Rex Stout - Three Witnesses

Wolfe was at his desk, reading, and curled up in the middle of the room, on the best rug in the house, which was given to Wolfe years ago as a token of gratitude by an Armenian merchant who had got himself in a bad hole, was the dog. The dog greeted me by lifting his head and tapping the rug with his tail. Wolfe greeted me by raising his eyes from the book and grunting.

“I brought company,” I told him. “Before I introduce her I should-”

“Her? The tenants of that house are all men! I might have known you’d dig up a woman!”

“I can chase her if you don’t want her. This is how I got her.” I proceeded, not dragging it out, but including all the essentials. I ended up, “I could have taken her to a spot I know of and grilled her myself, but it would have been risky. Just in a six-minute taxi ride she had me feeling-uh, brotherly. Do you want her or not?”

“Confound it.” His eyes went to his book and stayed there long enough to finish a paragraph. He dog-eared it and put it down. “Very well, bring her.”

I crossed to the connecting door to the front room, opened it, and requested, “Please come in, Miss Jones.” She came, and as she passed through gave me a wistful smile that might have gone straight to my heart if there hadn’t been a diversion. As she entered, the dog suddenly sprang to his feet, whirling, and made for her with sounds of unmistakable pleasure. He stopped in front of her, raising his head so she wouldn’t have to reach far to pat it, and wagged his tail so fast it was only a blur.

“Indeed,” Wolfe said. “How do you do, Miss Jones. I am Nero Wolfe. What’s the dog’s name?”

I claim she was good. The presence of the dog was a complete surprise to her. But without the slightest sign of fluster she put out a hand to give it a gentle pat, looked around, spotted the red leather chair, went to it, and sat.

“That’s a funny question right off,” she said, not complaining. “Asking me your dog’s name.”

“Pfui.” Wolfe was disgusted. “I don’t know what position you were going to take, but from what Mr. Goodwin tells me I would guess you were going to say that the purpose of your appointment with Mr. Talento was a personal matter that had nothing to do with Mr. Kampf or his death, and that you knew Mr. Kampf either slightly and casually or not at all. Now the dog has made that untenable. Obviously he knows you well, and he belonged to Mr. Kampf. So you knew Mr. Kampf well. If you try to deny that you’ll have Mr. Goodwin and other trained men digging all around you, your past and your present, and that will be extremely disagreeable, no matter how innocent you may be of murder or any other wrongdoing. You won’t like that. What’s the dog’s name?”

She looked at me, and I met it. In good light I would have qualified Talento’s specification of “very good-looking.” Not that she was unsightly, but she caught the eye more by what she looked than how she looked. It wasn’t just something she turned on as needed; it was there even now, when she must have been pretty busy deciding how to handle it.

It took her only a few seconds to decide. “His name is Bootsy,” she said. The dog, at her feet, lifted his head and wagged his tail.

“Good heavens,” Wolfe muttered. “No other name?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Your name is Jewel Jones?”

“Yes. I sing in a night club, the Flamingo, but I’m not working right now.” She made a little gesture, very appealing, but it was Wolfe who had to resist it, not me. “Believe me, Mr. Wolfe, I don’t know anything about that murder. If I knew anything that could help I’d be perfectly willing to tell you, because I’m sure you’re the kind of man that understands and you wouldn’t want to hurt me if you didn’t have to.”

That wasn’t what she had fed me verbatim. Not verbatim.

“I try to understand,” Wolfe said dryly. “You knew Mr. Kampf intimately?”

“Yes, I guess so.” She smiled as one understander to another. “For a while I did. Not lately, not for the past two months.”

“You met the dog at his apartment on Perry Street?”

“That’s right. For nearly a year I was there quite often.”

“You and Mr. Kampf quarreled?”

“Oh no, we didn’t quarrel. I just didn’t see him any more. I had other-I was very busy.”

“When did you see him last?”

“Well-you mean intimately?”

“No. At all.”

“About two weeks ago, at the club. He came to the club once or twice and spoke to me there.”

“But no quarrel?”

“No, there was nothing to quarrel about.”

“You have no idea who killed him, or why?”

“I certainly haven’t.”

Wolfe leaned back. “Do you know Mr. Talento intimately?”

“No, not if you mean-of course we’re friends. I used to live there.”

“With Mr. Talento?”

“Not with him.” She was mildly shocked. “I never live with a man. I had the second-floor apartment.”

“At twenty-nine Arbor Street?”

“Yes.”

“For how long? When?”

“For nearly a year. I left there-let’s see-about three months ago. I have a little apartment on East Forty-ninth Street.”

“Then you know the others too? Mr. Meegan and Mr. Chaffee and Mr. Aland?”

“I know Ross Chaffee and Jerry Aland, but no Meegan. Who’s he?”

“A tenant at twenty-nine Arbor Street. Second floor.”

She nodded. “Well, sure, that’s the floor I had.” She smiled. “I hope they fixed that damn table for him. That was one reason I left. I hate furnished apartments, don’t you?”

Wolfe made a face. “In principle, yes. I take it you now have your own furniture. Supplied by Mr. Kampf?”

She laughed-more of a chuckle-and her eyes danced. “I see you didn’t know Phil Kampf.”

“Not supplied by him, then?”

“A great big no.”

“By Mr. Chaffee? Or Mr. Aland?”

“No and no.” She went very earnest. “Look, Mr. Wolfe. A friend of mine was mighty nice about that furniture, and we’ll just leave it. Archie told me what you’re interested in is the murder, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to drag in a lot of stuff just to hurt me and a friend of mine, so we’ll forget the furniture.”

Wolfe didn’t press it. He took a hop. “Your appointment on a street corner with Mr. Talento-what was that about?”

She nodded. “I’ve been wondering about that. I mean what I would say when you asked me, because I’d hate to have you think I’m a sap, and I guess it sounds like it. I phoned him when I heard on the radio about Phil and where he was killed, there on Arbor Street, and I knew Vic still lived there and I simply wanted to ask him about it.”

“You had him on the phone.”

“He didn’t seem to want to talk about it on the phone.”

“But why a street corner?”

This time it was more like a laugh. “Now, Mr. Wolfe, you’re not a sap. You asked about the furniture, didn’t you? Well, a girl with furniture shouldn’t be seen places with a man like Vic Talento.”