Rex Stout_Nero Wolfe 07 (16 page)

I stared at him. “The reason I don’t talk,” I told him, “is because I’m speechless. Holy heaven!”

“What’s wrong with that? I give you my word—”

“I don’t want it. Cut the comedy and let’s go.”

He glared some more. I permitted it for a full minute and then got impatient. “I’ll count up to twenty-nine,” I said, “one for each year of my life and one to grow on and one to get married on, and then—”

“Wait a minute.” He was approaching the pleading stage. “The reason I can’t take you to her is a personal reason. I don’t intend to try any deception, I can’t. You know damn well the hole I’m in. What about this? You go with me to a phone booth, and I’ll call her up and tell her to meet us—”

I shook my head emphatically. “No. A thousand times no. Quit trying to wiggle off the hook. How do I know but what you’ve got a code with her to use in emergencies? Remember I’m ignorant. I don’t even know but what Wolfe has got it figured out that she killed Ludlow and, in that case—” I shrugged. “I’m only a puppet and I’m under orders. For God’s sake, shut up and let’s go.”

He curled his fingers to make fists. “I can just open this door and beat it. You know?”

“Go ahead. Don’t let me stop you. Then I could phone Wolfe and go on home.”

“But goddam it, if you hear me phone—”

“Shut up. I’m bored stiff.”

He gave me one more good long glare and then leaned forward and gave the driver an address on Madison Avenue, not ten blocks away. The driver nodded and got going again.

He had enough left to pay the fare. It wasn’t a modern apartment house we stopped in front of, but an older building whose days of pride were in the past. The ground floor was a trinket shop, dark of course. Barrett got out a key and unlocked a door that let us
into a small public corridor, went to the rear of it, and with another key admitted us into a miniature elevator of the drive-it-yourself variety. That took us up five stories, and then we had to climb a flight of stairs. The layout wasn’t exactly shabby, though it was far from ostentatious. From the top of the stairs he preceded me through a sort of vestibule and used a third key on a wide solid-looking door. I followed him in and he shut the door and turned to call out:

“Yoohoo!”

An answer came: “Back here, Donnybonny!”

I could already smell perfume, and the temperature even there in the foyer must have been close to ninety. I copied his example when he took off his coat, but when he scowled at me and said, “Wait here a minute,” I disregarded it and went along behind him into a large and dazzling room full of heat, synthetic smells, thick rugs, divans and cushions, miscellaneous stuff, and a pair of damsels. They were sprawled out, one on a divan and the other on a chaise lounge.

Zorka, a loose red thing around her, started a wave of greeting at Barrett and then halted it in mid-air as she saw me. Belinda Reade, nothing at all around her, called, “How’s my Donny—
Oh!”
And grabbed for a pale blue negligee that was draped over the back of the divan.

B
arrett growled at me, “Didn’t I ask you to wait?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I soothed him. “When my mind is on business—”

“Why!” Belinda Reade cried in innocent delight, “It’s the detective man! Have a drink?”

She was working on one herself, and the ingredients for plenty more were handy on a little table. Zorka was having one too; she had raised herself to her elbow on the chaise longue and was smiling at me foolishly, without any intention, apparently, of saying anything.

Barrett said, “Be quiet, Bel. This fellow came …” He turned to Zorka. “He came for you. My God, look at you. Both of you.” He frowned at her and switched to me: “You explain it to her.”

“Thees ess no time,” Zorka declared in an injured tone, “for explanations.”

“Have a drink,” Miss Reade insisted. “I have never had a drink with a detective, and especially such a darned good-looking detective.” She patted the divan and tugged at the negligee to cover a knee. “Sit here by me and have a drink.”

“Don’t be a damned fool,” Barrett told her.

Zorka tittered. “She only wants to make you jealous, Donald. Because you make her jealous of the Tormic girl.”

“Bah,” said Miss Reade. “Have a drink! What’s your name?”

“Call me Archie.” It struck me that a little reinforcement might help, so I stretched for the bottle and a glass. Then I drew back and turned to Barrett. “But excuse me. If you’re the host …”

“This is Miss Reade’s apartment,” he said stiffly. “But you came here—”

“Please
have a drink,” the lady begged me.

“Thanks, I will.” I poured a good one and tossed it off, and then advised Barrett, “You ought to have a shot yourself. You’re under a strain.” I confronted Zorka. “The idea is this. After you phoned me at Nero Wolfe’s office and told me—”

“What? After what?”

I went closer so she could focus easier. “After you phoned and told me you saw Miss Tormic putting something in my overcoat pocket—”

“But I didn’t! I? I phoned you?” She waved her glass at Belinda, spilling a drop or two on the rug, and said in a hurt tone, “Don’t let him have another drink! He says I phoned him!”

“Maybe you did, darling. You phone so many men. I wouldn’t blame you for phoning him. I like him.”

“But I didn’t!”

“Well, you should have.” Belinda used the blue eyes on me. “Have a drink, Percy.”

“Not Percy, Archie. Percy was the one that got murdered.”

“Oh.” She frowned at me. “That’s right. That’s why we started drinking, to forget about it. Brrrh.” She
shivered. “And I called you Percy! How funny! Don’t you think that’s funny, Donnyhoney?”

“No,” Barrett declared curtly. “This fellow—”

“But of course it’s funny! I
like
Archie, and why should I call him Percy?” She shivered again. “It was perfectly terrible! Simply awful! The porter yelling and Percy lying there on the floor, and the police and—” She stopped and stared at me with her lips parted. “Why! I forgot! You son-of-a-gun! It was you that wouldn’t let me out of that door! You dirty bum!”

Barrett tapped me on the shoulder. “You know, you came—”

“Yeah, I know.” I faced Zorka. She had the fixed smile on again. I would have given an hour’s sleep to know how many drinks she had had. “About your phoning me,” I said. “Maybe I was just trying to brag. It’s my one weakness, bragging about women phoning me. The fact is, I came along with Donald Barrett to save him some trouble. I had to come to 48th Street anyway, to get my car. He told me he had asked you to come and spend the night with Miss Reade, but after the talk we had that wasn’t necessary, so he supposed you would want to go home. Isn’t that right, Barrett?”

“I didn’t agree—”

“Isn’t that right?”

“Well … yes.”

“Sure it is. So if you’ll just put on a coat—you don’t need to bother to dress—we can take your bag and suitcase—”

“What for?” she demanded.

“Why, if you’re going home you’ll want your luggage—”

“I’m not going home.”

“My God, it’s nearly daylight—”

“I’m not going home. Am I going home, Belinda?”

“You are not. Even if you were, you wouldn’t go with him. I don’t like him. Didn’t you hear me say I remembered that I don’t like him?”

I poured myself another drink, drank it, sat down on the end of the chaise longue next to Zorka’s feet and considered the situation. It had various aspects, the basic problem being whether she was or was not honestly stoozled. If she was, she wouldn’t be worth a damn to Wolfe even if I got her there. But I had my reputation to consider. Over a period of years Wolfe had sent me many places many times, to bring him everything from a spool of thread to a Wall Street broker, and I had batted mighty close to a thousand. Besides that, if I went back without her I knew what Wolfe would say: and in addition to that, her silly smile aggravated me.

I stood up and told Barrett in a cold inflexible tone, “It’s up to you, brother. You got her here, now you can get her out.”

“He didn’t get me here,” Zorka said. “I came here myself.”

“How do you expect me to get her out?” Barrett demanded. “Carry her?”

Zorka said, “Nobody had better touch anybody. Especially you, you good-looking bum.”

Barrett said, “I brought you here. That’s all I agreed to do. I didn’t agree—what’s the idea?”

I ignored him and continued on around the head of the divan to where a red-enameled phone was resting on a long narrow table. He scowled at me while I dialed a number. Belinda commanded him, “Tackle him, Donnydarling. Knock him down and walk on him. Don’t let him use my phone. Don’t let him use anything—”

A voice sounded in my ear: “This is Nero Wolfe.”

I said, “Hello, Police Headquarters? Give me Inspector Cramer of the homicide squad.”

Wolfe’s voice said, “Indeed. Go ahead.”

Barrett leaned across the divan at me and started to expostulate. I waved a hand at him to subside, and talked again:

“Hello, Homicide Division? I want to talk to Inspector Cramer. Oh, he has. Who is this talking? Sergeant Finkle? I guess you’ll do. This is Archie Goodwin of Nero Wolfe’s office. I want to report a development in the Ludlow mur—”

Barrett’s hand shot out and pushed the cradle down and held it.

“Don’t be a sap,” I told him politely. “Even if I don’t want to start a roughhouse—”

“What are you going to tell him?”

“Where he can find a woman who says she saw Miss Tormic put something in my pocket and is now saying she didn’t say it.”

“You’re a goddam fool. You’re supposed to be protecting Miss Tormic.”

“I know I am. But in the long run the truth is the best protection against—”

“Truth, hell. Do you realize they can trace that call?”

I shrugged. “I presume so. If they do they’ll ring back. Then, if they don’t get satisfaction, I presume they’ll send somebody here and it would be bad tactics not to let them in. And of course if they find Zorka and me here—”

He had his jaw clamped. “You dirty treacherous—”

I shrugged

Miss Reade said, “I am darned sick and tired of hearing about that Tormic! As far as I’m concerned, Archie—”

“Be quiet!” Barrett told her savagely. “You know damn well—” He bit it off and wheeled to Zorka. “You’ll have to go, and go quick! Get a move on!”

“But,” she protested, “you told me—”

“I don’t care what I told you! This double-crossing—” He grabbed her shoulder and got her upright. He was pretty masterful in a real emergency. “Where’s your coat? Where’s your shoes and stockings? To hell with stockings. Shoes!”

He raced to the far end of the room and through a door. I went in the opposite direction, to the foyer, and got my hat and coat and put them on. Then I opened the closet door, thinking to help, but stood bewildered at the array of forbearing animals hanging there. I thought what’s the difference, and reached for one, but felt my elbow seized from behind and heard Belinda’s voice:

“Hey, no you don’t, that’s my mink! Get out of the way!”

She pushed past me, her open negligee doing practically nothing to conceal distractions, and emerged with a mink coat that looked all the same to me. I took it and trotted back in. Zorka, shod, was on her feet, and Barrett was tying the girdle of the red gown. She swayed a little while we got the coat on her and buttoned it up to her chin, but navigated well enough when I hooked onto her arm and escorted her to the foyer. Miss Reade was standing there holding the outer door open. As we passed through Barrett told her, “I’ll have to take them down. If the phone rings, don’t answer it. I’ll be right back.”

She stumbled on the stairs, but I had a good hold and we got her into the elevator without mishap. Barrett pushed the button and we descended. At the
ground floor he preceded us along the corridor and opened the street door.

“Do you want me to help—”

“No, thanks. If they trace that call, my advice—”

“Go to hell.”

The door shut and I was alone on the sidewalk with my booty. She was clinging to my arm and at intervals was saying something that sounded like “Oops.” I squeezed her hand reassuringly and started to convey her gently in the direction of Grand Central, but had negotiated less than half a block when a taxi appeared and I flagged it. Getting her in was more a matter of strength than strategy. She was floppy on the cushion, and I held her against me as we bounced along and around a corner towards Lexington Avenue. She was now murmuring something like “Urpees.”

The roadster was still there, like a faithful dog waiting for its master. The taxi driver was sympathetic and helpful, and with his assistance it was an easy matter to make the transfer. As we were boosting her in she started to kick, but with a firm tone and a firm hand I got her onto the seat and the door closed. The driver nodded his thanks for the moderate tip I gave him and offered advice: “Taking her out, if she gets nasty, work from behind. That way she can’t reach your face and she’s not so apt to bite.”

“Okay. Much obliged.”

I climbed in and started the engine and rolled. As I rounded the corner to head downtown she said, “Gribblezook.” I replied,
“Hvala Bogu.”
Apparently it was satisfactory, for she relaxed into the corner and shut up. A couple of times en route I opened my mouth to inform her where we were bound for and what she had to look forward to, but a glance at her made me decide I’d be wasting my breath. The traffic was at
home in bed where it belonged, and I made good time down to 35th and then cross-town.

I stopped at the curb in front of the house, grabbed her shoulder and straightened her up, and called her name. No response and her eyes were shut. I shook her. I turned her loose and she flopped in the corner as runny as mush. I pinched her thigh, a good one, and she didn’t flinch. I pulled her up straight and shook her again, and her head bounced onto my shoulder and stayed there, and then rolled off. “Hell,” I muttered, “it’s only ten yards to a touchdown,” and I climbed out, pulled her across to my side, got my shoulder under her, and histed her up. She was as dead as a bag of oats. I distributed her weight better, something around 120, and crossed the sidewalk, staggered up the steps, and rang the bell two shorts and a long. In a minute the door opened as far as the chain and Fritz’s voice came through: