Rex Stout: The Last Witness

“No.” Her rein wasn’t so tight.

“Were you friendly with her?”

“Yes, friendly enough.”

“Has any client ever asked you to listen in on calls to his number?”

“Certainly not!”

“Did you know Miss Willis wanted to be an actress?”

“Yes, we all knew that.”

“Mr. Bagby says he didn’t.”

Her chin had relaxed a little. “He was her employer. I don’t suppose he knew. When did you talk with Mr. Bagby?”

“I didn’t. I heard him on the witness stand. Did you know of Miss Willis’s regard for Robina Keane?”

“Yes, we all knew that too. Marie did imitations of Robina Keane in her parts.”

“When did she tell you of her decision to tell Robina Keane that her husband was going to monitor her telephone?”

Miss Hart frowned. “I didn’t say she told me.”

“Did she?”

“No.”

“Did anyone?”

“Yes, Miss Velardi. Marie had told her. You can ask her.”

“I shall. Do you know Guy Unger?”

“Yes, I know him. Not very well.”

Wolfe was playing a game I had often watched him at, tossing balls at random to see how they bounced. It’s a good way to try to find a lead if you haven’t got one, but it may take all day, and he didn’t have it. If one of the females in the front room took a notion to phone the cops or the DA’s office about us we might have visitors any minute. As for Guy Unger, that was another name from the newspaper accounts. He had been Marie Willis’s boy friend, or had he? There had been a difference of opinion among the journalists.

Miss Hart’s opinion was that Guy Unger and Marie had enjoyed each other’s company, but that was as far as it went — I mean her opinion. She knew nothing of any crisis that might have made Unger want to end the friendship with a plug cord. For another five minutes Wolfe went on with the game, tossing different balls from different angles, and then abruptly arose.

“Very well,” he said. “For now. I’ll try Miss Velardi.”

“I’ll send her in.” Alice Hart was on her feet, eager to cooperate. “Her room is next door.” She moved. “This way.”

Obviously she didn’t want to leave us with her van Gogh. There was a lock on a bureau drawer that I could probably have manipulated in twenty seconds, and I would have liked to try my hand on it, but Wolfe was following her out, so I went along — to the right, down the hall to another door, standing open. Leaving us there, she strode on flat heels toward the front. Wolfe passed through the open door with me behind.

This room was different — somewhat smaller, with no van Gogh and the kind of furniture you might expect. The bed hadn’t been made, and Wolfe stood and scowled at it a moment, lowered himself gingerly onto a chair too small for him with worn upholstery, and told me curtly, “Look around.”

I did so. Bella Velardi was a crack-lover. A closet door and a majority of the drawers in a dressing table and two chests were open to cracks of various widths. One of the reasons I am still shy a wife is the risk of getting a crack-lover. I went and pulled the closet door open, and, having no machete to hack my way into the jungle of duds, swung it back to its crack and stepped across to the library. It was a stack of paperbacks on a little table, the one on top being entitled One Mistake Too Many , with a picture of a double-breasted floozie shrinking in terror from a muscle-bound baboon. There was also a pile of recent editions of Racing Form and Track Dope.

“She’s a philanthropist,” I told Wolfe. “She donates dough to the cause of equine genetics.”

“Meaning?”

“She bets on horse races.”

“Does she lose much?”

“She loses. How much depends on what she bets. Probably tidy sums, since she takes two house journals.”

He grunted. “Open drawers. Have one open when she enters. I want to see how much impudence these creatures will tolerate.”

I obeyed. The six drawers in the bigger chest all held clothes, and I did no pawing. A good job might have uncovered some giveaway under a pile of nylons, but there wasn’t time for it. I closed all the drawers to show her what I thought of cracks. Those in the dressing table were also uninteresting. In the second drawer of the smaller chest, among other items, was a collection of photographs, mostly unmounted snaps, and, running through them, with no expectations, I stopped at one for a second look. It was Bella Velardi and another girl, with a man standing between them, in bathing outfits with the ocean for background. I went and handed it to Wolfe.

“The man?” I asked. “I read newspapers too, and look at the pictures, but it was two months ago, and I could be wrong.”

He slanted it to get the best light from a window. He nodded. “Guy Unger.” He slipped it into a pocket. “Find more of him.”

“If any.” I went back to the collection. “But you may not get a chance at her. It’s been a good four minutes. Either she’s getting a full briefing from Miss Hart, or they’ve phoned for help, and in that case—”

The sound came of high heels clicking on the uncarpeted hall. I closed the second drawer and pulled the third one open, and was inspecting its contents when the clicks got to the door and were in the room. Shutting it in no hurry and turning to Bella Velardi, I was ready to meet a yelp of indignation, but didn’t have to. With her snappy black eyes and sassy little face she must have been perfectly capable of indignation, but her nerves were too busy with something else. She decided to pretend she hadn’t caught me with a drawer open, and that was screwy. Added to other things, it made it a cinch that these phone answerers had something on their minds.

Bella Velardi said in a scratchy little voice, “Miss Hart says you want to ask me something,” and went and sat on the edge of the unmade bed, with her fingers twisted together.

Wolfe regarded her with his eyes half closed. “Do you know what a hypothetical question is, Miss Velardi?”

“Of course I do.”

“I have one for you. If I put three expert investigators on the job of finding out approximately how much you have lost betting on horse races in the past year, how long do you think it would take them?”

“Why, I—” She blinked at him with a fine set of long lashes. “I don’t know.”

“I do. With luck, five hours. Without it, five days. It would be simpler for you to tell me. How much have you lost?”

She blinked again. “How do you know I’ve lost anything?”

“I don’t. But Mr. Goodwin, who is himself an expert investigator, concluded from publications he found on that table that you are a chronic bettor. If so, there’s a fair chance that you keep a record of your gains and losses.” He turned to me. “Archie, your search was interrupted. Resume. See if you can find it.” Back to her. “At his elbow if you like, Miss Velardi. There is no question of pilfering.”

I went to the smaller chest. He was certainly crowding his luck. If she took this without calling a cop she might not be a murderess, but she sure had a tender spot she didn’t want touched.

Actually she didn’t just sit and take it. As I got a drawer handle to pull it open she loosened her tongue. “Look, Mr. Wolfe, I’m perfectly willing to tell you anything you want to know. Perfectly!” She was leaning toward him, her fingers still twisted. “Miss Hart said I mustn’t be surprised at anything you asked, but I was, so I guess I was flustered. There’s no secret about my liking to bet on the races, but the amounts I bet — that’s different. You see, I have friends who — well, they don’t want people to know they bet, so they give me money to bet for them. So it’s about a hundred dollars a week, sometimes more, maybe up to two hundred.”