Homicide Trinity Read online

  When I returned to the office after holding Otis's coat

  for him and letting him out, Fritz was there.

  "No," Wolfe was saying grimly. "You know quite

  well I almost never eat at night."

  "But you had no dinner. An omelet, or at least—"

  "No! Confound it, let me starve! Go to bed!"

  Fritz looked at me, I shook my head, and he went. I

  sat down and spoke. "Do I get Saul and Fred and

  Orrie?"

  "No." He took in air through his nose and let it out

  through his mouth. "If I don't know how I am going to

  proceed, how the deuce can I have errands for them?

  "Rhetorical," I said.

  "It is not rhetorical. It's logical. There are the obvi-

  ous routine errands, but that would be witless. Find the

  cheap restaurant or lunchroom where they met? How

  many are there?"

  "Oh, a thousand. More."

  He grunted. "Or question the entire personnel of that

  law office to learn which of those three men spoke at

  length with Miss Aaron yesterday afternoon? Or, as-

  suming that he followed her here, left the office on her

  heels? Or which one cannot account for himself from

  five o'clock to ten minutes past six? Or find the nearby

  phone booth from which he dialed this number? Or

  investigate their relations with Mrs. Sorell? Those are

  The Homicide Trinity 31

  all sensible and proper lines of inquiry, and by mid-

  moming Mr. Cramer and the District Attorney will

  have a hundred men pursuing them."

  "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?"

  82 Rex Stout

  "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 Homicide Trinity 33

  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

  34 Rex Stout The Homicide Trinity

  35

  silk just before it starts to turn, also home-grown, had

  lowered for a second to veil the plea
sure 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?"

  "No. He isn't."

  "He's working for that law firm, and that's the same

  thing."

  "No. He's working for nobody but himself. He—"

  "You're lying."

  "I only allow myself so many lies a day and I'm

  careful not to waste them. Mr. Wolfe is upset because

  that woman was killed in his office, and he intends to

  get even. He is working for no one, and he won't be until

  this is settled. He thought you might have known Ber-

  tha Aaron and could tell me something about her that

  would help."

  "I can't."

  "That's too bad. I'm still at your feet."

  "I like you there. You're very handsome." She smiled.

  "I just had an idea. Would Nero Wolfe work for me?"

  "He might. He doesn't like some kinds of jobs. If he

  did he'd soak you. If he has any pictures in his heart at

  all, which I doubt, they are not of beautiful women—or

  even homely ones. What would you want him to do?"

  "I would rather tell him."

  She was meeting my eyes, with her long lashes low-

  ered just enough for the best effect, and again I had to

  hand it to her. You might have thought she hadn't the

  faintest idea that I was aware that she was ignoring

  36 Rex Stout The Homicide Trinity 37

  anything, and that I was ignoring it too. She was so

  damn good that looking at her, meeting her eyes, I

  actually considered the possibility that she really

  thought I had made up that card from nothing.

  "For that," I said, "you would have to make an ap-

  pointment at his office. He never leaves his house on

  business." I got a card from my case and handed it to

  her. "There's the address and phone number. Or if

  you'd like to go now I'd be glad to take you, and he

  might stretch a point and see you. He'll be free until one

  o'clock."

  "I wonder." She smiled.

  "You wonder what?"

  "Nothing. I was talking to myself." She shook her

  head. "I won't go now. Perhaps . . . I'll think it over."

  She stood up. "I'm sorry I can't help, I'm truly sorry,

  but I had never met that—what was her name?"

  "Bertha Aaron." I was on my feet.

  "I had never heard of her." She glanced at the card,

  the one I had handed her. "I may ring you later today.

  I'll think it over."

  She went with me to the foyer, and as I reached for

  the doorknob she offered a hand and I took it. There

  was nothing flabby about her clasp.

  When you leave an elevator at the lobby floor of the

  Churchill Towers you have three choices. To the right

  is the main entrance. To the left and then right is a side

  entrance, and to the left and left again is another. I left

  by the main entrance, stopped a moment on the side-

  walk to put my coat on and pull at my ear, and turned

  downtown, in no hurry. At the corner I was joined by a

  little guy with a big nose who looked, at first sight, as if

  he might make forty bucks a week waxing floors. Actu-

  ally Saul Panzer was the best operative in the metro-

  politan area and his rate was ten dollars an hour.

  "Any sign of a dick?" I asked him.

  "None I know, and I think none I don't know. You

  saw her?"

  "Yeah. I doubt if they're on her. I stung her and she

  may be moving. The boys are covering?"

  "Yes. Fred at the north entrance and Orrie at the

  south. I hope she takes the front."

  "So do I. See you in court."

  He wheeled and was gone, and I stepped to the curb

  and flagged a taxi. It was 11:40 when it rolled to the

  curb in front of the old brownstone on 35th Street.

  After mounting the seven steps to the stoop, using

  my key to get in, and putting my hat coat on the rack in

  the hall, I went to the office. Wolfe would of course be

  settled in his chair behind his desk with his current

  book, since his morning session in the plant rooms

  ended at eleven o'clock. But he wasn't. His chair was

  empty, but the red leather one was occupied, by a

  stranger. I kept going for a look at his front, and said

  good morning. He said good morning.

  He was a poet above the neck, with deep-set dreamy

  eyes, a wide sulky mouth, and a pointed modeled chin,

  but he would have had to sell a lot of poems to pay for

  that suit and shirt and tie, not to mention the Parvis of

  London shoes. Having given him enough of a glance for

  that, and not cari
ng to ask him where Wolfe was, I

  returned to the hall and turned left, toward the kitchen;

  and there, in the alcove at the end of the hall, was Wolfe,

  standing at the hole. The hole was through the wall at

  eye level. On the office side it was covered by a picture

  of a waterfall. On this side, in the alcove, it was covered

  by nothing, and you could not only hear through but

  also see through.

  I didn't stop. Pushing the two-way door to the

  kitchen, I held it for Wolfe to enter and then let it swing

  back.

  "You forgot to leave a necktie on your desk," I told

  him.

  He grunted. "We'll discuss that some day, the neck-

  tie. That is Gregory Jett. He has spent the morning at

  the District Attorney's office. I excused myself because

  I wanted to hear from you before talking with him, and

  I thought I might as well observe him."

  "Good idea. He might have muttered to himself, 'By

  golly, the rug is gone.' Did he?"

  38 Rex Stout

  "No. Did you see that woman?"

  "Yes, sir. She's a gem. There is now no question

  about Bertha Aaron's basic fact, that a member of the

  firm was with Mrs. Sorell in a lunchroom."

  "She admitted it?"

  "No, sir, but she confirmed it. We talked for twenty