Rex Stout: Eeny Meeny Murder Mo

She had the card in her hand. “You sent this?” she asked.

“I brought it.”

She looked me over, down to my toes and back up. “Haven’t I seen you before? What’s your name?”

“Goodwin. Archie Goodwin. You may have seen my picture in the morning paper.”

“Oh.” She nodded. “Of course.” She lifted the card. “What’s this about? It’s crazy! Where did you get it?”

“I wrote it.” I advanced a step and got a stronger whiff of the perfume of her morning bath — or it could have come from the folds of her yellow robe, which was very informal. “I might as well confess, Mrs. Sorell. It was a trick. I have been at your feet for years. The only pictures in my heart are of you. One smile from you, just for me, would be rapture. I have never tried to meet you because I knew it would be hopeless, but now that you have left your husband I might be able to do something, render some little service, that would earn me a smile. I had to see you and tell you that, and that card was just a trick to get to you. I made it up. I tried to write something that would make you curious enough to see me. Please — please forgive me!”

She smiled the famous smile, just for me. She spoke. “You overwhelm me, Mr. Goodwin, you really do. You said that so nicely. Have you any particular service in mine?”

I had to hand it to her. She knew darned well I was a double-breasted liar. She knew I hadn’t made it up. She knew I was a licensed private detective and had come on business. But she hadn’t batted an eye — or rather, she had. Her long dark lashes, which were home-grown and made a fine contrast with her hair, the color of corn silk just before it starts to turn, also home-grown, had lowered for a second to veil the pleasure I was giving her. She was as good offstage as she was on, and I had to hand it to her.

“If I might come in?” I suggested. “Now that you’ve smiled at me?”

“Of course.” She backed up and I entered. She waited while I removed my hat and coat and put them on a chair and then led me through the foyer to a large living room with windows on the east and south, and across to a divan.

“Not many people ever have a chance like this,” she said, sitting. “An offer of a service from a famous detective. What shall it be?”

“Well.” I sat. “I can sew on buttons.”

“So can I.” She smiled. Seeing that smile, you would never have dreamed that she was a champion bloodsucker. I was about ready to doubt it myself. It was pleasant to be on the receiving end of it.

“I could walk along behind you,” I offered, “and carry your rubbers in case it snows.”

“I don’t walk much. It might be better to carry a gun. You mentioned my husband. I honestly believe he is capable of hiring someone to kill me. You’re handsome — very handsome. Are you brave?”

“It depends. I probably would be if you were looking on. By the way, now that I’m here, and this is a day I’ll never forget, I might as well ask you something. Since you saw my picture in the paper, I suppose you read about what happened in Nero Wolfe’s office yesterday. That woman murdered. Bertha Aaron. Yes?”

“I read part of it.” She made a face. “I don’t like to read about murders.”

“Did you read who she was? Private secretary of Lamont Otis, senior partner of Otis, Edey, Heydecker, and Jett, a law firm?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t notice.”

“I thought you might because they are your husband’s attorneys. You know that, of course.”

“Oh.” Her eyes had widened. “Of course. I didn’t notice.”

“I guess you didn’t read that part. You would have noticed those names, since you know all four of them. What I wanted to ask, did you know Bertha Aaron?”

“No.”

“I thought you might, since she was Otis’s secretary and they have been your husband’s attorneys for years and they handled a case for you once. You never met her?”

“No.” She wasn’t smiling. “You seem to know a good deal about that firm and my husband. You said that so nicely, about being at my feet and my pictures in your heart. So they sent you, or Nero Wolfe did, and he is working for my husband. So?”

“No. He isn’t.”

“He’s working for that law firm, and that’s the same thing.”

“No. He’s working for nobody but himself. He—”

“You’re lying.”

“I only allow myself so many lies a day and I’m careful not to waste them. Mr. Wolfe is upset because that woman was killed in his office, and he intends to get even. He is working for no one, and he won’t be until this is settled. He thought you might have known Bertha Aaron and could tell me something about her that would help.”

“I can’t.”

“That’s too bad. I’m still at your feet.”

“I like you there. You’re very handsome.” She smiled. “I just had an idea. Would Nero Wolfe work for me?”

“He might. He doesn’t like some kinds of jobs. If he did he’d soak you. If he has any pictures in his heart at all, which I doubt, they are not of beautiful women — or even homely ones. What would you want him to do?”

“I would rather tell him.”

She was meeting my eyes, with her long lashes lowered just enough for the best effect, and again I had to hand it to her. You might have thought she hadn’t the faintest idea that I was aware that she was ignoring anything, and that I was ignoring it too. She was so damn good that looking at her, meeting her eyes, I actually considered the possibility that she really thought I had made up that card from nothing.

“For that,” I said, “you would have to make an appointment at his office. He never leaves his house on business.” I got a card from my case and handed it to her. “There’s the address and phone number. Or if you’d like to go now I’d be glad to take you, and he might stretch a point and see you. He’ll be free until one o’clock.”

“I wonder.” She smiled.

“You wonder what?”

“Nothing. I was talking to myself.” She shook her head. “I won’t go now. Perhaps... I’ll think it over.” She stood up. “I’m sorry I can’t help, I’m truly sorry, but I had never met that — what was her name?”

“Bertha Aaron.” I was on my feet.

“I had never heard of her.” She glanced at the card, the one I had handed her. “I may ring you later today. I’ll think it over.”

She went with me to the foyer, and as I reached for the doorknob she offered a hand and I took it. There was nothing flabby about her clasp.

When you leave an elevator at the lobby floor of the Churchill Towers you have three choices. To the right is the main entrance. To the left and then right is a side entrance, and to the left and left again is another. I left by the main entrance, stopped a moment on the sidewalk to put my coat on and pull at my ear, and turned downtown, in no hurry. At the corner I was joined by a little guy with a big nose who looked, at first sight, as if he might make forty bucks a week waxing floors. Actually Saul Panzer was the best operative in the metropolitan area and his rate was ten dollars an hour.

“Any sign of a dick?” I asked him.

“None I know, and I think none I don’t know. You saw her?”

“Yeah. I doubt if they’re on her. I stung her and she may be moving. The boys are covering?”

“Yes. Fred at the north entrance and Orrie at the south. I hope she takes the front.”

“So do I. See you in court.”

He wheeled and was gone, and I stepped to the curb and flagged a taxi. It was 11:40 when it rolled to the curb in front of the old brownstone on 35th Street.

After mounting the seven steps to the stoop, using my key to get in, and putting my hat coat on the rack in the hall, I went to the office. Wolfe would of course be settled in his chair behind his desk with his current book, since his morning session in the plant rooms ended at eleven o’clock. But he wasn’t. His chair was empty, but the red leather one was occupied, by a stranger. I kept going for a look at his front, and said good morning. He said good morning.