Rex Stout - The Doorbell Rang (The Rex Stout Library)

He sizes a man up, but not a woman, because of his conviction that any opinion formed of any woman is sure to be wrong. He looked at Sarah Dacos, of course, since he was to talk to her. He told her that he supposed Mrs Bruner had told her of her conversation with me.

She wasn't as chipper as she had been in her office; the hazel eyes weren't so lively. Mrs Bruner had said that she had just talked; perhaps, sent to tell Nero Wolfe about it, she was feeling that she had just talked too much. She said yes, Mrs Bruner had told her.

Wolfe blinked at her. The light there wasn't like the office, and besides, his eyes had had a hard day. "My interest is centered on Morris Althaus," he said. "Did you know him well?"

She shook her head. "Not really, no."

"You lived under the same roof."

"Well… that doesn't mean anything in New York, you know that. I moved there about a year ago, and when we met in the hall one day we realized we had met before-at Mrs Bruner's office, the day he was there with that man, Odell. After that we had dinner together sometimes-maybe twice a month."

"It didn't progress to intimacy."

"No. No matter how you define 'intimacy.' We weren't intimate."

"Then that's settled and we can get to the point. The evening of Friday, November twentieth. Did you dine with Mr Althaus that evening?"

"No."

"But you were out?"

"Yes, I went to a lecture at the New School."

"Alone?"

She smiled. "You're like Mr Goodwin, you want to prove you're a detective. Yes, I was alone. The lecture was on photography. I'm interested in photography."

"What time did you get back to your apartment?"

"A little before eleven o'clock. About ten minutes to eleven. I was going to listen to the eleven-o'clock news."

"And then? Be as precise as possible."

"There isn't much to be precise about. I went in and went upstairs-it's one flight-and into my apartment. I took my coat off and got a drink of water, and I was starting to undress when I heard footsteps out on the stairs. It sounded as if they were trying to be quiet, and I was curious. There are only four floors, and the woman on the top floor was away-she had gone to Florida. I went to the window and opened it enough to put my head out, and three men came out and turned left, and they turned at the corner, walking fast." She gestured. "That was all."

"Did they, one or more of them, hear you open the window and look up?"

"No. I had the window open before they came out."

"Did they speak?"

"No."

"Did you recognize them? Any of them?"

"No. Of course not."

"Not necessarily 'of course.' But you didn't."

"No."

"Could you identify them?"

"No. I didn't see their faces."

"Did you notice any peculiarities-size, manner of walking?"

"Well… no."

"You didn't?"

"No."

"So you went to bed."

"Yes."

"After you entered your apartment, before you heard footsteps on the stairs, did you hear any sound above you, in Mr Althaus's apartment?"

"I didn't notice any. I was moving around, taking my coat off and putting it away, and the water was running, getting it cold enough to drink. And his room had a thick carpet."

"You had been in it?"

She nodded. "A few times. Three or four times. For a drink before we went to dinner." She picked up her cup, and her hand was steady. I said her coffee was cold and offered to pour her some hot, but she said it was all right and drank. Wolfe poured himself some and took a sip.

"When and how," he asked her, "did you learn that Mr Althaus had been killed?"

"In the morning. I don't work on Saturday and I sleep late. Irene, the cleaning woman, came and banged on my door. It was after nine o'clock."

"Then it was you who phoned the police?"

"Yes."

"Did you tell them of seeing the three men leave the house?"

"Yes."

"Did you tell them that you thought they were FBI men?"

"No. That hadn't-it was-I guess I was in shock. I had never seen a dead body before-except in a coffin."

"When did you tell Mrs Bruner that you thought they were FBI men?"

Her lips moved, a moment of hesitation. "On Monday."

"Why did you think they were FBI men?"

"They looked like it. They looked young, and-well, sort of athletic, and the way they walked."

"You said there were no peculiarities."

"I know I did. It wasn't-I wouldn't call it peculiarities." She bit her lip. "I knew you would ask me this. I think I ought to admit-I think the main reason I told her that was because I knew how she felt about the FBI, I had heard her talking about that book, and I thought she would like-I mean, that would agree with how she felt about them. I don't like to admit this, Mr Wolfe, of course I don't. I know how it sounds. I hope you won't tell Mrs Bruner."

"I'll tell her only if it suits a purpose." Wolfe picked up his cup, drank, put the cup down, and looked at me. "Archie?"

"Maybe one or two little points." I looked at her, and she looked back. The hazel eyes seemed darker when they were straight at you. "Of course," I said, "the cops have asked you about the last time you spoke with Althaus. When was it?"

"Three days before-before that Friday. Tuesday morning, in the hall, just a minute or two. Just by accident."

"Did he tell you he was doing a piece on the FBI?"

"No. He never talked to me about his work."

"When was the last time you were with him-for dinner, for anything?"

"I'm not sure about the date. It was about a month before, some day in October. We had dinner together."

"At a restaurant?"

"Yes. Jerry's Joint."

"Have you ever met Miss Marian Hinckley?"

"Hinckley? No."

"Or a man named Vincent Yarmack?"

"No."

"Or one named Timothy Quayle?"

"No."

"Did Althaus ever mention any of those names?"

"Not that I remember. He might have mentioned them."

I raised my brows at Wolfe. He regarded her for half a minute, grunted, and told her he doubted if she had supplied anything that would help, so the evening had probably been wasted. As he spoke I went and got her coat, and held it for her when she got up. Wolfe didn't leave his chair. He does sometimes rise when a woman comes or goes; he probably has some kind of a rule for it, but I have never been able to figure it out. She said I needn't bother to see her downstairs, but, wishing to show her that some private detectives have some manners, I went along. Down on the sidewalk, as the doorman waved a taxi up, she put her hand on my arm and said she would be so grateful if we didn't tell Mrs Bruner, and I patted her shoulder. Patting a shoulder can be anything from an apology to a promise, and only the patter can say which.