Rex Stout - Bad for Business

“About the advice you asked for,” he said brusquely. “I think you ought to go ahead and tell Bonner you saw her with Cliff, and also tell her that you have become infected with a personal attitude toward him which disqualifies you for this assignment. That way you may keep your job.”

“I am not infected!” said Amy hotly. She stood facing him. “And I assure you I don’t care — his reactions — what do I care whether—”

“There’s a bell ringing.”

“I can hear it, thank you.”

Fox moved aside to give her free passage to the door, which was standing open. She disappeared from his line of vision, but he heard a pause in her footsteps, a sound which he detected as the punching of a latch button, and her footsteps again; and as he saw her recrossing the living room he called, “Do you want me out of here?”

Amy replied curtly, “Do as you please,” and continued to the door to the hall, which she opened. On the threshold she stood bracing herself, arranging her muscles and preparing her face obviously not in expectation of the laundry boy; but if by any chance what she did expect was the P. & B. vice-president, her preparation for the encounter was in vain. A woman ascended the stairs to her view and came down the hall — a woman of thirty, smart and compact in a handsome tweed suit and a conventionally perky hat, with yellow-brown alert eyes in a rather narrow but attractive face.

“Oh,” said Amy in a voice unnecessarily loud. “Good afternoon, Miss Bonner.”

“Hello, Amy.”

She entered as Amy made gangway, and circled the room with a glance as Amy closed the door.

“Sit on the sofa,” Amy invited her. “As you have discovered, it’s the only comfortable seat we have.”

“Thanks,” Miss Bonner, standing, indicated with a nod the hat in the center of the table. “Is there someone here?”

“Why — oh, the hat.” A swift glance had already told Amy that the bedroom door had been closed, all but a crack. She tried a little bubble of a laugh and it came out very well. “No, that’s just a souvenir.”

“Instead of a scalp?” Miss Bonner smiled, not warmly, but nevertheless it was a smile. “Not Mr. Dickinson? Or is it?”

“Oh, no, I haven’t got very far with him.”

“I suppose not. He’s probably wary.” Miss Bonner sat on the sofa. “I only have a minute. I had to go downtown and stopped in. You didn’t phone at three o’clock to report.”

“No, I... I’m sorry.” Amy sat on the chair. “I didn’t leave Mr. Dickinson until after three, and then I had an errand, and I thought I’d wait till I got home to phone — and on the way here, if you’ll believe it, I actually walked into a car and got knocked down, and that shook me up—”

“Did you get hurt?”

“Nothing to speak of. Only a bruised knee.”

“I like to receive reports on schedule, Amy.”

“Of course you do. I’m sorry. This is my first offense, Miss Bonner.”

“I know it is. So I’ll overlook it. I’m taking you off of the Tingley case.”

“Oh?” Amy gawked at her. “Taking me—” She stopped.

“Yes. Your uncle phoned this morning and raised cain. Unluckily, his son — it seems he has a son—”

Amy nodded. “My cousin Phil.”

“Well, his son saw you at the theater the other evening with Mr. Cliff, and told him about it this morning, and when he phoned me and asked a question I had to answer it. He said he didn’t trust you and spoke slightingly of your moral standards, and so forth, and said he didn’t want you connected with his affairs.” Miss Bonner upturned her palms. “So that’s that, my dear. I must say, in view of your uncle’s manners, I’m not surprised you didn’t get along with him. For the present you can concentrate on Mr. Dickinson. Did you make any progress today?”

“Nothing worth mentioning. He’s pretty hard to handle.” Amy shifted in her chair. “But I — about the Tingley case — I’m glad you’re taking me off. So that’s all right — but there’s something I wanted to tell you — not that I have any reason to suppose it was connected with the Tingley case, actually — but I just thought I should tell you that I saw you at Rusterman’s Bar Saturday with Mr. Cliff.”

Miss Bonner’s alert eyes narrowed slightly. “You did?”

Amy nodded. “I was there with Mr. Dickinson, and I saw you — not that it has any significance, of course, but—”

“But what?”

“I thought I ought to tell you.”

“Why?”

“Well — I had understood you to say that you didn’t know Mr. Cliff and had never seen him, and I thought — one thing I thought was that perhaps you didn’t know it was him, and I should tell you—”

“I see,” said Miss Bonner, with ice suddenly in her voice. “I wondered what you were trying to get at on the phone this morning. Thank you for making it clear. You were trying to find out if I knew who I was associating with, so that if I didn’t you could tell me.” The ice in her voice got colder. “Since you thought you ought to tell me, why didn’t you do so?”

“You mean this morning,” Amy muttered.

“I mean this morning.”

“Well, I... I am telling you—”

“You’re floundering,” Miss Bonner gestured impatiently. “I told you, Amy, when I hired you, that the first requisite in the detective business is completely unadulterated trustworthiness. Most of the things a detective does are necessarily secret and confidential, and an operative whose reliability is in any degree open to suspicion is no longer of any value. I don’t know what you’re hiding from me, but you’re hiding something. I don’t like it. I don’t like it a bit.” She suddenly and energetically arose and pointed at the middle of the table. “And another thing I don’t like is that hat. Souvenir? Souvenir of what?”

She moved with such unexpected swiftness that Amy merely sat and goggled at her, helpless. Darting to the bedroom door, with a hand extended to push it open, Miss Bonner stopped as abruptly as she had started, when it swung wide just before she reached it and her path was blocked by the solid figure of a man who stood there smiling at her. She fell back a step.

“Flagrante,” he said. “There’s no doubt of that, but not delicto. How do you do, Miss Bonner. I’ve heard of you.”

She regarded him from head to foot, and back up again, and then turned her back on him without returning the amenity. She spoke to the youngest member of her siren squad, and the ice had become dry ice:

“Apparently your uncle knows what he’s talking about. I’ll mail you a check for last week. I’ll hold up the release on your bond until I find out whether you’ve forfeited it or not.”

“But Miss Bonner!” Amy was pleading. “There’s nothing wrong — if you’ll let me—”

“Bosh. I find a rival — but no, I won’t flatter myself that Tecumseh Fox would consider himself a rival of Dol Bonner — I find an eminent detective in your apartment, and that alone is enough, without adding that he is concealed in your bedroom while I am discussing my business with you—” She broke off, turned, and smiled sarcastically at the man. “But why do I go on talking, Mr. Fox? Silly, isn’t it?”

“Fatuous,” Fox agreed, returning the smile. “It’s because you’re mad.” He moved past her, toward the door to the hall. “You’d better walk it off.” He opened the door and politely held it for her. Without another glance at her ex-employee, she walked to it, and passed through, and he closed the door behind her.

“You might—” Amy stopped to get better control of her voice. Her chin worked, and then she began again, “You might have helped me — you might — instead of shoving her out—”