentials. I ended up, “I could have taken her to a spot I know of and grilled her myself, but it would have been risky. Just in a six-minute taxi ride she had me feeling — uh, brotherly. Do you want her or not?”

“Confound it.” His eyes went to his book and stayed there long enough to finish a paragraph. He dog-eared it and put it down. “Very well, bring her.”

I crossed to the connecting door to the front room, opened it, and requested, “Please come in, Miss Jones.” She came, and as she passed through gave me a wistful smile that might have gone straight to my heart if there hadn’t been a diversion. As she entered, the dog suddenly sprang to his feet, whirling, and made for her with sounds of unmistakable pleasure. He stopped in front of her, raising his head so she wouldn’t have to reach far to pat it, and wagged his tail so fast it was only a blur.

“Indeed,” Wolfe said. “How do you do, Miss Jones. I am Nero Wolfe. What’s the dog’s name?”

I claim she was good. The presence of the dog was a complete surprise to her. But without the slightest sign of fluster she put out a hand to give it a gentle pat, looked around, spotted the red leather chair, went to it, and sat.

“That’s a funny question right off,” she said, not complaining. “Asking me your dog’s name.”

“Pfui.” Wolfe was disgusted. “I don’t know what position you were going to take, but from what Mr. Goodwin tells me I would guess you were going to say that the purpose of your appointment with Mr. Talento was a personal matter that had nothing to do with Mr. Kampf or his death, and that you knew Mr. Kampf either slightly and casually or not at all. Now the dog has made that untenable. Obviously he knows you well, and he belonged to Mr. Kampf. So you knew Mr. Kampf well. If you try to deny that you’ll have Mr. Goodwin and other trained men digging all around you, your past and your present, and that will be extremely disagreeable, no matter how innocent you may be of murder or any other wrongdoing. You won’t like that. What’s the dog’s name?”

She looked at me, and I met it. In good light I would have qualified Talento’s specification of “very good-looking.” Not that she was unsightly, but she caught the eye more by what she looked than how she looked. It wasn’t just something she turned on as needed; it was there even now, when she must have been pretty busy deciding how to handle it.

It took her only a few seconds to decide. “His name is Bootsy,” she said. The dog, at her feet, lifted his head and wagged his tail.

“Good heavens,” Wolfe muttered. “No other name?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Your name is Jewel Jones?”

“Yes. I sing in a night club, the Flamingo, but I’m not working right now.” She made a little gesture, very appealing, but it was Wolfe who had to resist it, not me. “Believe me, Mr. Wolfe, I don’t know anything about that murder. If I knew anything that could help I’d be perfectly willing to tell you, because I’m sure you’re the kind of man that understands and you wouldn’t want to hurt me if you didn’t have to.”

That wasn’t what she had fed me verbatim. Not verbatim.

“I try to understand,” Wolfe said dryly. “You knew Mr. Kampf intimately?”

“Yes, I guess so.” She smiled as one understander to another. “For a while I did. Not lately, not for the past two months.”

“You met the dog at his apartment on Perry Street?”

“That’s right. For nearly a year I was there quite often.”

“You and Mr. Kampf quarreled?”

“Oh no, we didn’t quarrel. I just didn’t see him any more. I had other — I was very busy.”

“When did you see him last?”

“Well — you mean intimately?”

“No. At all.”

“About two weeks ago, at the club. He came to the club once or twice and spoke to me there.”

“But no quarrel?”

“No, there was nothing to quarrel about.”

“You have no idea who killed him, or why?”

“I certainly haven’t.”

Wolfe leaned back. “Do you know Mr. Talento intimately?”

“No, not if you mean — of course we’re friends. I used to live there.”

“With Mr. Talento?”

“Not with him.” She was mildly shocked. “I never live with a man. I had the second-floor apartment.”

“At twenty-nine Arbor Street?”

“Yes.”

“For how long? When?”

“For nearly a year. I left there — let’s see — about three months ago. I have a little apartment on East Forty-ninth Street.”

“Then you know the others too? Mr. Meegan and Mr. Chaffee and Mr. Aland?”

“I know Ross Chaffee and Jerry Aland, but no Meegan. Who’s he?”

“A tenant at twenty-nine Arbor Street. Second floor.”

She nodded. “Well, sure, that’s the floor I had.” She smiled. “I hope they fixed that damn table for him. That was one reason I left. I hate furnished apartments, don’t you?”

Wolfe made a face. “In principle, yes. I take it you now have your own furniture. Supplied by Mr. Kampf?”

She laughed — more of a chuckle — and her eyes danced. “I see you didn’t know Phil Kampf.”

“Not supplied by him, then?”

“A great big no.”

“By Mr. Chaffee? Or Mr. Aland?”

“No and no.” She went very earnest. “Look, Mr. Wolfe. A friend of mine was mighty nice about that furniture, and we’ll just leave it. Archie told me what you’re interested in is the murder, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to drag in a lot of stuff just to hurt me and a friend of mine, so we’ll forget the furniture.”

Wolfe didn’t press it. He took a hop. “Your appointment on a street corner with Mr. Talento — what was that about?”

She nodded. “I’ve been wondering about that. I mean what I would say when you asked me, because I’d hate to have you think I’m a sap, and I guess it sounds like it. I phoned him when I heard on the radio about Phil and where he was killed, there on Arbor Street, and I knew Vic still lived there and I simply wanted to ask him about it.”

“You had him on the phone.”

“He didn’t seem to want to talk about it on the phone.”

“But why a street corner?”

This time it was more like a laugh. “Now, Mr. Wolfe, you’re not a sap. You asked about the furniture, didn’t you? Well, a girl with furniture shouldn’t be seen places with a man like Vic Talento.”

“What is he like?”

She fluttered a hand. “Oh, he wants to get close.”

Wolfe kept at her until after one o’clock, and I could report it all, but it wouldn’t get you any further than it did him. He couldn’t trip her or back her into a corner. She hadn’t been to Arbor Street for two months. She hadn’t seen Chaffee or Aland or Talento for weeks, and of course not Meegan, since she had never heard of him before. She couldn’t even try to guess who had killed Kampf. The only thing remotely to be regarded as a return on Wolfe’s investment of a full hour was her statement that as far as she knew there was no one who had both an attachment and a claim to Bootsy. If there were heirs she had no idea who they were. When she left the chair to go the dog got up too, and she patted him, and he went with us to the door. I took her to Tenth Avenue and put her in a taxi, and returned.

I got a glass of milk from the kitchen and took it to the office. Wolfe, who was drinking beer, didn’t scowl at me. He seldom scowls when he is drinking beer.

“Where’s Bootsy?” I inquired.

“No,” he said emphatically.

“Okay.” I surrendered. “Where’s Jet?”

“Down in Fritz’s room. He’ll sleep there. You don’t like him.”

“That’s not true, but you can have it. It means you can’t blame him on me, and that suits me fine.” I sipped milk. “Anyhow, that will no longer be an issue after Homicide comes in the morning with a document and takes him away.”

“They won’t come.”

“I offer twenty to one. Before noon.”

He nodded. “That was roughly my own estimate of the probability, so while you were out I phoned Mr. Cramer. I suggested an arrangement, and I suppose he inferred that if he declined the arrangement the dog might be beyond his jurisdiction before tomorrow, though I didn’t say so. I may have given that impression.”

“Yeah. You should be more careful.”

“So the arrangement has been made. You are to be at twenty-nine Arbor Street, with the dog, at nine o’clock in the morning. You are to be present throughout the fatuous performance the police have in mind, and keep the dog in view. The dog is to leave the premises with you, before noon, and you are to bring him back here. The police are to make no further effort to constrain the dog for twenty-four hours. While in that house you may find an opportunity to flush something or someone more contributive than that volatile demirep. If you will come to my room before you go in the morning I may have a suggestion.”

“I resent that,” I said manfully. “When you call her that, smile.”

IV

It was a fine bright morning. I didn’t take Meegan’s raincoat, because I didn’t need any pretext and I doubted if the program would offer a likely occasion for the exchange.

The law was there in front, waiting for me. The one who knew dogs was a stocky middle-aged guy who wore rimless glasses. Before he touched the dog he asked me the name, and I told him Bootsy.

“A hell of a name,” he observed. “Also that’s a hell of a leash you’ve got.”

“I agree. His was on the corpse, so I suppose it’s in the lab.” I handed him my end of the heavy cord. “If he bites you it’s not on me.”

“He won’t bite me. Would you, Bootsy?” He squatted before the dog and started to get acquainted. Sergeant Purley Stebbins growled, a foot from my ear, “He should have bit you when you kidnapped him.”

I turned. Purley was half an inch taller than me and two inches broader. “You’ve got it twisted,” I told him. “It’s women that bite me. I’ve often wondered what would bite you.”

We continued exchanging pleasantries while the dog man, whose name was Loftus, made friends with Bootsy. It wasn’t long before he announced that he was ready to proceed. He was frowning. “In a way,” he said, “it would be better to keep him on leash after I go in, because Kampf probably did. Or did he? Maybe you ought to brief me a little more. How much do we know?”

“To swear to,” Purley told him, “damn little. But putting it all together from what we’ve collected, this is how it looks, and I’ll have to be shown different. When Kampf and the dog entered it was raining and the dog was wet. Kampf left the dog in the ground-floor hall. He removed the leash and had it in his hand when he went to the door of one of the apartments. The tenant of the apartment let him in, and they talked. The tenant socked him, probably from behind without warning, and used the leash to finish him. He stuffed the leash in the pocket of the raincoat. It took nerve and muscle both to carry the body out and down the stairs to the lower hall, but he damn well had to get it out of his place and away from his door, and any of those four could have done it in a pinch, and it sure was a pinch. Of course the dog was already outside, out on the sidewalk. While Kampf was in one of the apartments getting killed, Talento had come into the lower hall and seen the dog and chased it out.”

“Then,” Loftus objected, “Talento’s clean.”

“No. Nobody’s clean. If it was Talento, after he killed Kampf he went out to the hall and put the dog out in the vestibule, went back in his apartment and carried the body out and dumped it at the foot of the stairs, and then left the house, chasing the dog on out to the sidewalk. You’re the dog expert. Is there anything wrong with that?”

“Not necessarily. It depends on the dog and how close he was to Kampf. There wasn’t any blood.”

“Then that’s how I’m buying it. If you want it filled in you can spend the rest of the day with the reports of the other experts and the statements of the tenants.”

“Some other day. That’ll do for now. You’re going in first?”

“Yeah. Come on, Goodwin.”

Purley started for the door, but I objected. “I’m staying with the dog.”

“For God’s sake. Then keep behind Loftus.”

I changed my mind. It would be interesting to watch the experiment, and from behind Loftus the view wouldn’t be good. So I went into the vestibule with Purley. The inner door was opened by a Homicide colleague, and we crossed the threshold and moved to the far side of the small lobby, which was fairly clean but not ornate. The colleague closed the door and stayed there. In a minute he pulled it open again, and Loftus and the dog entered. Two steps in, Loftus stopped, and so did the dog. No one spoke. The leash hung limp. Bootsy looked around at Loftus. Loftus bent over and untied the cord from the collar, and held it up to show Bootsy he was free. Bootsy came over to me and stood, his head up, wagging his tail.

“Nuts,” Purley said, disgusted.

“You know what I really expected,” Loftus said. “I never thought he’d show us where Kampf took him when they entered yesterday, but I did think he’d go to the foot of the stairs, where the body was found, and I thought he might go on to where the body came from — Talento’s door, or upstairs. Take him by the collar, Goodwin, and ease him over to the foot of the stairs.”

I obliged. He came without urging, but gave no sign that the spot held any special interest for him. We all stood and watched him. He opened his mouth wide to yawn.

“Fine,” Purley rumbled. “Just fine. You might as well go on with it.”

Loftus came and fastened the leash to the collar, led Bootsy across the lobby to a door, and knocked. In a moment the door opened, and there was Victor Talento in a fancy rainbow dressing gown.

“Hello, Bootsy,” he said, and reached down to pat.

“Goddamit!” Purley barked. “I told you not to speak!”

Talento straightened up. “So you did.” He was apologetic. “I’m sorry, I forgot. Do you want to try it again?”

“No. That’s all.”

Talento backed in and closed the door.

“You must realize,” Loftus told Purley, “that a Labrador can’t be expected to go for a man’s throat. They’re not that kind of dog. The most you could expect would be an attitude, or possibly a growl.”

“You can have ’em,” Purley growled. “Is it worth going on?”

“By all means. You’d better go first.”

Purley headed for me, and I gave him room and then followed him up the stairs. The upper hall was narrow and not very light, with a door at the rear end and another toward the front. We backed up against the wall opposite the front door to leave enough space for Loftus and Bootsy. They came, Bootsy tagging, and Loftus knocked. Ten seconds passed before footsteps sounded, and then the door was opened by the specimen who had dashed out of Wolfe’s place the day before and taken my coat with him. He was in his shirt sleeves, and he hadn’t combed his hair.

“This is Sergeant Loftus, Mr. Meegan,” Purley said. “Take a look at the dog. Have you ever seen it before? Pat it.”

Meegan snorted. “Pat it yourself. Go to hell.”

“Have you ever seen it before?”

“No.”

“Okay, thanks. Come on, Loftus.”

As we started up the next flight the door slammed behind us, good and loud. Purley asked over his shoulder, “Well?”

“He didn’t like him,” Loftus replied from the rear, “but there are lots of people lots of dogs don’t like.”

The third-floor hall was a duplicate of the one below. Again Purley and I posted ourselves opposite the door, and Loftus came with Bootsy and knocked. Nothing happened. He knocked again, louder, and pretty soon the door opened to a two-inch crack, and a squeaky voice came through.

“You’ve got the dog.”

“Right here,” Loftus told him.

“Are you there, Sergeant?”

“Right here,” Purley answered.

“I told you that dog don’t like me. Once at a party at Phil Kampf’s — I told you. I didn’t mean to hurt it, but it thought I did. What are you trying to do, frame me?”

“Open the door. The dog’s on a leash.”

“I won’t! I told you I wouldn’t!”

Purley moved. His arm, out stiff, went over Loftus’s shoulder, and his palm met the door and kept going. The door hesitated an instant and then swung open. Standing there, holding to its edge, was a skinny individual in red-and-green-striped pajamas. The dog let out a low growl and backed up a little.

“We’re making the rounds, Mr. Aland,” Purley said, “and we couldn’t leave you out. Now you can go back to sleep. As for trying to frame you—”

He stopped because the door shut.

“You didn’t tell me,” Loftus complained, “that Aland had already fixed it for a reaction.”

“No, I thought I’d wait and see. One to go.” He headed for the stairs.

The top-floor hall had had someone’s personal attention. It was no bigger than the others, but it had a nice clean tan-colored runner, and the walls were painted the same shade and sported a few small pictures. Purley went to the rear door instead of the front, and we made room for Loftus and Bootsy by flattening against the wall. When Loftus knocked footsteps responded at once, approaching the door, and it swung wide open. This was the painter, Ross Chaffee, and he was dressed for it, in an old brown smock. He was by far the handsomest of the tenants, tall, erect, with artistic wavy dark hair and features he must have enjoyed looking at.

I had ample time to enjoy them too as he stood smiling at us, completely at ease, obeying Purley’s prior instructions not to speak. Bootsy was also at ease. When it became quite clear that no blood was going to be shed, Purley asked, “You know the dog, don’t you, Mr. Chaffee?”

“Certainly. He’s a beautiful animal.”

“Pat him.”

“With pleasure.” He bent gracefully. “Bootsy, do you know your master’s gone?” He scratched behind the black ears. “Gone forever, Bootsy, and that’s too bad.” He straightened. “Anything else? I’m working. I like the morning light.”

“That’s all, thanks.” Purley turned to go, and I let Loftus and Bootsy by before following. On the way down the three flights no one had any remarks.

As we hit the level of the lower hall Victor Talento’s door opened, and he emerged and spoke. “The District Attorney’s office phoned. Are you through with me? They want me down there.”

“We’re through,” Purley rumbled. “We can run you down.”

Talento said that would be fine and he would be ready in a minute. Purley told Loftus to give me Bootsy, and he handed me the leash.

“I am willing,” I said helpfully, “to give you a detailed analysis of the dog’s conduct. It will take about a week.”

“Go to hell,” Purley growled, “and take the goddam dog along.”

I departed. Outside the morning was still fine. The presence of two PD cars in front of the scene of a murder had attracted a small gathering, and Bootsy and I were objects of interest as we appeared and started off. We both ignored the stares. We moseyed along, in no hurry, stopping now and then to give Bootsy a chance to inspect something if he felt inclined. At the fourth or fifth stop, more than a block away, I saw the quartet leaving number 29. Stebbins and Talento took one car and Loftus and the colleague the other, and they rolled off.

I shortened up on Bootsy a little, walked him west until an empty taxi appeared, stopped it and got in, took a five-dollar bill from my wallet, and handed it to the hackie.

“Thanks,” he said with feeling. “For what, down payment on the cab?”

“You’ll earn it, brother,” I assured him. “Is there somewhere within a block or so of Arbor and Court where you can park for anywhere from thirty minutes to three hours?”

“Not three hours for a finif.”

“Of course not.” I got another five and gave it to him. “I doubt if it will be that long.”

“There’s a parking lot not too far. On the street without a passenger I’ll be solicited.”

“You’ll have a passenger — the dog. I prefer the street. He’s a nice dog. When I return I’ll be reasonable. Let’s see what we can find.”

He pulled the lever and we moved. There are darned few legal parking spaces in all Manhattan at that time of day, and we cruised around several corners before we found one, on Court Street two blocks from Arbor. He backed into it and I got out, leaving the windows down three inches. I told him I’d be back when he saw me, and headed south, turning right at the second corner.

There was no police car at 29 Arbor, and no gathering. That was satisfactory. Entering the vestibule, I pushed the button under Meegan and put my hand on the knob. No click. Pushing twice more and still getting no response, I tried Aland’s button, and that worked. After a short wait the click came, and I shoved the door open, entered, mounted two flights, went to the door, and knocked with authority.

The squeaky voice came through. “Who is it?”

“Goodwin. I was just here with the others. I haven’t got the dog. Open up.”

The door swung slowly to a crack, and then wider. Jerome Aland was still in his gaudy pajamas. “For God’s sake,” he squeaked, “what do you want now? I need some sleep!”

I didn’t apologize. “I was going to ask you some questions when I was here before,” I told him, “but the dog complicated it. It won’t take long.” Since he wasn’t polite enough to move aside, I had to brush him, skinny as he was, as I went in. “Which way?”

He slid past me, and I followed him across to chairs. They were the kind of chairs that made Jewel Jones hate furnished apartments, and the rest of the furniture didn’t help any. He sat on the edge of one and demanded, “All right, what?”

It was a little tricky. Since he was assuming I was one of the Homicide personnel, it wouldn’t do for me to know either too much or too little. It would be risky to mention Jewel Jones, because the cops might not have got around to her at all.

“I’m checking some points,” I told him. “How long has Richard Meegan occupied the apartment below you?”

“Hell, I’ve told you that a dozen times.”

“Not me. I said I’m checking. How long?”

“Nine days. He took it a week ago Tuesday.”

“Who was the previous tenant? Just before him.”

“There wasn’t any. It was empty.”

“Empty ever since you’ve been here?”

“No, I’ve told you, a girl had it, but she moved out about three months ago. Her name is Jewel Jones, and she’s a fine artist, and she got me my job at the night club where I work now.” His mouth worked. “I know what you’re doing, you’re trying to make it nasty, and you’re trying to catch me getting my facts twisted. Bringing that dog here to growl at me — can I help it if I don’t like dogs?”

He ran his fingers, both hands, through his hair. When the hair was messed good he gestured like a night-club performer. “Die like a dog,” he said. “That’s what Phil did, died like a dog. Poor Phil, I wouldn’t want to see that again.”

“You said,” I ventured, “that you and he were good friends.”

His head jerked up. “I did not. Did I say that?”

“More or less. Maybe not in those words. Why, weren’t you?”

“We were not. I haven’t got any good friends.”

“You just said that the girl that used to live here got you a job. That sounds like a good friend. Or did she owe you something?”

“Not a damn thing. Why do you keep bringing her up?”

“I didn’t bring her up, you did. I only asked who was the former tenant in the apartment below you. Why, would you rather keep her out of it?”

“I don’t have to keep her out. She’s not in it.”

“Perhaps not. Did she know Philip Kampf?”

“I guess so. Sure she did.”

“How well did she know him?”

He shook his head. “Now you’re getting personal, and I’m the wrong person. If Phil was alive you could ask him, and he might tell you. Me, I don’t know.”

I smiled at him. “All that does, Mr. Aland, is make me curious. Somebody in this house murdered Kampf. So we ask you questions, and when we come to one you shy at, naturally we wonder why. If you don’t like talking about Kampf and that girl, think what it could mean. For instance, it could mean that the girl was yours, and Kampf took her away from you, and that was why you killed him when he came here yesterday. Or it could—”

“She wasn’t mine!”

“Uh-huh. Or it could mean that although she wasn’t yours, you were under a deep obligation to her, and Kampf had given her a dirty deal, or he was threatening her with something, and she wanted him disposed of, and you obliged. Or of course it could be merely that Kampf had something on you.”

He had his head tilted back so he could look down on me. “You’re in the wrong racket,” he asserted. “You ought to be writing TV scripts.”

I stuck with him only a few more minutes, having got all I could hope for under the circumstances. Since I was letting him assume that I was a city employee, I couldn’t very well try to pry him loose for a trip to Wolfe’s place. Also I had two more calls to make, and there was no telling when I might be interrupted by a phone call or a courier to one of them from downtown. The only further item I gathered from Jerome Aland was that he wasn’t trying to get from under by slipping in any insinuations about his co-tenants. He had no opinions or ideas about who had killed poor Phil. When I left he stood up, but he let me go and open the door for myself.

I went down a flight, to Meegan’s door, and knocked and waited. Just as I was raising a fist to make it louder and better there were footsteps inside, and the door opened. Meegan was still in his shirt sleeves and still uncombed.

“Well?” he demanded.

“Back again,” I said firmly but not offensively. “With a few questions. If you don’t mind?”

“You know damn well I mind.”

“Naturally. Mr. Talento has been called down to the District Attorney’s office. This might possibly save you another trip there.”

He sidestepped, and I went in. The room was the same size and shape as Aland’s, above, and the furniture, though different, was no more desirable. The table against a wall was lopsided — probably the one that Jewel Jones hoped they had fixed for him. I took a chair at its end, and he took another and sat frowning at me.

“Haven’t I seen you before?” he wanted to know.

“Sure, we were here with the dog.”

“I mean before that. Wasn’t it you in Nero Wolfe’s office yesterday?”

“That’s right.”

“How come?”

I raised my brows. “Haven’t you got the lines crossed, Mr. Meegan? I’m here to ask questions, not to answer them. I was in Wolfe’s office on business. I often am. Now—”

“He’s a fat, arrogant halfwit!”

“You may be right. He’s certainly arrogant. Now, I’m here on business.” I got out my notebook and pencil. “You moved into this place nine days ago. Please tell me exactly how you came to take this apartment.”

He glared. “I’ve told it at least three times.”

“I know. This is the way it’s done. I’m not trying to catch you in some little discrepancy, but you could have omitted something important. Just assume I haven’t heard it before. Go ahead.”

“Oh, my God.” His head dropped and his lips tightened. Normally he might not have been a bad-looking guy, with blond hair and gray eyes and a long bony face, but now, having spent the night, or most of it, with Homicide and the DA, he looked it, especially his eyes, which were red and puffy.

He lifted his head. “I’m a commercial photographer — in Pittsburgh. Two years ago I married a girl named Margaret Ryan. Seven months later she left me. I didn’t know whether she went alone or with somebody. She just left. She left Pittsburgh too, or anyway I couldn’t find her there, and her family never saw her or heard from her. About five months later, about a year ago, a man I know, a businessman I do work for, came back from a trip to New York and said he’d seen her in a theater here with a man. He went and spoke to her, but she claimed he was mistaken. He was sure it was her. I came to New York and spent a week looking around but didn’t find her. I didn’t go to the police because I didn’t want to. You want a better reason, but that’s mine.”

“I’ll skip that.” I was writing in the notebook. “Go ahead.”

“Two weeks ago I went to look at a show of pictures at the Institute in Pittsburgh. There was a painting there, an oil, a big one. It was called ‘Three Young Mares at Pasture,’ and it was an interior, a room, with three women in it. One of them was on a couch, and two of them were on a rug on the floor. They were eating apples. The one on the couch was my wife. I was sure of it the minute I saw her, and after I stood and studied it I was even surer. There was absolutely no doubt of it.”

“We’re not challenging that,” I assured him. “What did you do?”

“The artist’s signature looked like Chapple, but of course the catalogue settled that. It was Ross Chaffee. I went to the Institute office and asked about him. They thought he lived in New York but weren’t sure. I had some work on hand I had to finish, and it took a couple of days, and then I came to New York. I had no trouble finding Ross Chaffee; he was in the phone book. I went to see him at his studio — here in this house. First I told him I was interested in that figure in his painting, that I thought she would be just right to model for some photographs I wanted to do, but he said that his opinion of photography as a medium was such that he wouldn’t care to supply models for it, and he was bowing me out, so I told him how it was. I told him the whole thing. Then he was different. He sympathized with me and said he would be glad to help me if he could, but he had painted that picture more than a year ago, and he used so many different models for his pictures that it was impossible to remember which was which.”

Meegan stopped, and I looked up from the notebook. He said aggressively, “I’m repeating that that sounded phony to me.”

“Go right ahead. You’re telling it.”

“I say it was phony. A photographer might use hundreds of models in a year, and he might forget, but not a painter. Not a picture like that. I got a little tactless with him, and then I apologized. He said he might be able to refresh his memory and asked me to phone him the next day. Instead of phoning I went back the next day to see him, but he said he simply couldn’t remember and doubted if he ever could. I didn’t get tactless again. Coming in the house, I had noticed a sign that there was a furnished apartment to let, and when I left Chaffee I found the janitor and rented it, and went to my hotel for my bags and moved in. I knew damn well my wife had modeled for that picture, and I knew I could find her. I wanted to be as close as I could to Chaffee and the people who came to see him.”

I wanted something too. I wanted to say that he must have had a photograph of his wife along and that I would like to see it, but of course I didn’t dare, since it was a cinch that he had already either given it to the cops, or refused to, or claimed he didn’t have one. So I merely asked, “What progress did you make?”

“Not much. I tried to get friendly with Chaffee but didn’t get very far. I met the other two tenants, Talento and Aland, but that didn’t get me anywhere. Finally I decided I would have to get some expert help, and that was why I went to see Nero Wolfe. You were there, you know how that came out — that big blob.”

I nodded. “He has dropsy of the ego. What did you want him to do?”

“I’ve told you.”

“Tell it again.”

“I was going to have him tap Chaffee’s phone.”

“That’s illegal,” I said severely.

“All right, I didn’t do it.”

I flipped a page of the notebook. “Go back a little. During that week, besides the tenants here, how many of Chaffee’s friends and acquaintances did you meet?”

“Just two, as I’ve told you. A young woman, a model, in his studio one day, and I don’t remember her name, and a man that was there another day, a man that Chaffee said buys his pictures. His name was Braunstein.”

“You’re leaving out Philip Kampf.”

Meegan leaned forward and put a fist on the table. “Yes, and I’m going to leave him out. I never saw him or heard of him.”

“What would you say if I said you were seen with him?”

“I’d say you were a dirty liar!” The red eyes looked redder. “As if I wasn’t already having enough trouble, now you set on me about a murder of a man I never heard of! You bring a dog here and tell me to pat it, for God’s sake!”

I nodded. “That’s your hard luck, Mr. Meegan. You’re not the first man that’s had a murder for company without inviting it.” I closed the notebook and put it in my pocket. “You’d better find some way of handling your troubles without having people’s phones tapped.” I arose. “Stick around, please. You may be wanted downtown anyhow.”

He went to open the door for me. I would have liked to get more details of his progress with Ross Chaffee, or lack of it, and his contacts with the other two tenants, but it seemed more important to have some words with Chaffee before I got interrupted. As I mounted the two flights to the top floor my wristwatch said twenty-eight minutes past ten.

V

“I know there’s no use complaining,” Ross Chaffee said, “about these interruptions to my work. Under the circumstances.” He was being very gracious about it.

The top floor was quite different from the others. I don’t know what his living quarters in front were like, but the studio, in the rear, was big and high and anything but crummy. There were sculptures around, big and little, and canvases of all sizes were stacked and propped against racks. The walls were covered with drapes, solid gray, with nothing on them. Each of two easels — one much larger than the other — held a canvas that had been worked on. There were several plain chairs and two upholstered ones, and an oversized divan, nearly square. I had been steered to one of the upholstered numbers, and Chaffee, still in his smock, had moved a plain one to sit facing me.

“Only don’t prolong it unnecessarily,” he requested.

I said I wouldn’t. “There are a couple of points,” I told him, “that we wonder about a little. Of course it could be merely a coincidence that Richard Meegan came to town looking for his wife, and came to see you, and rented an apartment here just nine days before Kampf was murdered, but a coincidence like that will have to stand some going over. Frankly, Mr. Chaffee, there are those, and I happen to be one of them, who find it hard to believe that you couldn’t remember who modeled for an important figure in a picture you painted. I know what you say, but it’s still hard to believe.”

“My dear sir.” Chaffee was smiling. “Then you must think I’m lying.”

“I didn’t say so.”

“But you do, of course.” He shrugged. “To what end? What deep design am I cherishing?”

“I wouldn’t know. You say you wanted to help Meegan find his wife.”

“No, not that I wanted to. I was willing to. He was a horrible nuisance.”

“He must have been a first-class pest.”

“He was. He is.”

“It should have been worth some effort to get rid of him. Did you make any?”

“I have explained what I did — in a statement, and signed it. I have nothing to add. I tried to refresh my memory. One of your colleagues suggested that I might have gone to Pittsburgh to look at the picture. I suppose he was being funny.”

A flicker of annoyance in his fine dark eyes, which were as clear and bright as if he had had a good eight hours of innocent slumber, warned me that I was supposed to have read his statement, and if I aroused a suspicion that I hadn’t he might get personal.

I gave him an earnest eye. “Look, Mr. Chaffee. This thing is bad for all concerned. It will get worse instead of better until we find out who killed Kampf. You men in this house must know things about one another, and maybe some things connected with Kampf, that you’re not telling. I don’t expect a man like you to pass out dirt just for the hell of it, but any dirt that’s connected with this murder is going to come out, and if you know of any and are keeping it to yourself you’re a bigger fool than you look.”

“Quite a speech.” He was smiling again.

“Thanks. You make one.”

“I’m not as eloquent as you are.” He shook his head. “No, I don’t believe I can help you any. I can’t say I’m a total stranger to dirt; that would be smug; but what you’re after — no. You have my opinion of Kampf, whom I knew quite well; he was in some respects admirable but had his full share of faults. I would say approximately the same of Talento. I have known Aland only casually — certainly not intimately. I know no more of Meegan than you do. I haven’t the slightest notion why any of them might have wanted to kill Philip Kampf. If you expect—”

A phone rang. Chaffee crossed to a table at the end of the divan and answered it. He told it yes a couple of times, and then a few words, and then, “But one of your men is here now... I don’t know his name, I didn’t ask him... He may be, I don’t know... Very well, one-fifty-five Leonard Street... Yes, I can leave in a few minutes.”

He hung up and turned to me. I spoke first, on my feet. “So they want you at the DA’s office. Don’t tell them I said so, but they’d rather keep a murder in the file till hell freezes over than have the squad crack it. If they want my name they know where to ask.”

I marched to the door, opened it, and was gone.

There were still no PD cars out in front. After turning left on Court Street and continuing two blocks, I was relieved to find the cab still there, with its passenger perched on the seat looking out at the scenery. If the hackie had gone off with him to sell him, or if Stebbins had happened by and hijacked him, I wouldn’t have dared to go home at all. He seemed pleased to see me, as he damned well should have been. During the drive to Thirty-fifth Street he sat with his rump braced against me for a buttress. The meter said only six dollars and something, but I didn’t request any change. If Wolfe wanted to put me to work on a murder merely because he had got infatuated with a dog, let it cost him something.

I noticed that when we entered the office Jet went over to Wolfe, in place behind his desk, without any sign of bashfulness or uncertainty, proving that the evening before, during my absence, Wolfe had made approaches, probably had fed him something, and possibly had even patted him. Remarks occurred to me, but I saved them. I might be called on before long to spend some valuable time demonstrating that I had not been guilty of impersonating an officer, and that it wasn’t my fault if murder suspects mistook me for one.

Wolfe put down his empty beer glass and inquired, “Well?”

I reported. The situation called for a full and detailed account, and I supplied it, with Wolfe leaning back with his eyes closed. When I came to the end he asked no questions. Instead, he opened his eyes, straightened up, and began, “Call the—”

I cut him off. “Wait a minute. After a hard morning’s work I claim the satisfaction of suggesting it myself. I thought of it long ago. What’s the name of the Institute in Pittsburgh where they have shows of pictures?”

“Indeed. It’s a shot at random.”

“I know it is, but it’s only a buck. I just spent ten on a taxi. What’s the name?”

“Pittsburgh Art Institute.”

I swiveled for the phone on my desk, got the operator, and put in the call. I got through to the Institute in no time, but it took a quarter of an hour, with relays to three different people, to get what I was after.

I hung up and turned to Wolfe. “The show ended a week ago yesterday. Thank God I won’t have to go to Pittsburgh. The picture was lent by Mr. Herman Braunstein of New York, who owns it. It was shipped back to him by express four days ago. He wouldn’t give me Braunstein’s address.”

“The phone book.”

I had it and was flipping the pages. “Here we are. Business on Broad Street, residence on Park Avenue. There’s only one Herman.”

“Get him.”

“I don’t think so. He may be a poop. It might take all day. Why don’t I go to the residence without phoning? It’s probably there, and if I can’t get in you can fire me. I’m thinking of resigning anyhow.”

He had his doubts, since it was my idea, but he bought it. After considering the problem a little, I went to the cabinet beneath the bookshelves, got out the Veblex camera, with accessories, slung the strap of the case over my shoulder, told Wolfe I wouldn’t be back until I saw the picture, wherever it was, and beat it. Before going I dialed Talento’s number to tell him not to bother to keep his appointment, but there was no answer. Either he was still engaged at the DA’s office or he was on his way to Thirty-fifth Street, and if he came during my absence that was all right, since Jet was there to protect Wolfe.

A taxi took me to the end of a sidewalk canopy in front of one of the palace hives on Park Avenue in the Seventies, and I undertook to walk past the doorman without giving him a glance, but he stopped me. I said professionally, “Braunstein, taking pictures, I’m late,” and kept going, and got away with it. After crossing the luxurious lobby to the elevator, which luckily was there with the door open, I entered, saying, “Braunstein, please,” and the chauffeur shut the door and pulled the lever. We stopped at the twelfth floor, and I stepped out. There was a door to the right and another to the left, and I turned right without asking, on a fifty-fifty chance, listening for a possible correction from the elevator man, who was standing by with his door open.

It was one of the simplest chores I have ever performed. In answer to my ring the door was opened by a middle-aged female husky, in uniform with apron, and when I told her I had come to take a picture she let me in, asked me to wait, and disappeared. In a couple of minutes a tall and dignified dame with white hair came through an arch and asked what I wanted. I apologized for disturbing her and said I would deeply appreciate it if she would let me take a picture of a painting which had recently been shown at the Pittsburgh Institute, on loan by Mr. Braunstein. It was called “Three Young Mares at Pasture.” A Pittsburgh client of mine had admired it, and had intended to go back and photograph it for his collection, but the picture had gone before he got around to it.

She wanted some information, such as my name and address and the name of my Pittsburgh client, which I supplied gladly without a script, and then led me through the arch into a room not quite as big as Madison Square Garden. It would have been a pleasure, and also instructive, to do a little glomming at the rugs and furniture and other miscellaneous objects, especially the dozen or more pictures on the walls, but that would have to wait. She went across to a picture near the far end, said, “That’s it,” and lowered herself onto a chair.

It was a nice picture. I had half expected the mares to be without clothes, but they were fully dressed. Remarking that I didn’t wonder that my client wanted a photograph of it, I got busy with my equipment, including flash bulbs. She sat and watched. I took four shots from slightly different angles, acting and looking professional, I hoped; got my stuff back in the case; thanked her warmly on behalf of my client; promised to send her some prints; and left. That was all there was to it.

Out on the sidewalk again, I walked west to Madison, turned downtown and found a drugstore, went in to the phone booth, and dialed a number.

Wolfe’s voice came. “Yes? Whom do you want?”

I’ve told him a hundred times that’s a hell of a way to answer the phone, but he’s too damn pigheaded.

I spoke. “I want you. I’ve seen the picture, and I wouldn’t have thought that stallion had it in him. It glows with color and life, and the blood seems to pulsate under the warm skin. The shadows are transparent, with a harmonious blending—”

“Shut up! Yes or no?”

“Yes. You have met Mrs. Meegan. Would you like to meet her again?”

“I would. Get her.”

I didn’t have to look in the phone book for her address, having already done so. I left the drugstore and flagged a taxi.

There was no doorman problem at the number on East Forty-ninth Street. It was an old brick house that had been painted a bright yellow and modernized, notably with a self-service elevator, though I didn’t know that until I got in. Getting in was a little complicated. Pressing the button marked “Jewel Jones” in the vestibule was easy enough, and also unhooking the receiver and putting it to my ear, and placing my mouth close to the grille, but then it got more difficult.

A voice crackled. “Yes?”

“Miss Jones?”

“Yes. Who is it?”

“Archie Goodwin. I want to see you. Not a message from Victor Talento.”

“What do you want?”

“Let me in and I’ll tell you.”

“No. What is it?”

“It’s very personal. If you don’t want to hear it from me I’ll go and bring Richard Meegan, and maybe you’ll tell him.”

I heard the gasp. She should have known those house phones are sensitive. After a pause. “Why do you say that? I told you I don’t know any Meegan.”

“You’re way behind. I just saw a picture called ‘Three Young Mares at Pasture.’ Let me in.”

Another pause, and the line went dead. I put the receiver on the hook, and turned and placed my hand on the knob. There was a click, and I pushed the door and entered, crossed the little lobby to the elevator, pushed the button and, when the door opened, slid in, pushed the button marked 5, and was ascending. When the elevator stopped I opened the door and emerged into a tiny foyer. A door was standing open, and on the sill was Miss Jones in a blue negligee. She started to say something, but I rudely ignored it.

“Listen,” I said, “There’s no sense in prolonging this. Last night I gave you your pick between Mr. Wolfe and Sergeant Stebbins; now it’s either Mr. Wolfe or Meegan. I should think you’d prefer Mr. Wolfe because he’s the kind of man that understands; you said so yourself. I’ll wait here while you change, but don’t try phoning anybody, because you won’t know where you are until you’ve talked with Mr. Wolfe, and also because their wires are probably tapped. Don’t put on anything red. Mr. Wolfe dislikes red. He likes yellow.”

She stepped to me and had a hand on my arm. “Archie. Where did you see the picture?”

“I’ll tell you on the way down. Let’s go.”

She gave the arm a gentle tug. “You don’t have to wait out here. Come in and sit down.” Another tug, just as gentle. “Come on.”

I patted her fingers, not wishing to be boorish. “Sorry,” I told her, “but I’m afraid of young mares. One kicked me once.”

She turned and disappeared into the apartment, leaving the door standing open.

VI

“Don’t call me Mrs. Meegan!” Jewel Jones cried.

Wolfe was in as bad a humor as she was. True, she had been hopelessly cornered, with no weapons within reach, but he had been compelled to tell Fritz to postpone lunch until further notice.

“I was only,” he said crustily, “stressing the fact that your identity is not a matter for discussion. Legally you are Mrs. Richard Meegan. That understood, I’ll call you anything you say. Miss Jones?”

“Yes.” She was on the red leather chair, but not in it. Just on its edge, she looked as if she were set to spring up and scoot any second.

“Very well.” Wolfe regarded her. “You realize, madam, that everything you say will be received skeptically. You are a competent liar. Your offhand denial of acquaintance with Mr. Meegan last night was better than competent. Now. When did Mr. Chaffee tell you that your husband was in town looking for you?”

“I didn’t say Mr. Chaffee told me.”

“Someone did. Who and when?”

She was hanging on. “How do you know someone did?”

He wiggled a finger at her. “I beg you, Miss Jones, to realize the pickle you’re in. It is not credible that Mr. Chaffee couldn’t remember the name of the model for that figure in his picture. The police don’t believe it, and they haven’t the advantage of knowing, as I do, that it was you and that you lived in that house for a year, and that you still see Mr. Chaffee occasionally. When your husband came and asked Mr. Chaffee for the name, and Mr. Chaffee pleaded a faulty memory, and your husband rented an apartment there and made it plain that he intended to persevere, it is preposterous to suppose that Mr. Chaffee didn’t tell you. I don’t envy you your tussles with the police after they learn about you.”

“They don’t have to learn about me, do they?”

“Pfui. I’m surprised they haven’t got to you already, though it’s been only eighteen hours. They soon will, even if not through me. I know this is no frolic for you, here with me, but they will almost make it seem so.”

She was thinking. Her brow was wrinkled and her eyes straight at Wolfe. “Do you know,” she asked, “what I think would be the best thing? I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. You’re a detective, you’re an expert at helping people in trouble, and I’m certainly in trouble. I’ll pay you to help me. I could pay you a little now.”

“Not now or ever, Miss Jones.” Wolfe was blunt. “When did Mr. Chaffee tell you that your husband was here looking for you?”

“You won’t even listen to me,” she complained.

“Talk sense and I will. When?”

She edged back on the chair an inch. “You don’t know my husband. He was jealous about me even before we married, and then he was worse. It got so bad I couldn’t stand it, and that was why I left him. I knew if I stayed in Pittsburgh he would find me and kill me, so I came to New York. A friend of mine had come here — I mean, just a friend. I got a job at a modeling agency and made enough to live on, and I met a lot of people. Ross Chaffee was one of them, and he wanted to use me in a picture, and I let him. Of course he paid me, but that wasn’t so important, because soon after that I met Phil Kampf, and he got me a tryout at a night club, and I made it. About then I had a scare, though. A man from Pittsburgh saw me at a theater and came and spoke to me, but I told him he was wrong, that I had never been in Pittsburgh.”

“That was a year ago,” Wolfe muttered.

“Yes. I was a little leery about the night club, in public like that, but months went by and nothing happened, and then all of a sudden this happened. Ross Chaffee phoned me that my husband had come and asked about the picture, and I asked him for God’s sake not to tell him who it was, and he promised he wouldn’t. You see, you don’t know my husband. I knew he was trying to find me so he could kill me.”

“You’ve said that twice. Has he ever killed anybody?”

“I didn’t say anybody; I said me. I seem to have an effect on men.” She gestured for understanding. “They just go for me. And Dick— Well, I know him, that’s all. I left him a year and a half ago, and he’s still looking for me, and that’s what he’s like. When Ross told me he was here I was scared stiff. I quit working at the club because he might happen to go there and see me, and I didn’t hardly leave my apartment until last night.”

Wolfe nodded. “To meet Mr. Talento. What for?”

“I told you.”

“Yes, but then you were merely Miss Jones. Now you are also Mrs. Meegan. What for?”

“That doesn’t change it any. I had heard on the radio about Phil being killed, and I wanted to know about it. I rang Ross Chaffee and I rang Jerry Aland, but neither of them answered, so I rang Vic Talento. He wouldn’t tell me anything on the phone, but he said he would meet me.”

“Did Mr. Aland and Mr. Talento know you had sat for that picture?”

“Sure they did.”

“And that Mr. Meegan had seen it and recognized you, and was here looking for you?”

“Yes, they knew all about it. Ross had to tell them, because he thought Dick might ask them if they knew who had modeled for the picture, and he had to warn them not to tell. They said they wouldn’t, and they didn’t. They’re all good friends of mine.”

She stopped to do something. She opened her black leather bag on her lap, took out a purse, and fingered its contents, peering into it. She raised her eyes to Wolfe. “I can pay you forty dollars now, to start. I’m not just in trouble, I’m in danger of my life, really I am. I don’t see how you can refuse— You’re not listening!”

Apparently he wasn’t. With his lips pursed, he was watching the tip of his forefinger make little circles on his desk blotter. Her reproach didn’t stop him, but after a moment he moved his eyes to me and said abruptly, “Get Mr. Chaffee.”

“No!” she cried. “I don’t want him to know—”

“Nonsense,” he snapped at her. “Everybody will have to know everything, and why drag it out? Get him, Archie. I’ll speak to him.”

I got at the phone and dialed. I doubted if he would be back from his session with the DA, but he was. His “hello” was enough to recognize his voice by. I pitched mine low so he wouldn’t know it, not caring to start a debate as to whether I had or had not impersonated an officer, and merely told him that Nero Wolfe wished to speak to him.

Wolfe took it at his desk. “Mr. Chaffee? This is Nero Wolfe... I’ve assumed an interest in the murder of Philip Kampf and have done some investigating... Just one moment, please, don’t ring off... Sitting here in my office is Mrs. Richard Meegan, alias Miss Jewel Jones... Please let me finish... I shall of course have to detain her and communicate with the police, since they will want her as a material witness in a murder case, but before I do that I would like to discuss the matter with you and the others who live in that house. Will you undertake to bring them here as soon as possible?... No, I’ll say nothing further on the phone, I want you here, all of you. If Mr. Meegan is balky, you might as well tell him his wife is here. I’ll expect—”

She was across to him in a leap that any young mare might have envied, grabbing for the phone and shrieking at it, “Don’t tell him, Ross! Don’t bring him! Don’t—”

My own leap and dash around the end of the desk was fairly good too. Getting her shoulders, I yanked her back, with enough enthusiasm so that I landed in the red leather chair with her on my lap, and since she was by no means through I wrapped my arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides, whereupon she started kicking my shins with her heels. She kept on kicking until Wolfe finished with Chaffee. When he hung up she suddenly relaxed and was limp, and I realized how warm she felt tight against me.

Wolfe scowled at us. “An affecting sight,” he snorted.

VII

There were various aspects of the situation. One was lunch. For Wolfe it was unthinkable to have company in the house at mealtime, no matter what his or her status was, without feeding him or her, but he certainly wasn’t going to sit at table with a female who had just pounced on him and clawed at him. That problem was simple. She and I were served in the dining room, and Wolfe ate in the kitchen with Fritz. We were served, but she didn’t eat much. She kept listening and looking toward the hall, though I assured her that care would be taken to see that her husband didn’t kill her on those premises.

A second aspect was the reaction of three of the tenants to their discovery of my identity. I handled that myself. When the doorbell rang and I admitted them, at a quarter past two, I told them I would be glad to discuss my split personality with any or all of them later, if they still wanted to, but they would have to file it until Wolfe was through. Victor Talento had another beef that he wouldn’t file, that I had doublecrossed him on the message he had asked me to take to Jewel Jones. He wanted to get nasty about it and demanded a private talk with Wolfe, but I told him to go climb a rope.

I also had to handle the third aspect, which had two angles. There was Miss Jones’s theory that her husband would kill her on sight, which might or might not be well founded, and there was the fact that one of them had killed Kampf and might go to extremes if pushed. On that I took three precautions: I showed them the Carley.38 I had put in my pocket and told them it was loaded; I insisted on patting them from shoulders to ankles; and I kept Miss Jones in the dining room until I had them seated in the office, on a row of chairs facing Wolfe’s desk, and until Wolfe had come in from the kitchen and been told their names. When he was in his chair behind his desk I went across the hall for her and brought her in.

Meegan jumped up and started for us. I stiff-armed him and made it good. She got behind me. Talento and Aland left their chairs, presumably to help protect the mare. Meegan was talking, and so were they. I detoured with her around back of them and got her to a chair at the end of my desk, and when I sat I was in an ideal spot to trip anyone headed for her. Talento and Aland had pulled Meegan down onto a chair between them, and he sat staring at her.

“With that hubbub over,” Wolfe said, “I want to be sure I have the names right.” His eyes went from left to right. “Talento, Meegan, Aland, Chaffee. Is that correct?

I told him yes.

“Then I’ll proceed.” He glanced up at the wall clock. “Twenty hours ago Philip Kampf was killed in the house where you gentlemen live. The circumstances indicate that one of you killed him. But I won’t rehash the multifarious details which you have already discussed at length with the police; you are familiar with them. I have not been hired to work on this case; the only client I have is a dog, and he came to my office by inadvertence. However, it is—”

The doorbell rang. I asked myself if I had put the chain bolt on, and decided I had. Through the open door to the hall I saw Fritz passing to answer it. Wolfe started to go on, but was annoyed by the sound of voices, Fritz’s and another’s, coming through, and stopped. The voices continued. Wolfe shut his eyes and compressed his lips. The audience sat and looked at him.

Then Fritz appeared in the doorway and announced, “Inspector Cramer, sir.”

Wolfe’s eyes opened. “What does he want?”

“I told him you are engaged. He says he knows you are, that the four men were followed to your house and he was notified. He says he expected you to be trying some trick with the dog, and he knows that’s what you are doing, and he intends to come in and see what it is. Sergeant Stebbins is with him.”

Wolfe grunted. “Archie, tell — No. You’d better stay where you are. Fritz, tell him he may see and hear what I’m doing, provided he gives me thirty minutes without interruptions or demands. If he agrees to that, bring them in.”

“Wait!” Ross Chaffee was on his feet. “You said you would discuss it with us before you communicated with the police.”

“I haven’t communicated with them, they’re here.”

“You told them to come!”

“No. I would have preferred to deal with you men first and then call them, but here they are and they might as well join us. Bring them, Fritz, on that condition.”

“Yes, sir.”

Fritz went. Chaffee thought he had something more to say, decided he hadn’t, and sat down. Talento said something to him, and he shook his head. Jerry Aland, much more presentable now that he was combed and dressed, kept his eyes fastened on Wolfe.

For Meegan, apparently, there was no one in the room but him and his wife.

Cramer and Stebbins marched in, halted three paces from the door, and took a survey.

“Be seated,” Wolfe invited them. “Luckily, Mr. Cramer, your usual chair is unoccupied.”

“Where’s the dog?” Cramer barked.

“In the kitchen. You had better suspend that prepossession. It’s understood that you will be merely a spectator for thirty minutes?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Then sit down. But you should have one piece of information. You know the gentlemen, of course, but not the lady. Her current name is Miss Jewel Jones. Her legal name is Mrs. Richard Meegan.”

“Meegan?” Cramer stared. “The one in the picture Chaffee painted? Meegan’s wife?”

“That’s right. Please be seated.”

“Where did you get her?”

“That can wait. No interruptions and no demands. Confound it, sit down!”

Cramer went and lowered himself onto the red leather chair. Purley Stebbins got one of the yellow ones and planted it behind the row, between Chaffee and Aland.

Wolfe regarded the quartet. “I was about to say, gentlemen, that it was something the dog did that pointed to the murderer for me. But before—”

“What did it do?” Cramer barked.

“You know all about it,” Wolfe told him coldly. “Mr. Goodwin related it to you exactly as it happened. If you interrupt again, by heaven, you can take them all down to your quarters, not including the dog, and stew it out yourself.”

He went back to the four. “But before I come to that, another thing or two. I offer no comment on your guile with Mr. Meegan. You were all friends of Miss Jones’s, having, I suppose, enjoyed various degrees of intimacy with her, and you refused to disclose her to a husband whom she had abandoned and professed to fear. I will even concede that there was a flavor of gallantry in your conduct. But when Mr. Kampf was murdered and the police swarmed in, it was idiotic to try to keep her out of it. They were sure to get to her. I got to her first only because of Mr. Goodwin’s admirable enterprise and characteristic luck.”

He shook his head at them. “It was also idiotic of you to assume that Mr. Goodwin was a police officer, and admit him and answer his questions, merely because he had been present during the abortive experiment with the dog. You should have asked to see his credentials. None of you had any idea who he was. Even Mr. Meegan, who had seen him in this office in the morning, was bamboozled. I mention this to anticipate any possible official complaint that Mr. Goodwin impersonated an officer. You know he didn’t. He merely took advantage of your unwarranted assumption.”

He shifted in his chair. “Another thing. Yesterday morning Mr. Meegan called here by appointment to ask me to do a job for him. With his first words I gathered that it was something about his wife, and I don’t take that kind of work, and I was brusque with him. He was offended. He rushed out in a temper, getting his hat and raincoat from the rack in the hall, and he took Mr. Goodwin’s coat instead of his own. Late in the afternoon Mr. Goodwin went to Arbor Street, with the coat that had been left in error, to exchange it. He saw that in front of number twenty-nine there were collected two police cars, a policeman on post, some people, and a dog. He decided to postpone his errand and went on by, after a brief halt during which he patted the dog. He walked home, and had gone nearly two miles when he discovered that the dog was following him. He brought the dog in a cab the rest of the way, to this house and this room.”

He flattened a palm on his desk. “Now. Why did the dog follow Mr. Goodwin through the turmoil of the city? Mr. Cramer’s notion that the dog was enticed is poppycock. Mr. Goodwin is willing to believe, as many men are, that he is irresistible to both dogs and women, and doubtless his vanity impeded his intellect or he would have reached the same conclusion that I did. The dog didn’t follow him; it followed the coat. You ask, as I did, how to account for Mr. Kampf’s dog following Mr. Meegan’s coat. I couldn’t. I can’t. Then, since it was unquestionably Mr. Kampf’s dog, it couldn’t have been Mr. Meegan’s coat. It is better than a conjecture, it is next thing to a certainty, that it was Mr. Kampf’s coat.”

His gaze leveled at the husband. “Mr. Meegan. Some two hours ago I learned from Mr. Goodwin that you maintain that you had never seen or heard of Mr. Kampf. That was fairly conclusive, but before sending for you I had to verify my conjecture that the model who had sat for Mr. Chaffee’s picture was your wife. I would like to hear it straight from you. Did you ever meet with Philip Kampf alive?”

Meegan was meeting the gaze. “No.”

“Don’t you want to qualify that?”

“No.”

“Then where did you get his raincoat?”

No answer. Meegan’s jaw worked. He spoke. “I didn’t have his raincoat, or if I did I didn’t know it.”

“That won’t do. I warn you, you are in deadly peril. The raincoat that you brought into this house and left here is in the hall now, there on the rack. It can easily be established that it belonged to Mr. Kampf and was worn by him. Where did you get it?”

Meegan’s jaw worked some more. “I never had it, if it belonged to Kampf. This is a dirty frame. You can’t prove that’s the coat I left here.”

Wolfe’s voice sharpened. “One more chance. Have you any explanation of how Kampf’s coat came into your possession?”

“No, and I don’t need any.”

He may not have been pure boob. If he hadn’t noticed that he wore the wrong coat home, and he probably didn’t, in his state of mind, this had hit him from a clear sky and he had no time to study it.

“Then you’re done for,” Wolfe told him. “For your own coat must be somewhere, and I think I know where. In the police laboratory. Mr. Kampf was wearing one when you killed him and pushed his body down the stairs — and that explains why, when they were making that experiment this morning, the dog showed no interest in the spot where the body had lain. It had been enveloped, not in his coat but in yours. That can be established too. If you won’t explain how you got Mr. Kampf’s coat, then explain how he got yours. Is that also a frame?”

Wolfe pointed a finger at him. “I note that flash in your eye, and I think I know what it means. But your brain is lagging. If, after killing him, you took your raincoat off of him and put on him the one that you thought was his, that won’t help you any. For in that case the coat that was on the body is Mr. Goodwin’s, and certainly that can be established, and how would you explain that? It looks hopeless, and—”

Meegan was springing up, but before he even got well started Purley’s big hands were on his shoulders, pulling him back and down. And a new voice sounded.

“I told you he would kill me! I knew he would! He killed Phil!”

Jewel Jones was looking not at her husband, who was under control, but at Wolfe. He snapped at her, “How do you know he did?”

Judging by her eyes and the way she was shaking, she would be hysterical in another two minutes, and maybe she knew it, for she poured it out. “Because Phil told me — he told me he knew Dick was here looking for me, and he knew how afraid I was of him, and he said if I wouldn’t come and be with him again he would tell Dick where I was. I didn’t think he really would — I didn’t think Phil could be as mean as that, and I wouldn’t promise, but yesterday morning he phoned me and told me he had seen Dick and told him he thought he knew who had posed for that picture, and he was going to see him again in the afternoon and tell him about me if I didn’t promise, and so I promised. I thought if I promised it would give me time to decide what to do. But Phil must have gone to see Dick again anyway—”

“Where had they met in the morning?”

“At Phil’s apartment, he said. And he said — that’s why I know Dick killed him — he said Dick had gone off with his raincoat, and he laughed about it and said he was willing for Dick to have his raincoat if he could have Dick’s wife.” She was shaking harder now. “And I’ll bet that’s what he told Dick! That was like Phil! I’ll bet he told Dick I was coming back to him and he thought that was a good trade, a raincoat for a wife! That was like Phil! You don’t—”

She giggled. It started with a giggle, and then the valves busted open and here it came. When something happens in that office to smash a woman’s nerves, as it has more than once, it usually falls to me to deal with it, but that time three other guys, led by Ross Chaffee, came to her, and I was glad to leave it to them. As for Wolfe, he skedaddled. If there is one thing on earth he absolutely will not be in a room with it’s a woman in eruption. He got up and marched out. As for Meegan, Purley and Cramer had him.

When they left with him, they didn’t take the dog. To relieve the minds of any of you who have the notion, which I understand is widespread, that it makes a dog neurotic to change its name, I might add that he responds to Jet now as if his mother had started calling him that before he had his eyes open.

As for the raincoat, Wolfe had been right about the flash in Meegan’s eye. Kampf had been wearing Meegan’s raincoat when he was killed, and of course that wouldn’t do, so after strangling him Meegan had taken it off and put on the one he thought was Kampf’s. Only it was mine. As a part of the DA’s case I went down to headquarters and identified it. At the trial it helped the jury to decide that Meegan deserved the big one. After that was over I suppose I could have claimed it, but the idea didn’t appeal to me. My new one is a different color.

Content

Rex Stout
The Body in the Hall

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