Рекс Стаут - Death of a Doxy

She was frowning. “Why can’t you tell her?”

“She wouldn’t believe me. You can tell her things Isabel told you, but I can’t. As you told him in the letter.”

“That was a lie, that letter.”

“The only lie was that Isabel told you. What you said she told you was true, and he proved it. Do you know that Barry blackmailed X?”

“Certainly.”

“Do you think there’s any doubt that he shot at you?”

“No.”

“Do you think he would have tried to kill you just because you knew about the blackmailing and wanted the money, if he hadn’t also killed Isabel? Remember, I was there, and he knew what I was working on. The murder. I think it would be fine for you to pick up fifty grand, but also I understood that you wanted the man who killed Isabel to be tagged. You said so. Do you think there is any doubt that he killed her?”

“No.”

“Then count up to two.”

She picked up the cup and took a sip, found that it had cooled enough, emptied the cup and put it down, and said, “He wouldn’t be tagged if they blow.”

“No,” I conceded. “But his number would be up, and he wouldn’t be here to name X. They’d find him someday, and then we’d see. As Mr. Wolfe said, probably we can’t, but possibly we can.”

“She lives in the Bronx.”

“Right.”

“Would I have to go there?”

“I hope not. This is the day he was to bring you the five grand, and God knows where he is or what he might try. I’m off of bodyguarding for a while.”

“Here,” Wolfe said. “Get her.”

“I’ll sit in,” I told Julie, “if you think I won’t hash it.”

“What a man,” she said, and poured coffee.

I swiveled, got the Bronx phone book, found the number, lifted the receiver, and dialed, hoping she was there and was answering the phone. She was. It was her voice that said hello.

“This is Archie Goodwin, Mrs. Fleming. You may remember, I was there a week ago today.”

“I remember.”

“Then you may remember that I said the police had the wrong man and I was looking for the right man. I have found him, and we want to tell you about him and ask your advice about how to proceed. We know you hope there won’t be a trial, and we want to discuss it with you. Will you come here, Nero Wolfe’s office? Now?”

Silence. It went on so long I thought she had gone, but she hadn’t hung up. I finally said, “Mrs. Fleming?” but there was more silence.

At last her voice came. “Mr. Goodwin?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the address?”

I gave it to her.

It was a tough decision, and it took Wolfe a good five minutes to make it. What about lunch? It was ten minutes past twelve when I hung up after giving Stella Fleming the address. Would she leave immediately, and how long would it take her? Lunch-time has been, is, and will be a quarter past one. An impossible situation. He sat and scowled at it for five or six minutes, made his decision, and got up and went to the kitchen. I followed him, since I eat too. Julie had no problem, since her hedgehog omelet and broiled sausage were about ready. The crisis was licked good. Julie ate at my breakfast table, and Wolfe and I made out on stools at the big table, with sturgeon, smoked pheasant, celery, three kinds of cheese, and spiced brandied cherries. Since it was a snack, not a meal, the taboo on business didn’t apply, and we discussed the program. I thought Wolfe should be present, and he thought he shouldn’t, and we let Julie decide it, and she voted with him. In the alcove at the kitchen end of the hall there is a hole in the wall with a sliding panel, and on the office side the hole is covered with a trick picture of a waterfall which you can see through from the alcove side. Wolfe would be there on a stool. We were unanimous on the other main point, that I should lead the attack.

When she came, at twenty minutes past one, I started the attack in the hall. A chair and a bench are there, across from the rack, very handy, but she didn’t put her handbag down when I was taking her coat, and I didn’t like the way she was clutching it. Also I was still touchy about the bullets that had missed Julie through no fault of mine. So when, turning, she shifted the bag from her right hand to her left, I grabbed it. She tried to grab it back, but I stiff-armed her, perhaps a little rough, sidestepped, and opened the bag. She squeaked and came at me, and I pushed her again and got a hand in the bag, and it came out with something in it. She backed off and stood and panted, so I was able to look. It was a twenty-two Bristol automatic with a fancy carved butt, and it was loaded. I stuck it in my side pocket and held the bag out. “Sorry if I was rude,” I said. “We had an event here once, and I frisk everybody.”

She was trying hard to hold in, and I hoped she would make it. She had shrunk. Not only did she look even smaller than she had a week ago, but her face had positively shrunk. Her cheeks had been filled out, and now they weren’t. She took the bag and said, “Give me that gun.”

“It’s not a gun, it’s a toy. You’ll get it back. As I say, I frisk everybody, and right now I’m glad I do. There’s a woman here who is going to say things you won’t like, and you’re very impulsive. Her name is Julie Jaquette, and she was your sister’s best friend. I believe you have met her—”

“I was my sister’s best friend.”

“You ought to know. Let’s go in and sit down.” I gestured. “That open door on the left.”

I thought she was going to balk and she did too, but I had the gun and I could have carried her under one arm. She turned and clicked down the hall, and I followed. Two steps inside the office she stopped. I passed on by and went to Julie, who was standing by my desk. I took the pistol from my pocket and showed it to her. “This was in her bag,” I said and turned and asked Stella, “Where does your husband keep his rifle?”

I don’t think she heard me. I had moved up a couple of the yellow chairs, and she went to one and sat. Julie went and took the other one, and I returned the pistol to my pocket, sat at my desk, and told Julie, “You have met Mrs. Fleming.”

She nodded. “That was in her bag? How did you get it?”

“Took it. It didn’t fire those shots Saturday night.” I eyed Stella. “Your husband shot at Miss Jaquette Saturday night, but missed. That’s why I asked where he keeps his rifle.”

She gawked at me. “What? My husband what?”

“He tried to kill Miss Jaquette. That’s breaking it to you gently, Mrs. Fleming, there’s much worse to come. I told you on the phone that I have found the right man. The reason Miss Jaquette is here is that she helped me find him. I guess the best way is to show you a copy of a letter she sent to your husband last Friday.” I opened a drawer and got it. “She wrote it by hand; this is a typewritten copy. Shall I read it?”

She looked at Julie. “A letter you sent my husband?”

“Yes.”

She put a hand out. “Let me see it.”

I passed it over. She went through it fast and then read it again, slow. She looked at Julie. “What’s it about? Who is Milton Thales?”

Julie looked at me, and she shouldn’t have. She was supposed to be collaborating. I widened my eyes a little, and she went back to Stella. “Your husband,” she said. “He is Milton Thales. I said in that letter that Isabel told me everything, but the one thing she didn’t tell me was the name of the man who was paying her bills, so I have to call him X. You’re the only one she told his name to, and—”

“She didn’t tell me his name.”

“She told me she did tell you. Isabel wasn’t a liar.”

That was more like it. What a girl. She was going on. “So when X got a phone call from a man who knew all about it and told X to send him money, a thousand dollars a month, to mail it to Milton Thales, General Delivery, and X told Isabel, she knew Milton Thales must be your husband. Because no other man could know what Milton Thales knew. Isabel knew you must have told your husband, and he—”