My client and I watched the routine activities from our grandstand seat. They were swift, efficient, and thorough. Traffic was detoured at the corner of Ninth Avenue. A section of the street and sidewalk was roped off to enclose the taxi. Floodlights were focused on the taxi and surroundings. A photographer took shots from various angles. Pedestrians from both directions were shunted across the street, where a crowd gathered behind the rope. Some twenty city employees, in uniform and out, were on the scene in less than half an hour after the cop had made the radio call—five of them known to me by name and four others by sight. The second floodlight had just been turned on when Cramer came around the front of the taxi, crossed to the steps and mounted the first three, and faced me. Since I was sitting, that made our eyes level.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s go in. I might as well have you and Wolfe together, and this woman too. That may simplify it. Open the door.”
“On the contrary,” I said, not moving, “it would complicate it. Mr. Wolfe is in the office reading a book and knows nothing of all the excitement, and cares less. If I went in and told him you wanted to see him, and what about, you know what he would say and so do I. Nothing doing.”
“Who came here in that taxi?”
“I don’t know. I know nothing whatever about the taxi. When I came out it was there at the curb.”
“When did you come out?”
“Twenty minutes past nine.”
“Why did you come out?”
“To find a place to spend the night. I have quit my job, so if you’re determined to see Mr. Wolfe you’ll have to ring the bell.”
“You’re telling me you’ve quit?”
“Right. I don’t work here any more.”
“By God. I thought you and Wolfe had tried all the wrinkles there are, but this is a new one. Do you expect me to buy it?”
“It’s not a wrinkle. I meant it. I wouldn’t sign a pledge never to sleep here again, that depends on Mr. Wolfe’s handling of a certain problem, but when I left the house I meant it. The problem has no connection with that taxi or what’s in it.”
“Did this woman leave the house with you?”
“No. When I opened the door, coming out, she was coming up the stoop. She said she wanted to see Nero Wolfe, and when I told her I no longer worked for him, and anyway he probably wouldn’t see her, she said she guessed that for what she wanted I would be better than him. She offered to pay me fifty dollars for consultation on how to win a bet she had made, and we sat here to consult. We had been here fifteen or twenty minutes when the prowl car came along and stopped by the taxi, which had been standing there when I left the house, and naturally I was curious and went to take a look. The cop asked me my name and I told him. When he went to his radio to report I came back to my client, but we didn’t do much consulting on account of the commotion. That’s the crop.”
“Had you ever seen this woman before?”
“No.”
“What was the bet she wanted to consult about?”
“That’s her affair. She’s here. Ask her.”
“Did she come in that taxi?”
“Not to my knowledge. Ask her.”
“Did you see her get out of the taxi?”
“No. She was halfway up the stoop when I opened the door.”
“Did you see anyone get out of the taxi? Or near it?”
“No.”
“What’s her name?”
“Ask her.”
His head moved. “Is your name Judith Bram?”
That was no news for me, since my view through the open door had included the framed picture of the hackie and her name. As well as I had been able to tell in the dim light, the picture was not of my client.
“No,” she said.
“What is it?”
“Mira Holt. Mira with an I.” Her voice was clear and steady.
“Did you drive that taxi here?”
“No.”
“Did you come here in it?”
“No.”
So she had picked method three, a simple basic lie.
“Did you have an appointment to see Nero Wolfe?”
“No.”
“Where do you live?”
“Seven-fourteen East Eighty-first Street.”
“What is your occupation?”
“Modeling. Mostly fashion modeling.”
“Are you married?”
“Yes, but I don’t live with my husband.”
“What’s your husband’s name?”
She opened her mouth and closed it again. “Waldo Kearns. I use my own name.”
“Are you divorced?”
“No.”
“Was that taxi here when you arrived?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t notice, but I suppose it was because it didn’t come after we sat down.”
“How did you come here?”
“I don’t think that matters.”
“I’ll decide if it matters. How did you come?”
She shook her head. “No. For instance, if somebody drove me here, or near here, you would ask him, and I might not want you to. No.”
So she also knew what “no trimmings” meant.
“I advise you,” Cramer advised her, “to tell me how you came.”
“I would rather not.”
“What was the bet you wanted to consult about?”
“That doesn’t matter either. It was a private bet with a friend.” Her head turned. “You’re a detective, Mr. Goodwin, so you ought to know, do I have to tell him about my private affairs just because I was sitting here with you?”
“Of course not,” I assured her. “Not unless he shows some connection between your private affairs and his public affairs, and he hasn’t. It’s entirely up to you whether—”
“What the devil is all this?” Nero Wolfe bellowed.
I twisted around and so did my client. The door was wide open and he was standing on the threshold, his bulk towering above us. “What’s going on?” he demanded.
Since I was merely an ex-employee and Cramer was an inspector I thought it fitting to let him reply, but he didn’t. Apparently he was too flabbergasted at seeing Wolfe actually stick his nose outdoors. Wolfe advanced a step. “Archie. I asked a question.”
I had stood up. “Yes, sir, I heard you. Miss Holt, this is Mr. Wolfe. Miss Mira Holt. When I left the house she was coming up the steps. I had never seen her before. When I told her I was no longer in your employ she said I would be better than you and asked to consult me. She had paid me. We sat down to confer. There was an empty taxi parked at the curb, no driver in it. A police car came along and stopped, and a cop found a dead body, female, in the taxi under a piece of canvas. I was there looking in when he removed the canvas. I came back up the stoop to sit with my client. We recessed our conference to watch the proceedings. Officers arrived promptly, including Inspector Cramer. When he got around to it he came and questioned us. I knew nothing about the taxi or its contents and said so. She told him she had not driven the taxi here and hadn’t come in it. She gave him her name and address and occupation, but refused to answer questions about her private affairs—for instance, what she was consulting me about. I was telling her that was entirely up to her when you appeared.”
Wolfe grunted. “Why didn’t you bring Miss Holt inside?”
“Because it’s not my house. Or my office.”
“Nonsense. There is the front room. If you wish to stand on ceremony, I invite you to use it for consultation with your client. Sitting here in this hubbub is absurd. Have you any further information for Mr. Cramer?”
“No.”
“Have you, Miss Holt?”
She was on her feet beside me. “I didn’t have any,” she said. “I haven’t got any.”
“Then get away from this turmoil. Come in.”
Cramer found his tongue. “Just a minute.” He had come on up to the stoop and was at my elbow, focused on Wolfe. “This is all very neat. Too damn neat. Goodwin says he quit
his job. Did he?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Pfui. That’s egregious, Mr. Cramer, and you know it.”
“Did it have anything to do with Miss Holt or what she was coming to consult about?”
“No.”
“Or with the fact that a taxi was parked at your door with a dead body in it?”
“No.”
“Did you know Miss Holt was coming?”
“No. Nor, patently, did Mr. Goodwin.”
“Did you know the taxi was out here?”
“No. I am bearing with you, sir. You persist beyond reason. If Mr. Goodwin or I were involved in the circumstance that brought you here, or Miss Holt, would he have sat here with her, supine, awaiting your assault? You know him, and you know me. Come, Archie. Bring your client.” He turned.
I told Cramer, “I’ll be glad to type up statements and bring them down,” touched Mira Holt’s arm, and followed her inside, Wolfe having preceded us.
When I had shut the door and the lock had clicked Wolfe spoke. “Since there’s no telephone in the front room and you may have occasion to use one, perhaps the office would be better. I will go to my room.”
“Thank you,” I said politely. “But it might be still better for us to leave the back way. You may not want us here when I explain the situation. Miss Holt drove that taxi here. A friend of hers named Judith Bram is one of the ninety-three female hackies in New York, and she let Miss Holt take her cab—or maybe Miss Holt took it without Miss Bram’s knowledge. She left—”
“No,” Mira said. “Judy let me take it.”
“Possible,” I conceded. “You’re a pretty good liar. Let me finish. She left it, empty, in front of a building and went in the building for something, and when she came back there was a dead body in it, a woman, with a knife between its ribs. Either it was covered with a canvas, or she—”
“I covered it,” Mira said. “It was under that panel by the driver’s seat.”
“She’s level-headed,” I told Wolfe. “Somewhat. She couldn’t notify the police, because not only had she and her friend violated the law, but also she had recognized the dead woman. She knew her. She decided to come and consult you and me. I met her on the stoop. She told me a cockeyed tale about a bet she had made with a friend which I’ll skip. I said somewhat level-headed. I let her see that I knew she was feeding me soap but kept her from blurting it out. So I told Cramer no lies, but she did, and did a good job. But the lies won’t keep long. It’s barely possible that Judith Bram will deny that she let someone take her cab, but sooner or later—”
“I tried to phone her,” Mira said, “but she didn’t answer. I was going to tell her to say that someone stole it.”
“Quit interrupting me. Did you ever hear of fingerprints? Did you see them working on that cab? So I have a client who is in a double-breasted jam. I’ll know more about it after she tells me things. The point is, did she kill that woman? If I thought she did I would bow out quick—I would already have bowed out because it would have been hopeless. But she didn’t. One will get you ten that she didn’t. If she had—”
That interruption wasn’t words; it was her lips against mine and her palms covering my ears. If she had been Wolfe’s client I would have shoved her off quick, since that sort of demonstration only ruffles him, but she was mine and there was no point in hurting her feelings. I even patted her shoulder. When she was through I resumed.
“If she had killed her she would not have driven here with the corpse for a passenger to tell you, or even me, a goofy tale about a bet with a friend. Not a chance. She would have dumped the corpse somewhere. Make it twenty to one. Add to that my observation of her while we sat there on the stoop, and it’s thirty to one. Therefore I am keeping the fee she paid me, and I’m—by the way.” I reached in my pocket for the bills she had given me, unfolded them, and counted. Three twenties, three tens, and a five. Returning two twenties and a ten to my pocket, I offered her the rest. “Your change. I’m keeping fifty.”
She hesitated, then took it. “I’ll pay you more. Of course. What are you going to do?”
“I’ll know better after you answer some questions. One that shouldn’t wait: what did you do with the cap?”
“I have it.” She patted her front.
“Good.” I returned to Wolfe. “So we’ll be going. Thank you again for your offer of hospitality, but Cramer may be ringing the bell any minute. We’ll go out the rear, Miss Holt. This way.”
“No.” Wolfe snapped it. “This is preposterous. Give me half of that fifty dollars.”
I raised a brow. “For what?”
“To pay me. You have helped me with many problems; surely I can help you with one. I am not being quixotic. I do not accept your headstrong decision that our long association has ended, but even if it has, your repute is inextricably involved with mine. Your client is in a pickle. I have never tried to do a job without your help; why should you try to do one without mine?”
I wanted to grin at him, but he might have misunderstood. “Okay,” I said, and got a twenty from the pocket where I had put the fee, and a five from my wallet, and handed them to him. He took them, turned, and headed for the office, and Mira and I followed.
IV
Where to sit was a delicate question—not for Wolfe, who of course went to his oversized custom-built chair behind his desk, nor for the client, since Wolfe wiggled a finger to indicate the red leather chair that would put her facing him, but for me. The desk at right angles to Wolfe’s was no longer mine. I had a hand on one of the yellow chairs, to move it up, when Wolfe growled, “Confound it, don’t be frivolous. We have a job to do.”
I went and sat where I had belonged, and asked him, “Do I proceed?”
“Certainly.”
I looked at her. In good light, with the cap off, she was very lookable, even in a pickle. “I would like,” I said, “to be corroborated. Did you kill that woman?”
“No. No!”
“Okay. Out with it. This time, method two, the truth. Judith Bram is a friend of yours?”
“Yes.”
“Did she let you take her cab?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I asked her to.”
“Why did you ask her to?”
“Because … it’s a long story.”
“Make it as short as you can. We may not have much time.”
She was on the edge of the chair, which would have held two of her. “I have known Judy three years. She was a model too, but she didn’t like it. She’s very unconventional. She had money she had inherited, and she bought a cab and a license about a year ago. She cruises when she feels like it, but she has some regular customers who think it’s chic to ride in a cab with a girl driver, and my husband is one of them. He often—”
“Your husband?” Wolfe demanded. “Miss Holt?”
“They don’t live together,” I told him. “Not divorced, but she uses her own name. Fashion model. Go ahead but keep it short.”
She obeyed. “My husband’s name is Waldo Kearns. He paints pictures but doesn’t sell any. He has money. He often calls Judy to take him somewhere, and he called last night when I was with her and told her to come for him at eight o’clock this evening, and I asked Judy to let me go instead of her. I have been trying to see him for months to have a talk with him, and he refuses to see me. He doesn’t answer my letters. I want a divorce and he doesn’t. I think the reason he doesn’t is that—”
“Skip it. Get on.”
“Well … Judy said I could take the cab, and today at seven o’clock I went to her place and she brought it from the garage, and she gave me her cap and jacket, and I drove it to—”
“Where is her place?”
“Bowdoin Street. Number seventeen. In the Village.”
“I know. You got in the cab there?”
“Yes. I drove it to Ferrell Street. It’s west of Varick, below—”
“I know where it is.”
“You’re sure of the time?”
“Yes. I looked at my watch. Of course.”
“What does it say now?”
She lifted her wrist. “Two minutes after eleven.”
“Right. You went through the alley?”
“Yes, to the house. There’s a brass knocker on the door, no bell. I knocked with it, but nobody came. I knocked several times. I could hear the radio or television going inside, I could just barely hear it, so I knocked loud. He couldn’t have recognized me through a window because it was too dark and I had the cap pulled down. Of course it could have been Morton, his man as he calls him, playing the radio, but I don’t think so because he would have heard the knocker and come to the door. I finally gave up and went back to the cab, and as I was getting in I saw her. At first I thought it was a trick he had played, but when I looked closer I saw the knife, and then I recognized her, and she was dead. If I hadn’t turned around and gripped the wheel as hard as I could I think I would have fainted. I never have fainted. I sat there—”
“Who was it?”
“It was Phoebe Arden. She was the reason my husband didn’t want a divorce. I’m sure she was, or anyway one of the reasons. I think he thought that as long as he was still married to me she couldn’t expect him to marry her, and neither could anyone else. But I wasn’t thinking about that while I sat there, I was thinking what to do. I knew the right thing was to call the police, but I was driving Judy’s cab, and, what was worse, I would have to admit I knew who she was, and they would find out about her and my husband. I don’t know how long I sat there.”
Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe Page 9