Рекс Стаут - Death of a Doxy

A hotel manager doesn’t like it if a guest tells him she wants to post a guard outside her door because she expects to be murdered, so we hadn’t bothered the Maidstone manager. Instead, we had invited the hotel dick, I mean security officer, up to the room, and Julie Jaquette had told him that a man had been annoying her, and he might even take a room in the hotel, and she didn’t want any trouble. It helped that he had heard of Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin and that I slipped him a double sawbuck. He even offered to supply a chair.

Since I had brought the Times and a magazine along, I didn’t have to invent games to pass the time. There were DO NOT DISTURB signs on the doorknobs of her suite, and the chambermaids skipped them. The traffic was light all morning. I hope I’m not a snob, but I decided that on the whole I preferred the tenants of the seventh floor of 2938 Humboldt Avenue to those of the ninth floor of the Maidstone. They had all looked worried too, more or less, but you had the feeling that you could stand hearing about theirs. Of course people in hotels aren’t like people at home. I was deciding why that was so when one of her doors, the one to the bedroom, opened enough to let her head through, and she stuck it out and asked, “What do you want for lunch?”

I looked at my watch. Ten minutes to twelve. “I’ll make out,” I said. “A bellboy will be up later. All arranged.”

“Huh. You’re slipping. I’m ordering breakfast. What if he fixes the waiter and poisons it? You’ll have to taste. What for you?”

“Just double your breakfast.”

“I always have bacon and eggs. I’ll open the other door.”

She did. In a minute it opened a crack, but I didn’t go in. Remember Simon Jacobs, and have a look at the waiter while he’s still out in the hall. It sometimes happens that the difference between being sensible and being silly doesn’t depend on you at all, it depends on something or somebody else. That time it was silly to wait out in the hall for a look at the waiter. When he came, at half past twelve, wheeling the chow wagon down the hall, I watched him to the bedroom door and then went to the other one.

The meal was served in the bedroom, with her in bed and me at a table the waiter brought in. She was in the same blue thing as the day before, which made me feel at home. Since Fritz never fries eggs, they made me feel away from home. We talked about Isabel, or rather she did. She had been trying to figure out a way to persuade her to give up the idea of getting married, and she thought she might possibly have made it. She explained that the reason there is no such thing as a good husband is that there is no such thing as a good wife and vice versa, and how are you going to get around that? We had got to the muffins and jam, and she was telling me how right Isabel had been to realize that she wasn’t cut out for show business, when the phone rang, and she twisted around and reached for it.

The first thing she said was “Hello,” and the second thing she said was “Yes, Mr. Fleming, this is Julie Jaquette,” and I beat it to the other room and got at the phone, but I didn’t hear much. He said, “Would two o’clock be all right?” and she said, “Half past two would be better,” and he said, “All right, I’ll be there,” and that was it. As I re-entered the bedroom she asked if I had heard it, and I said yes and went to my table.

“I suppose,” she said, “we’d better decide what charity I’ll give it to. Or have you arranged that too?”

“That’s not funny.” I poured coffee. “I’m going to call you Julie.”

“That’s not funny either. Will he bring his own ashtray?”

“Sure. I assume he’s coming here.”

“Yes.”

“I told you we couldn’t arrange details until we see how he reacts. He certainly doesn’t intend to come and have them phone up, and take the elevator, and walk in and do you, and walk out again.”

“Then you can be in the closet. Or in here.” She pushed the over-the-bed table away. “I’m going to dress up for this. My best. Take your coffee to the other room.”

I obeyed. For a hotel the sitting room wasn’t bad — dark green carpet and light green walls, with the regulation chairs and an oversized couch, and a big window that looked down on Central Park. After I finished the coffee I went to the window for a look out. It was Saturday, but also it was February, and there wasn’t much stirring in the park. There was still some snow under the bare trees and along the top of the park wall, but you could call it white only because it wasn’t black.

Julie, when she came, was black — a plain black tailored dress with half-sleeves and no trim to speak of. I know when things fit, and no wonder she called it her best, the way it fitted. I said so and then took her to the window. “I’m about to give an order,” I said. “See that stone wall over there? What time do you get home from work?”

“About half past one. I finish my last turn at one.”

“Fine. The park will be empty. So when you get home tonight you turn on the lights and come and stand here to look out at the park, and the man behind the stone wall with his rifle resting on the wall pulls the trigger, and if he’s any good at all down you go. Therefore you do not come and stand here and look out. You lower the blind and close the drapes before you leave for work. That’s an order.”

“It’s a damn silly one. Way up here? At that angle? Go get a rifle and try it. You couldn’t even hit the window.”

“The hell I couldn’t. Before I was twelve years old I got many a squirrel with a twenty-two in trees nearly this high. Are you going to obey orders or not?”

She said she would, and we went and sat on the couch and discussed the operation. She wanted to handle it with me in the other room listening, and she had a reason: if I sat in I might say something she wouldn’t like but couldn’t object to with him there. It got a little warm, and at one point she threatened to bow out and I could see him downstairs, but finally it was agreed that I would be present, seen but not heard unless I thought it was absolutely essential. We were barely on speaking terms when the phone rang and she was informed that Mr. Fleming was below and wanted to come up. I stayed on the couch. I stayed put when the knock sounded and she went and opened the door and he entered. Seeing it and not knowing, you would have thought it was she, not he, who needed watching. She turned to close the door, and he turned to keep her in view, and it wasn’t until she had passed him and he turned again that he saw me.

He spoke. He said, “Oh,” but didn’t know he was saying it. Then he stood and stared. Julie faced him and said, “I believe you have met Mr. Goodwin. I’ll take your coat.”

His mouth opened, but no words came. He tried again and managed it. “I thought you — this would be private.”

She nodded. “I suppose you would rather have it private, but I thought I’d better be careful with a — with you. Have you got the money?”

He was having trouble with his eyes. He wanted them to stay on her, but they wanted me in. “I’m afraid,” he said, “there’s a serious misunderstanding. I’m afraid Isabel told you some things that weren’t true. I’m afraid—”

“Nuts. Milton Thales. Thā-lēz. I know exactly how you got it and who you got it from. The only reason I haven’t told the cops is because Isabel wouldn’t want me to. She would want me to make you cough it up, and that’s what I’m doing. I think she would also want me to tell her sister, because she intended to, and I think I ought to, but first I want the money. Have you got it?”

“No. Honestly, Miss Jaquette, really—”

“Nuts.” She whirled. “What do you think, Mr. Goodwin?”