“Certainly,” said a voice promptly, fluttering the r like a moth on a marathon. “I did.”
He smiled at her. “What did you notice, Madame Zorka?”
“I noticed that the material is of the same pattern, perfectly, as the one Mr Driscoll was wearing.”
Two additional female voices chimed in simultaneously, “So did I,” and other voices murmured.
Ludlow nodded. “Apparently Driscoll agrees with me on tailors.” His tone sounded as if there were something about that faintly deplorable. “The fabric is identical. I wondered that none of you mentioned it yesterday. Perhaps you did, but not to me. Of course the coincidence explains why when Miss Tormic went to my locker to get my cigarettes from my coat, and Driscoll saw her, he thought the coat was his own. My locker adjoined his.”
There was a round of ejaculations. Eyes moved from his face to that of Neya Tormic and back again. I felt Carla Lovchen’s fingers gripping my elbow, but I didn’t react, because I was trying to keep my brain cleared for action.
Ludlow continued in the same easy tone, “Yesterday when Miss Tormic was suddenly confronted with Driscoll’s ugly accusation, naturally she was flustered. Impulsively and perhaps foolishly, she denied having been in the locker room. Hearing that denial, I was a little flustered myself. It would have produced a most unfortunate impression if I had contradicted her on the spot, so I temporized and confirmed her statement that she had been with me continuously in the end room. But, as it turned out, that was no go. Driscoll was positive that it was Miss Tormic he had seen with his coat. Miss Reade and Mr Gill both declared that they had seen her in the hall near the door of the locker room shortly prior to four-thirty. So it was clear that the only thing for it was the truth, which is that while we were fencing yesterday the strap of my pad broke and I had to change it, and we felt like a cigarette and found that we had none, and while I was changing the pad she took my key and went to the locker room for my cigarettes.”
I had left his face and was concentrating on Neya’s, but I couldn’t read it. It wasn’t alarmed or angry or pleased; I would have said it was more puzzled than anything else; but that seemed unlikely, so I scored myself zero. There was a buzz around the room which stopped when Miltan remarked, more to space than to any audience, “So! So she was there!”
Ludlow nodded negligently. “Oh, yes, she was there, but it was my coat she had, not Driscol’s. No doubt of it, because she returned with my cigarette-case and lighter. We had a few puffs together, and we were fencing again when word came that Miltan wished to see Miss Tormic—”
He stopped, and lost his audience. The door had opened, and two men entered. The one in front was a grey-haired guy with a full cargo of dignity and an air that invited respect, and behind him, practically hiding behind him, was a plump specimen about fifty-one years old with thick lips and bald eyebrows. They came on in and Miltan met them.
“We’ve been waiting for you, Mr Driscoll—”
“I’m sorry,” the plump one stammered, edging around. “Very sorry . . . unh . . . this is Mr Thompson, my lawyer—Mr Miltan . . .”
As the grey-haired one extended a hand for the shake he conceded the point without reservation or qualification. “I am Mr Driscoll’s counsel. I thought it best to come personally—this regrettable affair—extremely regrettable . . . Will you kindly introduce me to Miss Tormic? If you will be so good . . .”
That was done by Miltan, who looked a little bewildered. The lawyer’s bow was courteous and respectful, as was his verbal acknowledgement; Neya stood motionless and silent. He turned. “These people—are these the persons whom Mr Driscoll—before whom he accused Miss Tormic—”
Miltan nodded. “We’ve been waiting for him, to—”
“I know. We’re late. My client was reluctant to come, and I had to persuade him that his presence was necessary. Miss Tormic, what I have to say is addressed primarily to you, but these others should hear it—in fact, they must hear it, in justice to you. First for the facts. When Mr Driscoll left his home yesterday morning he had in his pocket a pillbox containing diamonds which he intended to take to a jeweller to be set in a bracelet. From his office he phoned the jeweller and discussed the matter. His secretary took the box of diamonds to arrange for their delivery. They are at the jeweller’s now. Here, later, Mr Driscoll, lamentably and inexcusably, but innocently, forgot that his secretary—”
A clatter of comment from all corners interrupted him. He smiled at Neya, but got nothing in return. Driscoll had a handkerchief out, wiping his brow, trying to find a place to look without meeting a pair of eyes. Miltan sputtered:
“Do you mean to say that this infamous—this irresponsible—?”
“Please!” The lawyer had a hand up. “Please let me finish. Mr Driscoll’s lapse of memory was inexcusable. But he was honestly convinced that he had seen Miss Tormic with his coat—”
“It was my coat,” Ludlow snapped. “Of the same pattern. I have it on.”
“I see. Well. That explains that. Was it in the same locker?”
“The one adjoining.” Ludlow was severe. “But Mr Driscoll should know that before making a grave accusation—”
“Certainly he should.” The lawyer conceded everything again. “Even the coincidence of the coats is no excuse for him. That’s why I insisted on his coming, to make his apology to Miss Tormic in the presence of all of you. His reluctance is understandable. He is extremely embarrassed and humiliated.” He eyed his client. “Well?”
Driscoll, gripping his handkerchief, faced Neya Tormic. “I apologize,” he mumbled. “I’m damn sorry.” The mumble became abruptly and surprisingly an outraged roar: “Of course I’m sorry, damn it!”
Someone giggled. Nikola Miltan said grimly, “You certainly should be sorry. It might have been disastrous, both for Miss Tormic and for me.”
“I know it. I’ve said I’m sorry, and I am.”
The lawyer put in smoothly and sweetly, “I hope, Miss Tormic . . . may we hope for an expression from you—of forgiveness? Of—er—quittance?” He took an envelope from his pocket. “In fact, I thought it would be as well for you to have Mr Driscoll’s written apology to support his oral one, so I brought it along”—he got a paper from the envelope—“and I brought also a quittance, just an informal sentence or two, which I’m sure you will want to sign for him in return—”
“Just a minute.” It was me entering on my cue. “I represent Miss Tormic.”
The way he went on guard like lightning, facially, was a treat. He demanded, “Who are you, sir? A lawyer?”
“Nope, I’m not a lawyer, but I speak English and I represent Miss Tormic, and we’re not before a court. She isn’t signing anything.”
“But, my dear sir, why not? Merely an informal—”
“That’s the trouble, it’s too informal. For instance, what if Miltan here gets sore about this fracas, though it’s not her fault, and she loses her job? Or what if this thing had been turned loose around town and she can’t catch up with it? Nothing doing on the quittance.”
“I have no intention,” Miltan put in, “of dismissing Miss Tormic. But I agree that it is not necessary for her to sign anything. I am quite sure she will have no desire to make trouble for Mr Driscoll.” He looked at her.
She spoke for the first time: “No, certainly.” She sounded darned unconcerned for a girl who had just escaped being thrown in the hoosegow as a sneak thief. Almost indifferent, as if her mind was on something else: “I will make no trouble.”
The lawyer pounced on her. “Then, Miss Tormic, if you feel that way, surely you have no objection to signing—”
“Damn it, let her alone!” It was his own client tripping him up. Driscoll glared at him. “Damn a lawyer anyway! If I’d had the nerve to face it, I’d have done just as well if I’d come alone!” He confronted Miltan. “Now I’ve apologized! I’m sorry! I’m damn sorry! I like this place. I’ve been overweight for years. I’m damn near fat! I’ve monkeyed around with exercises and
health farms and damn fool games throwing a ball and riding a horse as tall as a skyscraper, and the first thing I’ve ever done to sweat that is any fun is what I do here! I may be a rotten fencer, but I like it! I don’t care whether Miss Tormic signs a paper or not. I want to be friends with Miltan!” He whirled. “Miss Lovchen! I want to be friends with you! Miss Tormic is your friend and I acted like a damn fool. I am a damn fool. Will you fence with me or won’t you? I mean right now!”
Somebody snickered. People moved. The lawyer looked dignified. Carla said, “I work for Mr Miltan. I’ll follow his instructions.” Miltan said something conciliatory and diplomatic, and it was apparent that Mr Driscoll wasn’t going to be deprived of his fun. I faded into the background. The chinless wonder, whose name I hadn’t got, a blond guy with thin lips and an aggressive nose who stood and walked like a soldier, went up to Neya with a thin smile and said something evidently meant to be agreeable, and was followed by Donald Barrett for a similar performance. Mrs Miltan crossed to her and patted her on the shoulder, and then she was approached by Percy Ludlow. They spoke together a minute, and she left him and headed for me.
I grinned at her. “Well, a pretty good show. I hope you didn’t mind my horning in. Nero Wolfe never lets a client sign anything except a cheque drawn to his order.”
“I don’t mind. I say good-bye. I am going to fence with Mr Ludlow. Thank you for coming.”
“Your eyes glitter.”
“My eyes? They always glitter.”
“Any message for your father?”
“I think—not now. No.”
“You ought to run down and say hallo to him.”
“I will some day. Au revoir, then.”
“So-long.”
Turning to go, she bumped into the lawyer and he apologized profusely. That accomplished, he addressed me:
“Could I have your name, sir?”
I told him.
He repeated it. “Archie Goodwin. Thank you. If I may ask, in what capacity do you represent Miss Tormic?”
I was exasperated. “Look here,” I said, “I am willing to stipulate that a lawyer has a right to live, and I’m aware that even when he’s dead no worm will enter his coffin because if it did he’d make it sign some kind of a paper. I suppose if you don’t get that thing signed you’ll have a tantrum. Give it to me.”
From the envelope, which he was still clutching in his hand, he extracted the document and handed it over. A glance showed me that his two informal sentences were, in fact, five legal-sized paragraphs. I got out my pen and with a quick flourish signed on the dotted line at the bottom: “Queen Victoria.”
“There,” I said, and shoved it at him and moved off before he could react, considering how dignity slows a man up.
The room was about empty. Miltan’s wife was over by a desk, talking with Belinda Reade. Carla Lovchen, along with the others, had disappeared, presumably to let the rich fat man enjoy some fun. He must have been a pip of a swordsman, I reflected, as I got my hat and coat from the rack and meandered to the hall and out the street door to the sidewalk.
My wrist-watch told me it was a quarter to six. Wolfe would still be up in the plant rooms, and he wasn’t enthusiastic about being disturbed regarding business while there, but I considered that this wasn’t business, properly speaking, but a family matter. So I found a drugstore with a phone booth and called the number.
“Hallo, Mr Wolfe? Mr Goodwin speaking.”
“Well?”
“Well, I’m in a drugstore at 48th and Lexington. It’s all over. It was a farce in three acts. First she, meaning your daughter, seemed to be more bored than bothered. Second, a chap named Percy said she was frisking his coat for cigarettes, not Driscoll’s for diamonds, which appeared to be news to her, judging from her expression. Third act, enter Driscoll with a trouble hound and a written apology. There hadn’t been any diamonds in his coat. None had been stolen. His mistake. Sorry and damn sorry. So I’m headed for home. I may add that she doesn’t resemble you a particle and she is very good-look—”
“You’re sure it’s clear?”
“It’s cleared up. Settled. I wouldn’t say it’s entirely clear.”
“You went there with two problems. What about the second one?”
“No light on it. Not a glimmer. No chance to sniff around on it. There was a mob present, and when the meeting broke up both Balkans went off to give fencing lessons.”
“Who is the man named Percy?”
“Percy Ludlow. My age, and a good deal like me: courteous, gifted, of distinguished appear—”
“You say my—she seemed to be bored. Do you mean to imply—is she stupid?”
“Oh, no. I mean it. Maybe she’s a little complicated, but she’s not stupid.”
Silence. No talk. It lasted so long that I finally said, “Hallo, you there?”
“Yes. Get her and bring her here. I want to see her.”
“Yeah, I thought so. I expected that. It’s a perfectly natural feeling and does you credit, but that’s why I phoned, to explain that I asked her if she had a message for you; and she said no; and I said she ought to drop in on you to say hallo; and she said she would some day, and now she’s in there crossing blades with Percy—”
“Wait till she’s through and bring her.”
“Do you mean that?”
“I do.”
“I may have to carry her or—”
He hung up, which is a trick I detest.
I went to the fountain and got a glass of grapefruit juice, and while drinking it considered persuasions to use on her short of force, but developed nothing satisfactory, and then strolled back along 48th Street to the scene of operations.
Nikola Miltan and his wife were the only ones in the office. It looked to me as if she had been headed for the door when I entered, but when I took off my hat and coat and put them on the rack, explaining that I wanted to see Miss Tormic when she was disengaged, apparently she changed her mind and decided to stick around. Miltan invited me to have a chair, and I sat down not far from the desk where he was, while his wife opened a door of the big glass cabinet and began rearranging things which didn’t need it.
“I have met Mr Nero Wolfe,” Miltan offered politely.
I nodded. “So I understand.”
“He is a remarkable man. Remarkable.”
“Well, I know of one guy that would agree with you.”
“Only one?”
“At least one. Mr Wolfe.”
“Ah. A joke.” He laughed politely. “I imagine there are many others. In fact—what is it, Jeanne?”
His wife had uttered a foreign exclamation, of surprise or maybe dismay. “The col de mart,” she told him. “It’s not here. Did you remove it?”
“I did not. Of course not. It was there—I’m sure—”
He got up and trotted over to the cabinet, and I arose and wandered after him. Together they stared at a spot. He stretched, and then ducked, to inspect the other shelves.
“No,” she said, “it’s not there. It’s gone. There is nothing else gone. I was in favour long ago of having a lock put on—”
“But, my dear.” Miltan looked defensive. “There is no sensible reason that could possibly exist why anyone would want to take that col de mart. It was a nice curiosity, but of no particular value.”
“What’s a col de mort?” I asked.
“Oh, just a little thing.”
“What kind of a little thing?”
“Oh, a little thing—look.” He put an arm through the open door of the cabinet and placed a finger upon the point of the épée which was displayed there. “See? It’s blunt.”
“I see it is.”
“Well, once in Paris, years ago, a man wanted to kill another man, and he made a little thing with a sharp point, very cleverly, which he could fit over the end of an épée.” He took the weapon from the shelf and dangled it in his hand. “Then, with the thing fitted on, he made a thrust in quarte—”
He made a lunge
at an imaginary victim in my neighbourhood, so unexpected and incredibly swift that I side-stepped and nearly tripped myself up, and was perfectly willing to concede him the championship. Just as swiftly he was back to normal position.
“So.” He smiled, and returned the weapon to its place. “A thrust in quarte gets the heart, theoretically, but that time it was not theory. A member of the police who was a friend of mine gave me the little thing as a curiosity. The newspapers called it col de mort. Neck—no, not neck. Collar. Collar of death. Because it fitted the end of the épée like a collar. It was amusing to have it.”
“It’s gone,” said his wife shortly.
“I hope not gone.” Miltan frowned. “There is no reason for it to be gone. There has been enough talk of stealing around here. We will find out. We will ask people.”
“I hope you find it,” I told him. “It sounds cute. Speaking of asking people, I was about to ask you if it would be okay for me to have a little chat with whoever it is that cleans up the fencing rooms.”
“Why . . . what for?”
“Oh, just a little chat. Who does the cleaning?”
“The porter. But I can’t imagine why you should want—”
His wife interrupted him, with her eyes on me. “He wants to find out if cigarette stubs and ashes were found in the room where Miss Tormic and Mr Ludlow were fencing yesterday,” she said calmly.
I grinned at her. “If you will pardon a personal remark, Mrs Miltan, I might have known from your eyes that you had that in you.”
She merely continued to look at me.
“For my part,” Miltan declared, “I don’t see why you should want to know about cigarette stubs, and I don’t see how my wife knew you wanted to. I am slow-witted.”
“Well, you have to be slow at something, to even up for your speed with that sticker. May I see the porter?”
“No,” Jeanne Miltan said bluntly.
Over My Dead Body Page 4