Рекс Стаут: Death of a Doxy

“No.” She was frowning.

“He has never mentioned her name?”

“No.”

“When did you see him last?”

She was tops at ignoring questions. She was still frowning. “You said you’d rather not tell me on the phone why I would have callers, but you’re not telling me anything, it seems to me. You’re Orrie’s close friend, but you don’t seem to know much. Why would I have callers? You mean the police?”

I decided I wasn’t going to get anywhere walking on eggs. “I don’t want to jolt you,” I said, “but I think you ought to know the situation.”

“So do I. That’s exactly what I think.”

“Fine. When a man is arrested he has a right to call a lawyer. Orrie called Nathaniel Parker, and Parker went and saw him, and then he came here and talked with Mr. Wolfe and me. Orrie knew he was going to. They don’t hold a man without bail merely because they think he knows things. They’re holding him because they think he killed Isabel Kerr. They don’t just think he knows something about a murder, they think he did it.”

Her eyes were wide, staring. “I don’t believe it.”

“If you don’t believe he did it, neither do I. If you don’t believe they think he did, ask them. Or his lawyer. Because Mr. Wolfe doesn’t think he did, he intends to do something about it, like for instance finding out who did. I haven’t answered your question, why you should expect callers. Because as soon as the cops find out that Orrie is going to marry you, which won’t take them long, they will want to ask you things. Like what I asked, do you know if he knew Isabel Kerr, and like what you haven’t answered, when did you see him last? I only asked it twice, but they’ll bear down. They’ll also want to know where and how you spent Saturday morning; that’s the kind of minds they have. They will wonder if you were there with him, and maybe even held her while he got the ashtray. It’s also the kind of mind I have. Since I think he didn’t kill her I have to consider who did, and it might have been you. Where were you Saturday morning?”

Her jaw was working. “I thought you were a friend of Orrie’s,” she said. “You wouldn’t talk like that if he was here.”

“Yes, I would, and he would understand. He wouldn’t like it, but he would understand.” I leaned to her, elbows on knees. “Listen, Miss Hardy. I like your looks and I like your voice. You have very nice hands. You say you had never heard of Isabel Kerr, and I have no evidence that you had, so apparently you’re out, but I would really appreciate it if you would tell me when you saw Orrie last and where you were Saturday morning.”

“Why do they think he killed her?” she demanded. “Why would he kill her?”

“I don’t know. I may have an idea later, possibly this afternoon if I see him, from the questions they have asked him. They probably think they have some line on motive, but not necessarily.”

“How could he have a motive?”

“You’ll have to ask them, not me, because I think they’re off. It’s supposed to be possible to convict a man of murder without proving motive, but juries don’t like the idea.”

“Juries? You mean they will — there’ll be a trial?”

“I sincerely hope not.”

Her eyes were fastened on me. “I believe you really mean that.”

“I really do.”

“Saturday morning I was at home in bed, until after noon. I had been on a flight from Caracas that was due at midnight, but we weren’t down until after two o’clock. I saw Orrie that evening. I had dinner with him at a restaurant. I have to answer so many questions in the air that when I’m on the ground I don’t listen to them.” She pulled her feet back, stood up, and took a step. “Get up and put your arms around me.”

It was an order, and I obeyed. She didn’t lift her arms so we could lock, but when I had her enclosed she gripped my jacket with both hands near my backbone and hid her face on my chest. The dark blue suit felt like wool, but nowadays you never know. I didn’t squeeze, just held her nice and firm, trying to decide whether she knew she was in trouble and wanted to enlist me, or she was getting started on me in case Orrie got permanently eliminated, or it was just a habit she had. She hadn’t used any perfume, or very little, and she smelled fine. There’s no telling how long it would have lasted if it hadn’t been for the doorbell. It rang.

I unwound my arms, politely, crossed to the hall and took a look, stepped back in, and told her, “It’s a cop, one I happen to know. Since you’re in no hurry to meet him, you will please duck.” I had crossed to the door to the front room and opened it. “In here. You don’t have to hold your breath, it’s soundproofed. You can even sneeze.”

Generally speaking, airline stewardesses know how to react. Without a word she picked up her handbag, which had dropped to the floor when she gripped my jacket, moved to the door I was holding, and on through. As I shut the door the doorbell rang again. I broke no records getting to the hall and the front; and if Inspector Cramer noticed the black leather coat on the rack, let him. It was me he wanted to see, since he knew Wolfe was never available until eleven, and one more question to refuse to answer wouldn’t matter. I opened the door, said, “Sorry, I was busy yawning,” and gave him room. His big round face was redder than usual from the cold. There have been times when he refused help with his coat because he wanted to get his eyes on me and keep them there, but now he let me behind him to take it, and he led the way to the office. He hadn’t noticed the black leather coat, but he did notice the yellow chair near my desk, and as he lowered his broad rump onto the red leather one he asked, “Company?”

I nodded. “Come and gone. Have you turned Orrie loose yet?”

“No. Not yet and not soon. Unless you can give me a damn good reason. Can you?”

“Sure. He’s clean.”

“Go right ahead.”

“Parker came here after seeing him yesterday and told us that Orrie had told him he was innocent. We have seen a lot of Orrie and we know he’s not a liar. So Mr. Wolfe is going to look into it. Of course that’s what you came for, to ask if he’s going to horn in. He is.”

“I don’t have to ask that. I came to get information.” He got better arranged in the chair. “When did you see Cather last?”

I shook my head. “No comment.”

“Has he ever spoken to you about Isabel Kerr?”

“Pass.”

“Has he ever spoken to you about Jill Hardy?”

“No comment.”

“You can’t get away with it, Goodwin. If a man is charged he can clam up, but you’re not charged. But, by God, you can be charged.”

“I feel another yawn coming,” I said. “Do we have to go through it again? I don’t say I will answer no questions at all about Orrie Cather. If you ask me where he buys his shoes or when did Mr. Wolfe last use him on a job, I’ll tell you, even in writing. But the kind of questions you’re loaded with, no. Certainly, if you pin a murder on him and make it stick, and if you can prove that I had information that you could have used, you can tag me for obstructing justice and I’ll be sunk. But if it turns out that instead of obstructing justice I’m doing it as a favor by helping Mr. Wolfe find out who did kill Isabel Kerr, he and I ought to get a ticker-tape parade, but we won’t insist on it.”

He opened his tight lips to say, “You’ve crawled out on that limb before.”

“Yeah. I said do we have to go through it again.” I glanced at my wrist. “Mr. Wolfe will be down in twenty minutes, if you think you can scare him better than me.”