Rex Stout - Homicide Trinity (Crime Line)

"Two hundred. This is special."

"So for me to put three men on them, four including you, would be frivolous. A possible procedure would be to have Mr. Otis get them here-Edey, Heydecker, and Jett. He could merely tell them that he has engaged me to investigate the murder that was committed in my house."

"If they're available. They'll be spending most of the day at the DA's office. By request."

He shut his eyes and tightened his lips. I picked up the copy of my statement which Otis had surrendered, got the second carbon from my drawer, went and opened the safe, and put them on a shelf. I had closed the safe door and was twirling the knob when Wolfe spoke.

"Archie."

"Yes, sir."

"Will they tackle Mrs. Sorell?"

"I doubt it. Not right away. What for? Since Cramer warned us that if we blab what Bertha Aaron told me we may be hooked for libel, which was kind of him, evidently he's going to save it, and going to Mrs. Sorell would spill it."

He nodded. "She is young and comely."

"Yeah. I've never seen her offstage. You have seen pictures of her."

"You have a flair for dealing with personable young women."

"Sure. They melt like chocolate bars in the sun. But you're exaggerating it a little if you think I can go to that specimen and ask her which member of the firm she met in a cheap restaurant or lunchroom and she'll wrap her arms around me and murmur his name in my ear. It might take me an hour or more."

"You can bring her here."

"Maybe. Possibly. To see the orchids?" "I don't know." He pushed the chair back and raised his bulk. "I am not myself. Come to my room at eight o'clock." He headed for the hall.

Chapter 4

At 10:17 that Tuesday morning I left the house, walked north fourteen short blocks and east six long ones, and entered the lobby of the Churchill. I walked instead of flagging a taxi for two reasons: because I had had less than five hours' sleep and needed a lot of oxygen, especially from the neck up, and because eleven o'clock was probably the earliest Mrs. Morton Sorell, bom Rita Ramsey, would be acces- sible. It had taken only a phone call to Lon Cohen at the Gazette to leam that she had taken an apartment at the Churchill Towers two months ago, when she had left her husband's roof.

In my pocket was a plain white envelope, sealed, on which I had written by hand:

Mrs. Morton Sorell Personal and Confidential

and inside it was a card, also handwritten:

We were seen that evening in the lunchroom as we sat in the booth. It would be dangerous to phone you or for you to phone me. You can trust the bearer of this card.

No signature. It was twelve minutes to eleven when I handed the envelope to the charge d'affaires at the lobby desk and asked him to send it up, and it still lacked three minutes of eleven when he motioned me to the elevator. Those nine minutes had been tough. If it hadn't worked, if word had come down to bounce me, or no word at all, I had no other card ready to play. So as the elevator shot up I was on the rise in more ways than one, and when I stepped out at the thirtieth floor and saw that she herself was standing there in the doorway my face wanted to grin at her but I controlled it.

She had the card in her hand. "You sent this?" she asked.

"I brought it."

She looked me over, down to my toes and back up. "Haven't I seen you before? What's your name?"

"Goodwin. Archie Goodwin. You may have seen my picture in the morning paper."

"Oh." She nodded. "Of course." She lifted the card. "What's this about? It's crazy! Where did you get it?"

"I wrote it." I advanced a step and got a stronger whiff of the perfume of her morning bath-or it could have come from the folds other yellow robe, which was very informal. "I might as well confess, Mrs. Sorell. It was a trick. I have been at your feet for years. The only pictures in my heart are of you. One smile from you, just for me, would be rapture. I have never tried to meet you because I knew it would be hopeless, but now that you have left your husband I might be able to do some- thing, render some little service, that would earn me a smile. I had to see you and tell you that, and that card was just a trick to get to you. I made it up. I tried to write something that would make you curious enough to see me. Please-please forgive me!"

She smiled the famous smile, just for me. She spoke. "You overwhelm me, Mr. Goodwin, you really do. You said that so nicely. Have you any particular service in mine?"

I had to hand it to her. She knew darned well I was a double-breasted liar. She knew I hadn't made it up. She knew I was a licensed private detective and had come on business. But she hadn't batted an eye-or rather, she had. Her long dark lashes, which were home-grown and made a fine contrast with her hair, the color of corn

silk just before it starts to turn, also home-grown, had lowered for a second to veil the pleasure I was giving her. She was as good offstage as she was on, and I had to hand it to her.

"If I might come in?" I suggested. "Now that you've smiled at me?"

"Of course." She backed up and I entered. She waited while I removed my hat and coat and put them on a chair and then led me through the foyer to a large living room with windows on the east and south, and across to a divan.

"Not many people ever have a chance like this," she said, sitting. "An offer of a service from a famous detec- tive. What shall it be?"

"Well." I sat. "I can sew on buttons." "So can I." She smiled. Seeing that smile, you would never have dreamed that she was a champion blood- sucker. I was about ready to doubt it myself. It was pleasant to be on the receiving end of it.

"I could walk along behind you," I offered, "and carry your rubbers in case it snows."

"I don't walk much. It might be better to carry a gun. You mentioned my husband. I honestly believe he is capable of hiring someone to kill me. You're handsome-very handsome. Are you brave?"

"It depends. I probably would be if you were looking on. By the way, now that I'm here, and this is a day I'll never forget, I might as well ask you something. Since you saw my picture in the paper, I suppose you read about what happened in Nero Wolfe's office yesterday. That woman murdered. Bertha Aaron. Yes?"

"I read part of it." She made a face. "I don't like to read about murders."

"Did you read who she was? Private secretary of Lamont Otis, senior partner ofOtis, Edey, Heydecker, and Jett, a law firm?" She shook her head. "I didn't notice." "I thought you might because they are your hus- band's attorneys. You know that, of course."

"Oh." Her eyes had widened. "Of course. I didn't notice."

"I guess you didn't read that part. You would have noticed those names, since you know all four of them. What I wanted to ask, did you know Bertha Aaron?"

"No."

"I thought you might, since she was Otis's secretary and they have been your husband's attorneys for years

and they handled a case for you once. You never met her?"

"No." She wasn't smiling. "You seem to know a good deal about that firm and my husband. You said that so nicely, about being at my feet and my pictures in your heart. So they sent you, or Nero Wolfe did, and he is working for my husband. So?"