He opened the fists and closed them again. “I hadn’t seen her or heard her voice for two weeks, and I dialed the number, and when there was still no answer the sixth time I went there. When there was no answer to my ring from the vestibule and I went in and took the elevator I intended to use my key upstairs too, but I didn’t I simply couldn’t. She might be there and—and not alone. I left and went to a bar and bought a drink but didn’t drink it I wanted to know if her things were there, and I thought of phoning Jimmy Vance, but finally decided to phone police headquarters instead. Even if they found her there and someone with her, that might—”
The doorbell rang, and I went, again giving myself even money that it was Vance, and losing again. It was a girl, or woman, and she had a kind of eyes that I had met only twice before, once a woman and once a man. I have a habit, when it’s a stranger on the stoop, of taking a five-second look through the one-way glass and tagging him or her, to see how close I can come. From inside, the view through the glass is practically clear, but from the outside it might as well be wood. But she could see through. Of course she couldn’t, but she was face-to-face with me, and her eyes, slanted up, had exactly the look they would have if she were seeing me. They were nice enough hazel eyes, but I hadn’t liked it the other two times it had happened, and I didn’t like it then. Not trying to tag her, I opened the door.
“I beg your pardon,” she said. “I believe Mr. Kirk is here? Martin Kirk?”
It wasn’t possible. They wouldn’t put a female dick on his tail, and even if they did she wouldn’t be it, with that attractive little face and soft little voice. But there she was. “I beg your pardon,” I said, “but what makes you think so?”
“He must be. I saw him come in and I haven’t seen him come out.”
“Then he’s here. And?”
“Would you mind telling me whose house—who lives here?”
“Nero Wolfe. It’s his house and he lives here.”
“That’s an odd name. Nero Wolfe? What does he—Is he a lawyer?”
Either she meant it or she was extremely good. If the former, it would be a pleasure to tell Wolfe and see him grunt. “No,” I said. Let her work for it.
“Is Mr. Kirk all right?”
“We haven’t been introduced,” I said. “My name is Archie Goodwin and I live here. Your turn.”
Her mouth opened and closed again. She considered it, her eyes meeting mine exactly as they had when she couldn’t see me. “I’m Rita Fougere,” she said. “Mrs. Paul Fougere. Will you tell Mr. Kirk I’m here and would like to see him?”
It was my turn to consider. The rule didn’t apply—the rule that I am to take no one in to Wolfe without consulting him; she wanted to see Kirk, not Wolfe. And I was riled. The tie had been mailed to me, not him, but he hadn’t even glanced at me before taking Kirk on and feeding him. I was by no means satisfied that Kirk was straight, and I wanted to see how he took it when Paul Fougere’s wife suddenly appeared.
“You might as well tell him yourself,” I said. “Also you might as well know that Nero Wolfe is a private detective, and so am I. Come in.”
I made room for her and she entered, and after shutting the door I preceded her down the hall and into the office. As I approached Wolfe’s desk I said, “Someone to see Mr. Kirk,” and I was right there when he twisted around and saw her, said “Rita!” and left the chair. She offered both hands, and he took them. “Martin, Martin,” she said, low, with those eyes at him.
“But how …” He let her hands go. “How did you know I was here?”
“I followed you.”
“Followed me?”
She nodded. “From down there. I was there too, and when I left and had got into a taxi you came out I called to you but you didn’t hear me, and when you got another taxi I told my driver to follow. I saw you come in here, and I waited outside, and when you didn’t come out, a whole hour—”
“But what—You shouldn’t, Rita. You can’t—There’s nothing you can do. Were you there all night too?”
“No, just this morning. I was afraid—your face, the way you looked. I was terribly afraid. I know I can’t—or maybe I can. If you’ll come—Have you eaten anything?”
“Yes. I thought I couldn’t, but Nero Wolfe—” He stopped and turned. “I’m sorry. Mr. Wolfe, Mrs. Fougere.” Back to her: “They think I killed Bonny, but I didn’t, and Mr. Wolfe is going to—uh—investigate. That’s a swell word, that is—‘investigate.’ There’s nothing you can do, Rita, absolutely nothing, but I—you’re a real friend.”
She started a hand to touch him but let it drop. “I’ll wait for you,” she said. “I’ll be outside.”
“If you please.” It was Wolfe. His eyes were at the client. “You have a chore, Mr. Kirk. I need to know if that article is among your belongings in your room, and you will please go and find out and phone me. Meanwhile I’ll talk with Mrs. Fougere. If you will, madam? I’m working for Mr. Kirk.”
“Why …” She looked at Kirk. Those eyes. “If he’s working for you …”
“I’ve told him,” Kirk blurted. “About Bonny and Paul. He asked and I told him. But you stay out of it.”
“Nonsense,” Wolfe snapped. “She has been questioned by the police. And she’s your friend?”
Her hand went out again, and that time reached him. “You go, Martin,” she said. “Whatever it is he wants. But you’ll come back?”
He said he would and headed for the hall, and I went to see him out. When I returned Mrs. Fougere was in the red leather chair, which would have held two of her, and Wolfe, leaning back, was regarding her without enthusiasm. He would rather tackle almost any man than any woman on earth.
“Let’s get a basis,” he growled. “Do you think Mr. Kirk killed his wife?”
She was sitting straight, her hands curled over the ends of the chair arms, her eyes meeting his. “You’re working for him,” she said.
“Yes. I think he didn’t What do you think?”
“I don’t know. I don’t care. I know how that sounds, but I don’t care. I’m very—well, say very practical. You’re not a lawyer?”
“I’m a licensed private detective. Allowing for the strain you’re under, you look twenty. Are you older?”
She did not look twenty. I would have guessed twenty-eight, but I didn’t allow enough for the strain, for she said, “I’m twenty-four.”
“Since you’re practical you won’t mind blunt questions. How long have you lived in that house?”
“Since my marriage. Nearly three years.”
“Where were you Monday afternoon from one o’clock to eight?”
“Of course the police asked that. I had lunch with Martin Kirk and walked to his office building with him about half past two. Then I went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at costumes. I do some stage costumes. I was there about two hours. Then I—”
“That will do. What did you say when the police asked if you were in the habit of lunching with Mr. Kirk?”
“It wasn’t a habit. He had left his wife and he—he needed friends.”
“You’re strongly attached to him?”
“Yes.”
“Is he attached to you?”
“No.”
Wolfe grunted. “If this were a hostile examination your answers would be admirable, but for me they’re a little curt. Do you know how your husband spent Monday afternoon?”
“I know how he says he did. He went to Long Island City to look at some equipment and got back too late to go to the office. He went to a bar and had drinks and came home a little before seven, and we went out to a restaurant for dinner.” She made a little gesture. “Mr. Wolfe, I don’t want to be curt. If I thought I knew anything that would help Martin, anything at all, I’d tell you.”
“Then we’ll see what you know. What if I establish that your husband killed Mrs. Kirk?”
She took a moment “Do you mean if you proved it? If you got him arrested for it?”
Wolfe nodded. “Tha
t would probably be necessary to clear Mr. Kirk.”
“Then I would be glad for Martin, but sorry for my husband. No matter who killed Bonny Kirk, I would be sorry for him. She deserved—No, I won’t say that I believe it, but I won’t say it.”
“Pfui. More people saying what they believe would be a great improvement. Because I often do I am unfit for common intercourse. You were aware of your husband’s intimacy with Mrs. Kirk?”
“Yes.”
“They knew you were?”
“Yes.”
“You were complacent about it?”
“No.” It came out a whisper, and she repeated it “No.” Her mouth began working, and she clamped her jaw to stop it. “Of course,” she said, “you think I might have killed her. If I had it would have been on account of Martin, not my husband. She was ruining Martin’s life, making it impossible for him. But she couldn’t ruin my husband’s life because he’s too—well, too shallow.”
She stopped, breathed, and went on, “I wouldn’t have dreamed that I would ever be saying things like this, to anyone, but I said some of them even to the police. Now I would say anything if it would help Martin. I wasn’t complacent about Paul and Bonny; it just didn’t matter, because nothing mattered but Martin. I was an ignorant little fool when I married Paul, I thought I might as well because I had never been in love and I thought I never would be. When they began asking me questions yesterday I decided I wouldn’t try to hide how I feel about Martin, and anyway, I don’t think I could, now. I did before.”
Wolfe looked at the clock. Twenty to one. Thirty-five minutes till lunch. “You say she couldn’t have ruined your husband’s life because he’s too shallow. Do you utterly reject the possibility that he killed her?”
She took a breath. “I don’t—That’s too strong. If he was there with her and she said something or did something … I don’t know.”
“Do you know if he had in his possession some of the personal stationery of James Neville Vance? A letterhead, an envelope?”
Her eyes widened. “What? Jimmy Vance?”
“Yes. That’s relevant because of a circumstance you don’t know about, but Mr. Kirk does. It’s a simple question. Did you ever see a blank unused letterhead or envelope, Mr. Vance’s, in your apartment?”
“No. Not a blank one. One he had written on, yes.”
“You have been in his apartment.”
“Certainly.”
“Do you know where he keeps his stationery?”
“Yes, in a desk in his studio. In a drawer. You say this is relevant?”
“Yes. Mr. Kirk may explain if you ask him. How well do you know Mr. Vance?”
“Why … he owns that house. We see him some socially. There’s a recital in his studio about every month.”
“Did he kill Mrs. Kirk?”
“No. Of course I’ve asked myself that I’ve asked myself everything. But Jimmy Vance—if you knew him—why would he? Why did you ask about his stationery?”
“Ask Mr. Kirk. I am covering some random points. Did Mrs. Kirk drink vodka?”
“No. If she did I never saw her. She didn’t drink much of anything, but when she did it was always gin and tonic in the summer and Bacardis in the winter.”
“Does your husband drink vodka?”
“Yes. Now, nearly always.”
“Does Mr. Kirk?”
“No, never. He drinks scotch.”
“Does Mr. Vance?”
“Yes. He got my husband started on it. The police asked me all this.”
“Naturally. Do you drink vodka?”
“No. I drink sherry.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand—maybe you’ll tell me. All the questions the police asked me—they seem to be sure it was one of us, Martin or Paul or Jimmy Vance or me. Now you too. But it could have been some other man that Bonny … or someone, a burglar or something—couldn’t it?”
“Not impossible,” Wolfe conceded, “but more than doubtful. Because of the circumstance that prompted my question about Mr. Vance’s stationery, and now this question: What kind of a housekeeper are you? Do you concern yourself with the condition of your husband’s clothing?”
She nearly smiled. “You ask the strangest questions. Yes, I do. Even though we’re not—Yes, I sew on buttons.”
“Then you know what he has, or had. Have you ever seen among his things a cream-colored necktie with diagonal brown stripes, narrow stripes?”
She frowned. “That’s Jimmy Vance again, those are his colors. He has a tie like that, more than one probably.”
“He had nine. Again a simple question. Have you ever seen one of them in your husband’s possession? Not necessarily in his hands or on his person; say in one of his drawers?”
“No. Mr. Wolfe, this circumstance—what is it? You say Martin knows about it, but I’m answering your questions, and I—”
The phone rang. I swiveled and got it, used my formula, and the client’s voice came. “This is Martin Kirk. Tell Mr. Wolfe the tie’s not here. It’s gone.”
“Of course you made sure.”
“Yes. Positive.”
“Hold the wire.” I turned. “Kirk. The article isn’t there.”
He nodded. “As expected.”
“Any instructions?”
He pursed his lips, and Rita, on her feet, beat him to it. Asking, “May I speak to him?” she came with her hand out for the phone. Wolfe nodded. I pointed to the phone on his desk and told her to use that one, and she went and got it. I stayed on.
“Martin?”
“Yes. Rita?”
“Yes. Where are you?”
“In my room at the hotel. You’re still there?”
“Yes. What are you going to do? Are you going to your office?”
“Good Lord no. I’m going to see Jimmy Vance. Then I’m going to see Nero Wolfe again. Someone has—”
I cut in. “Hold it. I’ve told Mr. Wolfe and he’ll have instructions. Hold the wire.” I turned. “He says he’s going to see Vance. Shall I tell him to lay off or will you?”
“Neither. He’s had no sleep and not much to eat. Tell him to come this evening, say nine o’clock, if he’s awake, and report on his talk with Mr. Vance.”
“You tell him,” I said and hung up. Being a salaried employee, I should of course keep my place in the presence of company, and that’s exactly what I was doing, keeping my place. I had had enough and then some, and Wolfe’s glare, which of course came automatically, was wasted because my head was turned and he had my profile, including the set of my jaw. When Rita was through with the phone he took it, spoke briefly with his client, cradled it, and looked at the clock. Six minutes to lunch.
“Do you want me any more?” she asked him. “I’d like to go.”
“Later perhaps,” he said. “If you’ll phone a little after six?”
I got up and spoke. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Fougere.” I crossed to the door to the front room and opened it. “If you’ll wait in here just a few minutes?”
She looked at Wolfe, saw that he had no comment, and came. When she had crossed the sill I closed the door, which is as soundproof as the wall, went to Wolfe’s desk, and said, “If it blows up in your face you’re not going to blame it on me. I merely called your attention a couple of times to the fact that a fee would be welcome. I didn’t say it was desperate, that you should grab a measly grand from a character who is probably going to be tagged for the big one. And now when he says he is going to see Vance, to handle the tie question on his own—and the tie was sent to me, not you—you not only don’t veto it, you don’t even tell me to go and sit in. Also she’s going there too, that’s obvious, and you merely tell her to phone you later. I admit you’re a genius, but when you took his check you couldn’t possibly have had the faintest idea whether he was guilty or not, and even now you don’t know the score. They may have him absolutely wrapped up. The tie was mailed to me and I gave it to Cramer, and I’m asking, not respectfully.”
He nodded. “Well said
. A good speech.”
“Thank you. And?”
“I didn’t tell you to go because it’s lunchtime. Also I doubt if you would get anything useful. Naturally I’ll have to see Mr. Vance—and Mr. Fougere. As for desperation, when I took Mr. Kirk’s check I knew it was extremely improbable that he had killed his wife, and I—”
“How?”
He shook his head. “You call me to account? You know everything that I know; ponder it yourself. If instead of lunch you choose to be present at a futile conversation, do so by all means. I will not be hectored into an explanation you shouldn’t need.”
Frite entered to announce lunch, saw what the atmosphere was, and stood. I went and opened the door to the front room, passed through, and told Rita, “All right, Mrs. Fougere. I’m going along.”
6
When you’re good and sore at someone it’s simple. You cuss him out, to his face if he’s available and privately if he isn’t, and you take steps if and as you can. When you’re sore at yourself it’s even simpler; the subject is right there and can’t skip. But when you’re sore at yourself and someone else at the same time you’re in a fix. If you try to concentrate on one the other one horns in and gets you off balance, and that was the state I was in as I stood aside in the vestibule of Two-nineteen Horn Street while Rita Fougere used her key on the door. In the taxi on the way down I had told her about the necktie problem. She might as well get it from me as later from Kirk, and she might as well understand why Kirk wanted to see Vance.
I supposed she would want to go first to her own apartment on the ground floor; surely any woman would whose face needed attention as much as hers—but no. Straight to the elevator and up, and out at the third floor, and she pressed the button at Vance’s door. It opened, and Vance was there. His face wasn’t as neat and smooth as it had been the day before, and he had on a different outfit—a conservative gray suit, a white shirt, and a plain gray tie. Of course the DA’s office had had him down too. He said “Rita!” and put out a hand, then saw me, but I can’t say what kind of a welcome I would have got because Kirk interrupted, stepping over and telling Rita she shouldn’t have come. She said something, but he wasn’t listening because he had noticed me.
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