She did, and I didn’t block it. A nice long talk with her would be desirable, but it would have to wait. I went to the elevator and used the other key, stepped in, and was lifted.
You have expectations even when you’re not aware of them. I suppose I was expecting to find a scared or indignant female sitting on a couch or chair and Fred near at hand with an eye on her. It wasn’t like that. Fred was standing in the center of the room holding up his pants, with two red streaks down his cheek. For a second I thought she wasn’t there; then I saw her head sticking out of the bundle on the floor. It was the yellow silk coverlet from the bed, and she was wrapped in it, with Fred’s belt strapped around the middle. I went and looked down at her, and she glared up at me.
“She’s not hurt any,” Fred said. “I wish she was. Look at me.”
The red of the streaks on his cheek was blood. He lifted a hand with a handkerchief and dabbed at it. “You said I wouldn’t have to touch her unless she started it. She started it all right. Then when I went for the phone she went for the elevator, and when I went to head her off she went for the phone. So I had to wrap her up.”
“Have you told her who you are?”
“No. I wouldn’t do her that favor. That’s her bag there.” He pointed to a chair. “I haven’t looked in it.”
A voice came from the bundle on the floor. “Who are you?” it demanded.
I ignored her and went and got the bag and opened it. With the other usual items, it contained four that were helpful: credit cards from three stores and a driver’s license. The name was Julia McGee, with an address on Arbor Street in the Village. She was twenty-nine years old, five feet five inches, white, brown hair and brown eyes. I put the stuff back in the bag and the bag on the chair, and went to her.
“I’ll unwrap you in a minute, Miss McGee,” I said. “His name is Fred Durkin and mine is Archie Goodwin. You may have heard of Nero Wolfe, the private detective. We work for him. Mr. Durkin is camped here because Mr. Wolfe wants to have a talk with anyone who comes to this room. I’ll be glad to take you to him. I ask no questions because I’d only have to tell him what you said, and it will be simpler to let him ask them.”
“Let me up!” she demanded.
“In a minute. Now that I know who you are and where to find you the situation is a little different. If you grab your bag and head for the elevator I won’t try to stop you, but I advise you to count to ten first. There are keys in your bag to the door downstairs and the elevator. If and when the police get to this room they will of course be interested in anyone who had keys and could have been here Sunday night. So it might be a mistake to decline my invitation. Think it over while I’m unwrapping you.”
I squatted to unbuckle the belt and pull it from under her, and Fred came and took it. I couldn’t stand her up to unwrap her because her feet were inside too. “The easiest way,” I told her, “is to roll out while I hold the end.” She rolled. That thing was ten feet square, and I never have asked Fred how he managed it. When she was out she bounced up and was on her feet. She was quite attractive, perhaps more than normally with her face flushed and her hair tousled. She shook herself, yanked her coat around into place, went and got her bag, and said, “I’m going to phone.”
“Not here,” I told her. “If you’re leaving alone, there’s a booth at the corner. If you’re going with me, there’s a phone in Mr. Wolfe’s office.”
She looked more mad than scared, but that’s always a guess with a strange face. “Do you know whose room this is?” she demanded.
“I know whose it was. Thomas G. Yeager’s.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Skip it. I not only won’t ask questions, I won’t answer them.”
“You have no right …” She let that go. “I am Mr. Yeager’s secretary. I was. I came to get a notebook I left here, that’s all.”
“Then you have nothing to fear. If and when the police get to you, just tell them that and they’ll apologize for bothering you.”
“If I don’t go with you, you’re going to tell the police?”
“I haven’t said so. Mr. Wolfe makes the decisions. I’m just the errand boy.”
She moved. I thought she was bound for the phone, but she kept straight on, to the far end, to the door to the bathroom, and on through. I went and took a look at Fred’s cheek. He had his belt back on. “So this was Yeager’s room,” he said. “Now since I know that—”
“You don’t. You don’t know anything. I lied to her and she fell for it. Your job is merely to be here to welcome callers. There’s no harm done. Your cheek looks worse than it is, and there’s stuff in the bathroom for it. You would have had to take the coverlet off anyway when you go to bed. I’ll help you fold it.”
I took one end and he took the other. He asked how long he would have to hang on there, and I said until further notice, and what better could he ask? Any man with a feeling for the finer things of life would consider it a privilege to be allowed to shack up in such an art gallery as that, and he was getting paid for it, twenty-four hours a day. He said even the TV had caught it; when he turned it on what he had got was a woman in a bathtub blowing soap bubbles.
As he put the folded coverlet on a couch Julia McGee reappeared. She had adjusted the neck of her dress, put her hair in order, and repaired her face. She wasn’t at all bad-looking. She came up to me and said, “All right, I’m accepting your invitation.”
Chapter 7
When you enter the hall of the old brownstone on West 35th Street, the first door on your left is to what we call the front room, and the one beyond it is to the office. Both of those rooms are soundproofed, not as perfectly as Yeager’s bower of carnality, but well enough, including the doors. I took Julia McGee to the front room, had my offer to take her coat declined, and went through the connecting door to the office, closing it behind me. Wolfe was in his favorite chair with his book. He is not a fast reader, and that book has 667 pages, with about 600 words to the page. When I crossed to his desk and told him I had brought company he finished a paragraph, closed the book on a finger, and scowled at me.
I went on. “Her name is Julia McGee. She says she was Yeager’s secretary, which is probably true because it can be easily checked. She says she went there tonight to get a notebook she had left there, which is a lie and not a very good one. There is no notebook in that room. When she entered and saw Fred she went for him and drew blood on his face, and he had to wrap her up in a bed cover so he could use the phone. After I got her name and address from things in her bag I told her she could either go now and explain to the police later or she could come here with me, and she came with me. I made a concession, I told her she could use the phone as soon as she got here, with us present.”
He said, “Grrrrh.” I gave him two seconds to add to it, but apparently that was all, so I went and opened the door to the front room and told her to come in. She came on by me, stopped to glance around, saw the phone on my desk, crossed to it, sat in my chair, and dialed. Wolfe inserted his bookmark, put the book down, leaned back, and glared at her.
She told the receiver, “I want to speak to Mr. Aiken. This is Julia McGee.… That’s right.… Thank you.” A one-minute wait. “Mr. Aiken?… Yes.… Yes, I know, but I had to tell you, there was a man there and he attacked me and … No, let me tell you, another man came and said they were working for Nero Wolfe, the detective.… Yes, Nero Wolfe. The second one, Archie Goodwin, said Nero Wolfe wanted to talk with anyone who came to that room and wanted me to go with him, and that’s where I am now, in Nero Wolfe’s office.… Yes.… No, I don’t think so, they’re both right here, Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin.… I don’t know.… Yes, of course, but I don’t know.… Wait, I’ll ask.”
She turned to me. “What’s this address?” I told her, and she went back to the phone. “Six-eighteen West Thirty-fifth Street.… That’s right.… Yes, I will.” She hung up, swiveled, told Wolfe, “Mr. Aiken will be here in twenty minutes,” and wriggled her coat
off.
Wolfe asked, “Who is Mr. Aiken?”
Her look was what you would get from the Yankee batboy if you asked him who is Mr. Stengel. “Mr. Benedict Aiken. The president of Continental Plastic Products.”
That changed my mind. Wanting my own chair, I had been about to move her to the red leather one, but she would only have to move again when the president came, so I brought one of the yellow ones for her, facing Wolfe’s desk, and put her coat on the couch. As she changed to it Wolfe lifted his head to sniff. His opinion of perfume may be only a part of his opinion of women. He always thinks he smells it when there’s a woman in the room. I had been closer to Julia McGee than he had, and she wasn’t scented.
He eyed her. “You told Mr. Goodwin that you went to that room this evening to get a notebook you had left there. When did you leave it?”
She was meeting his eyes. “I’ll wait until Mr. Aiken gets here.”
Wolfe shook his head. “That won’t do. I can’t prevent his coming, but he’ll enter only if it suits me. I want some facts before he arrives. When did you leave the notebook?”
She opened her mouth and closed it again. In a moment she spoke. “I didn’t. That was a—that wasn’t true. I went there this evening because Mr. Aiken asked me to.”
“Indeed. To get something he had left?”
“No. I’d rather wait until he’s here, but it doesn’t matter. You know that place was Mr. Yeager’s, so it doesn’t matter. Mr. Aiken sent me there to see if there was anything there that would connect Mr. Yeager with it, that would show it was his place.”
“Mr. Aiken gave you keys?”
“No, I had keys. I had been there a few times to take dictation from Mr. Yeager. I was his secretary.”
Wolfe grunted. “I haven’t seen that room, but Mr. Goodwin has described it. Did you think it a suitable milieu for business dictation?”
“It wasn’t my place to think it was suitable or wasn’t. If he thought it was—he was my boss.”
Wolfe looked at me. I raised my brows. One brow up meant no, even money. Two brows up meant no, five to one. He returned to her.
“If you had found something that showed it was Mr. Yeager’s place, what were you going to do with it?”
“I was going to take it. Take it away.”
“As instructed by Mr. Aiken?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Mr. Aiken can tell you that better than I can.”
“You must have a notion. You didn’t think that he was merely indulging a whim.”
“Of course not. The obvious reason was that he wanted to protect the reputation of Continental Plastic Products. It was bad enough, the executive vice-president being murdered. Mr. Aiken didn’t want it to be known that he had been—that he had had a—a place like that.”
“Do you know how Mr. Aiken found out that Mr. Yeager had that place?”
“Yes. I told him.”
“When?”
“About two months ago. Mr. Yeager had had me go there twice—no, three times—to take dictation in the evening. He said he could think better, do better work, away from the office. Of course you’re right, what you said about that room. I thought it was very—well, vulgar for him to ask me to go there. I worried about it, and I decided my loyalty shouldn’t be to Mr. Yeager, it should be to the corporation. It paid my salary. So I told Mr. Aiken.”
“What did he say?”
“He thanked me for telling him.”
“What did he do?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if he did anything.”
“Did he speak to Mr. Yeager about it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Pfui. Certainly you know. If he had, Mr. Yeager would have known you told him. Did you remark any change in Mr. Yeager’s attitude to you?”
“No.”
“Did he continue to ask you to go there to take dictation?”
“Yes.”
“How many times in the two months since you told Mr. Aiken?”
“Twice.”
Wolfe shut his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a fingertip. Ten seconds. His eyes opened. “When did Mr. Aiken ask you to go there this evening?”
“This afternoon at the office. He asked if I still had the keys, and I said yes. He asked if I had ever told anyone else about that place, and I said no. He said it would be a great favor to the corporation if I would go there and make sure that—what I told you.”
“Have you any reason to suppose that Mr. Aiken has ever been there?”
Her eyes widened. “Of course not.”
He shook his head. “No, Miss McGee. No assumption is of course in an unsolved problem. I may if I choose assume that you have been entirely candid with me, but I may not—”
The doorbell rang. I got up and went, and there on the stoop was the president. The stoop light is at an angle on someone facing the door, from the side, so features aren’t distinct, but the gray homburg and the fit of the gray topcoat were enough. I went and opened the door and asked, “Mr. Aiken? Come in.”
He stayed put. “Am I expected?”
“Yes, sir. Miss McGee is with Mr. Wolfe.”
He crossed the sill, and I helped him off with his coat. With his hat off, I recognized him; he had been seated near Thomas G. Yeager in the picture I had seen in Lon Cohen’s office of the banquet of the National Plastics Association. His face was well formed and well kept, and though his hair was mostly gray, he still had it. Every inch a president. He had paid at least eight times as much for his suit as the phony Yeager had paid for his. When I convoyed him to the office he stopped four steps in and said, “Good evening, Miss McGee,” then turned to Wolfe and said, “Good evening, sir. I’m Benedict Aiken.”
She was on her feet. I thought she had risen to show respect, but Wolfe spoke to Aiken. “I have told Miss McGee that I’ll speak with you privately first. If you please, madam? The door, Archie.”
“Just a minute.” Aiken wasn’t belligerent, just firm. “I’d like to speak with Miss McGee myself.”
“No doubt.” Wolfe upturned a palm. “Mr. Aiken. What Miss McGee told you on the phone was correct except for one detail, that she was attacked. I stationed a man in that room on the chance that someone would come there. Miss McGee came, and she—”
“Why are you interested in that room?”
“Because it belonged to Thomas G. Yeager and was used by him. The man didn’t attack Miss McGee; she attacked him. In explaining to me why she went there she mentioned you, and I would like an explanation from you so I can compare it with hers. She may be present if you prefer, but not if she tries to interrupt. If she does, Mr. Goodwin will stop her.”
Aiken looked at me, sizing me up. He went to the red leather chair and sat, in no hurry, making himself comfortable with his elbows on the arms. His eyes went to Wolfe. “Why do you think that room belonged to Thomas G. Yeager?”
“I don’t think, I know.”
“Why are you concerned? Whom are you acting for?”
“Myself. I have no engagement. I am in possession of a fact about a man who was murdered that is not commonly known. I am not legally obliged to communicate it to the police, and I am exploring the possibility of using it to my profit—not by concealing it, but by exploiting it. Like doctors, lawyers, plumbers, and many others, I get my income from the necessities, the tribulations, and the misfortunes of my fellow beings. You are under no compulsion to tell me why you are concerned, but I am willing to listen. I didn’t get you here.”
Aiken was smiling, not with amusement. “I can’t complain,” he said, “since you have the handle. I didn’t expect you to tell me who has hired you, but it’s hard to believe that no one has. How did you find out about that room?”
Wolfe shook his head. “I owe you no light, sir. But I have not been hired. If I had a client I would say so, of course without naming him.”
“How are you going to use the fact you possess about that room?”
; “I don’t know. That will be determined by events. My man is still there.”
“When you speak of using it to your profit, of course you mean get paid by somebody.”
“Certainly.”
“All right.” Aiken shifted in the chair. “You want to compare my explanation with Miss McGee’s. Of course you know that Yeager was the executive vice-president of my corporation, Continental Plastic Products. Miss McGee was his secretary. Some two months ago she came to me and told me about that room, that Yeager had had her go there several times in the evening to work with him on various matters. She had no complaint of his conduct, but she thought I should know about that room and what it indicated of Yeager’s character and habits. From her description of the room I thought she was fully justified. Obviously it was a difficult problem. I asked her to mention it to no one, and not to refuse to go there again; I would have to take time to consider how to deal with it.”
“Did you mention it to him?”
“No. I don’t know how much you know of the administrative complexities of a large corporation, but the main question was whether the best procedure would be to discuss it with him first or take it up with my board of directors. I still hadn’t decided yesterday when the news came that he was dead, that his body had been found in a hole in the street in front of that house. Naturally that was a shock, that he had been murdered, that was—well, very unpleasant—but it would be worse than unpleasant, it would be disastrous, if the existence of that room became known. Since his body had been found in front of that house, it would be assumed that someone involved in his activities in that room had killed him, and the investigation, the publicity, the inevitable scandal would be terrible. I was going to call an emergency meeting of my board, but decided instead to consult three of my directors in confidence. It was possible that Yeager had kept the existence of that room so secret that his connection with it would not become known. I suggested asking Miss McGee to go there and get any articles that might identify Yeager, and the suggestion was approved. And your man was there.” His head turned. “Exactly what happened, Miss McGee?”
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