She didn't want him to do anything, not even give her
advice; she merely wanted to tell him something; and
she would pay one hundred dollars for the half-hour.
She could and would pay more if she had to, but she
hoped the hundred would be enough.
72 Rex Stout
In November or December, when Wolfe's income has
reached a point where out of a hundred received he can
keep only twenty bucks, he will make an appointment
only for someone or something very special, but this
was January, no big fee was in prospect, and even a
measly C would help in the upkeep of his old brown-
stone on West 35th Street, including staff, particularly
since he wouldn't have to work for it. So it was set for
11:30 the following morning, Tuesday.
When the doorbell rang at 11:30 on the dot and I went
to let her in, she gave me a smile and said, "Thank you
for getting him to see me." Handshakes can be faked
and usually are, but smiles can't. It isn't often that a
man gets a natural, friendly, straightforward smile
from a young woman who has never seen him before,
with no come-on, no catch, and no dare, and the least he
can do is return it if he has that kind in stock. As I took
her to the office and helped her off with her coat, which
was mink, I was thinking that you never know, even the
good-looking wife of a well-known public relations op-
erator like Barry Hazen could have her feelings on
straight. I was pleased to meet her.
So I was disappointed when she put on an act. It is
not natural for a woman to open a conversation with a
stranger by taking a revolver from her bag and saying
that's the gun she isn't going to shoot her husband with.
I must have been wrong about the smile, and since I
don't like to be wrong I was no longer pleased to meet
her. I raised my brows and tightened my lips.
Wolfe, in his oversized chair behind his desk, darted a
glance at the gun, returned his eyes to her, and
grunted. "I am not impressed," he said, "by histrion-
ics."
"Oh," she said, "I'm not trying to impress you, I'm
only telling you. That's what I came for, just to tell you.
I thought it would be more—more definite, I guess—if
I brought the gun and showed it to you."
"Very well, you have done so." Wolfe was frowning.
"I understand that you intend to ask me for no service
or advice; you wish only to tell me something in confi-
The Homicide Trinity 73
dence. I should remind you that I am not a lawyer or a
priest; a communication from you to me will not be
privileged. If you tell me about a crime I can't engage
not to disclose it. I mean a serious crime, not some petty
offense such as carrying a deadly weapon for which you
have no permit."
"I hadn't thought of that, carrying a weapon." She
dismissed it with a little gesture. "That's all right.
There hasn't been any crime and there isn't going to be,
that's just the point. That's what I came to tell you, that
I'm not going to shoot my husband."
Wolfe's eyes were narrowed at her. He is convinced
that all women are dotty or devious, or both, and here
was more evidence to support it. "Just that?" he de-
manded. "You wanted half an hour."
She nodded. She set her teeth on her lip, nice white
teeth, and in a moment released it. "Because I thought
it would be better if I told you something
about . . . why. If you will regard it as confidential."
"With the reservation I have made."
"Of course. You know who my husband is? Barry
Hazen, Public Relations?"
"Mr. Goodwin has informed me."
"We were married two years ago. I was the secretary
of a client of his, Jules Khoury, the inventor. My father,
Titus Postel, was also an inventor, and he was associ-
ated with Mr. Khoury until his death five years ago.
That's where I met Barry, at Mr. Khoury's office. I
thought I really was in love with him. I have tried and
tried to decide what was the real reason why I married
him, I mean the real one, whether it was only because I
wanted to have—"
She stopped and put her teeth on her lip. She shook
her head, with energy, as if to chase a fly. "There you
are," she said. "I mean there I am. You don't need to
know all that. I'm blubbering, fishing for pity. You don't
even need to know why I want to kill him."
Wolfe muttered, "It's your half-hour, madam."
"I don't hate him." She shook her head again. "I think
I despise him—I know I do—and he won't let me get a
74 Rex Stout
divorce. I tried to leave him, I did leave him, but he
made such a— There I go again! I don't need to tell you
all that!"
"As you please."
"It's not as I please, Mr. Wolfe, it's as I must!"
"As you must, then."
"This is what I must tell you. He has a gun in a
drawer in his bedroom. That's it there on your desk. We
have separate bedrooms. You know how there can be
something in your mind but you don't know it's there
until all of a sudden there it is?"
"Certainly. The subconscious is not a grave; it's a
cistern."
"But we don't know what's in it. I didn't. One day a
month ago, it was the day after Christmas, I went to his
bedroom and took the gun from the drawer and looked
to see if it was loaded, and it was, and all of a sudden I
was thinking how easy it would be to shoot him while he
was in bed asleep. I said to myself, 'You idiot, you
absolute idiot/ and put the gun back, and I didn't go
near that drawer again. But the thought came back, it
kept coming, mostly when I was trying to go to sleep,
and it got worse. It got worse this way, it wasn't just
going in when he was asleep and getting the gun and
shooting him, it was planning how to do it so I wouldn't
get caught. I knew it was idiotic, but I couldn't stop. I
could not! And one night, just two nights ago, Sunday
night, I got out of bed trembling all over and went to the
shower and turned on the cold water and stood under it.
I had found a plan that would work. I don't have to tell
you what the plan was."
"As you please. As you must."
"It doesn't matter. I went back to bed, but I didn't
sleep. I wasn't afraid I might do something in my sleep,
I was afraid of what my mind might do. I had found out
that I couldn't manage my mind. So yesterday after-
noon I decided I would fix it so my mind would have to
quit. I would tell someone all about it and then the plan
wouldn't work, and no plan would work so I wouldn't
get caught. Telling a friend wouldn't do, not a real
The Homicide Trinity 75
friend, because that would leave a loophole. Of course I
couldn't tell the police. I have no pastor because I don't
go to church. Then I thought of you, and I phoned for an
> appointment, and here I am. That's all, except this: I
want you to promise that if my husband is shot and
killed you will tell the police about my coming here and
what I said."
Wolfe grunted.
She unlocked her fingers, straightened her shoul-
ders, and took a long deep breath—in with her mouth
closed and out with it open. "There!" she said. "That's
it."
Wolfe was regarding her. "I engaged only to listen,"
he said, "but I must offer a comment. Your stratagem
should be effective as a self-deterrent, but what if
someone else shoots him? And I report this conversa-
tion to the police. You'll be in a pickle."
"Not if I didn't do it."
"Pfui. Of course you will, unless the culprit is soon
exposed."
"If I didn't do it I wouldn't care." She extended a
hand, palm up. "Mr. Wolfe. After I decided to tell you
and made the appointment, I had the first good night's
sleep I have had for a month. No one is going to shoot
him. I want you to promise, so I can't."
"I advise you not to insist on a promise."
"I must! I must know!"
"Very well." His shoulders went up a quarter of an
inch and down again.
"You promise?"
"Yes."
She opened her bag, a large tan leather one, and took
out a checkfold and a pen. "I would rather make it a
check than cash," she said, "so it will be on record. Is a
check all right?"
"Certainly."
"I mentioned a hundred dollars to Mr. Goodwin. Will
that be enough?"
He said yes, and she wrote, resting the check on the
side of the bag. To save her the trouble of getting up to
76 Rex Stout
hand it over I went and took it, but when she had closed
the bag she arose anyway, and was turning to get her
coat from the back of the chair when Wolfe spoke.
"Ten minutes of your half-hour is left, Mrs. Hazen, if
you have any use for it."
"No, thank you. I just realized that wasn't exactly the
truth, what I told Mr. Goodwin, that I only wanted
to tell you something. I wanted you to promise some-
thing too. I do thank you and I won't take—oh! You say
I have ten minutes?" She glanced at her wrist. She
turned to me. "I would love to see the orchids—just a
quick look. If you would, Mr. Goodwin?"
"It will be a pleasure," I said, and meant it, but Wolfe
was pushing back his chair. "Mr. Goodwin doesn't owe
you the ten minutes. I do," he said, lifting his bulk.
"Come with me. You won't need your coat." He headed
for the door. She gave me a glance with a suggestion of
a smile, and followed him out. The sound came from the
hall of the elevator door opening and closing.
I had no kick coming. The ten thousand orchids in the
three plant rooms up on the roof of the old brownstone
were his, not mine. He did like to show them off—so
would you if they were yours—but that wasn't why he
had intervened. He had some letters to dictate, and
he thought that if I took her up to look at the orchids
there was no telling when we would come back down.
Years ago he decided, on insufficient evidence, that I
forget about time when I am with an attractive young
woman, and once he has decided something that settles
it.
The phone rang. I got it at my desk and told it, "Nero
Wolfe's office, Archie Goodwin speaking." It was a man
over in Jersey who makes sausage to Wolfe's specifica-
tions, wanting to know if we were ready for a shipment,
and I switched it to Fritz in the kitchen. Thinking there
was no better way for a licensed detective to fill idle
time than by snooping, I picked up the mink coat for an
inspection. When I saw that the label said Bergmann I
decided that inspection would be superfluous and put it
back on the chair. I picked up the gun that she wasn't
The Homicide Trinity 77
going to shoot her husband with. It was a Drexel .32,
nice and clean, and the cylinder was full of cartridges,
nothing for a lady with no permit to be toting around
town. I inspected her check, East Side Bank and Trust
Company, signed Lucy Hazen, and went and put it in
the safe. After glancing at my watch, I turned on the
radio for the noon news, and stood and stretched while
I listened to it. Algeria was boiling. A building contrac-
tor on Staten Island denied that he had had favors from
a politician. Fidel Castro was telling the Cuban people
that the people who ran the United States government
were a bunch of bums (my translation). Then:
"The body of a man named Barry Hazen was found
this morning in an alley between two buildings on
Norton Street in the lower West Side of Manhattan. He
had been shot in the back and had been dead for some
hours. No further details are available at present. Mr.
Hazen was a well-known public-relations counselor.
The Democratic leaders in Congress have apparently
decided to center their fire—"
I turned it off.
Chapter 2
I went and picked up the gun and smelled it, the
barrel tip and the sides. That was silly but natural.
When you would like to know if a gun has been fired
recently you smell it automatically, but it doesn't mean
a thing unless it has just been fired, say within thirty
minutes, and there has been no opportunity to clean it.
I stood with it in my hand, looking at it, and then put it
in a drawer of my desk. Her bag was there on the red
leather chair, and I opened it and removed the contents.
There were all the items you would expect a woman
78 Rex Stout
who wore Bergmann mink to have with her, but noth-
ing more. I got the gun from the drawer, removed the
cartridges, and examined them with a glass, to see if
one of them, or maybe two, was brighter and newer
than the others. They all looked alike. As I was return-
ing the gun to the drawer the sound came from the
elevator descending, its thud at the bottom, and the
door opening. They entered, Mrs. Hazen in front, and
she crossed to the red leather chair, picked up her bag,
turned to Wolfe's desk, and then turned to me.
"Where's the gun?" she asked. "I'm taking it."
"There has been a development, Mrs. Hazen." I was
facing her at arm's length. "I turned on the radio for the
news, and he said that—I'll repeat it verbatim. He said,
The body of a man named Barry Hazen was found this
morning in an alley between two buildings on Norton
Street in lower Manhattan. He had been shot in the
back and had been dead for some hours. No further
details are available at present. Mr. Hazen was a public-
relations counselor.' That's what he said."
She was gawking at me. "You're m-m-m-m—" She
started over. "You're making it up."
"No. That's what he said. Your husband has been
shot dead
."
The bag slipped from her hand to the floor and her
face went white and stiff. I had seen people turn pale
before, but I had never seen blood leave skin so thor-
oughly and so fast. She backed up an unsteady step, and
I took her arm and eased her into the chair. Wolfe, who
had stopped in the center of the room, snapped at me,
"Get something. Brandy."
I moved, but she said, "Not for me. He said that?"
"Yes."
"He's dead. He's dead?"
"Yes."
She rammed her fists against her temples and
pounded them. Wolfe said, "I'll be in the kitchen," and
turned to go. To him a woman overwhelmed, no matter
by what, is merely a woman having a fit, and it's too
much for him. But I said, "Hold it, she'll be all right in a
The Homicide Trinity 79
minute," and he came and looked down at her, let out a
growl, went to his chair, and sat.
"I want to phone somebody," she said. "I have to
know. Who can I phone?" Her fists were in her lap.
"A shot of brandy or whisky wouldn't hurt," I told
her.
"I don't want anything. Who can I phone?"
"Nobody." Wolfe was curt. "Not just now."
Her head jerked to him. "Why not?"
"Because he must first consider whether / should
phone—phone the police to report what you have told
me. I promised to. Archie. Where's the gun?"
"In my desk drawer."
"Has it been fired recently?"
Homicide Trinity Page 10