Death of A Doxy (2 page)

The New York Times knows how to put things. “It does not appear that Miss Kerr was employed anywhere or engaged in any regular activity.” You can’t beat that, leaving it wide open for all types of minds.

At the little table in the kitchen where I eat breakfast, with the Times on the rack facing me, I poured Puerto Rico molasses on a buckwheat cake and told Fritz, “It would be a good murder to work on. Walking distance.”

At the big table inspecting dried mushrooms, with an eye on me to know when to start the next cake, he shook his head and said, “No murder is good to work on. When it’s a murder the doorbell scares me and I never know if you’ll come back alive.”

I told him he was just blowing, I had yet to see him scared, forked a bite of cake and molasses, and Creole sausage, and started the Times piece again. I knew a lot more than it did, which suited me fine. The only items that were news to me were that the body had been discovered by Isabel Kerr’s sister Stella, that Stella was the wife of Barry Fleming, who taught mathematics at the Henry Hudson High School, that Stella had gone to the apartment a little before seven o’clock Saturday evening ' less than three hours after I left ' that tentatively Isabel had died between eight o’clock and noon, that Stella wouldn’t talk to reporters, and that the police and the District Attorney’s office had begun a thorough investigation. The picture of Isabel had probably been dug up in the files of a theatrical agent; she had a chorus-girl smile. The one of Stella had been snapped as a cop had escorted her across the sidewalk.

So far, so good. But if the errand I had tackled for Orrie had been on the level, if he hadn’t been playing me, and I didn’t really think he had, there would be fur flying soon, and when I finished breakfast and went into the office I turned the radio on. Ten-o’clock news, nothing. When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at eleven o’clock the radio was still on, and when he had crossed to his desk and settled his bulk in the only chair that holds it to suit him, he scowled at the radio and then at me and demanded, “Is there an urgency?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Will the Braves play in Milwaukee or in Atlanta'Also it’s Sunday, the day of rest.”

“I thought you had an engagement.”

“It’s for one o’clock, and I may skip it. The lunch will be all right, but then a man is going to read poetry.”

“Whose poetry?”

“His.”

“Pfui.”

“Sure. I think Miss Rowan knew he was hungry and merely wanted to feed him, but then he said he would do her and her friends a big favor and she was stuck. He calls it an epithon because it’s an epic and it takes hours.”

A corner of his mouth was up an eight of an inch. “Serves you right.”

“Yeah. What she did in the car that night was in the line of duty, but you’ll never forgive her. I may not go.”

He flipped a hand. “You will.” He went at his copy of the Sunday Times. We get three, a total of twenty pounds ' one for him, one for me, and one for Fritz.

When the noon news still had nothing new about murder, I decided it would be silly to sit around all afternoon rassling with the Times, holding my breath for the radio every half-hour, and mounted the two flights to my room. Having already shaved, I had only to change to a clean shirt and one of my four best suits. Downstairs again, I looked in at the kitchen and the office to say I was going. Outside, I headed for the garage on Tenth Avenue where we keep the Heron which Wolfe owns and I drive. On Sundays it is often possible to find a spot to put a car.

At twenty minutes past four I was in a big roomy chair in the living room of Lily Rowan’s penthouse on top of a building on 63rd Street, leaning back with my eyes closed, trying to decide which one I would rather have, Willie Mays or Sandy Koufax, on my team. The poet, a long-faced specimen with whiskers, who didn’t look hungry, but of course had recently had a good meal, was still going strong, but I had stopped hearing him an hour back. It was just a background noise. At a poke on my shoulder I opened my eyes, and Mimi, the maid, was there. She moved her lips to say “Telephone” without saying it. I pulled myself up and to my feet, went to a door at the corner of the room and on through, crossed to the desk where Lily makes out checks for causes which may be worthy, picked up the phone, and told it, “This is Archie Goodwin.”

Wolfe’s voice said, “I presume you read about the murder of a woman named Isabel Kerr.”

I said yes.

“So did I. Mr. Parker is here. He received a telephone call from Orrie Cather, asking him to come to the police station on Twentieth Street, and he went. Orrie is in custody as a material witness. He gave Mr. Parker some information, not much, and told him to consult you. Why?”

“Because. Parker’s still there?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

I hung up, went to the kitchen and told Mimi to tell Lily, went to the foyer for my coat and hat, let myself out, and summoned the elevator. The car was around the corner on Madison Avenue. When I was in it and going, turning to head west, I told my mind it might as well go right on with Willie Mays and Sandy Koufax. There was absolutely nothing else for it to do, and wouldn’t be until I had heard Parker. As I turned into the garage I decided definitely for Willie Mays. Koufax’s arm was too much of a gamble. So I felt I had accomplished something as I walked to the old brownstone, mounted the stoop, let myself in, ditched my coat and hat, and went to the office.

Nathaniel Parker, the lawyer Wolfe uses when he has to, was in the red leather chair with a bottle of scotch, one of soda, a bowl of ice, and a glass on the stand at his elbow. Wolfe was at his desk, with beer. Since he skips his afternoon session in the plant rooms on Sundays, that is his biggest beer day. I hadn’t seen Parker for a couple of months, and he rose to shake hands. I told Wolfe, “This is going to be worse than listening to poetry,” went to my desk, whirled my chair around, sat, and told Parker, “If you’re going to spring him I’d rather wait till I see him.”

“It would be a long wait,” Parker said. “I think they’ll keep him. The way they look and talk.”

“A murder charge?”

“Not yet, but I think it soon will be. Perhaps tomorrow.”

Wolfe growled at me, “Did he kill that woman'Was that your personal errand yesterday?”

“Let’s keep it cool,” I suggested. “If he said to consult me, I have to know exactly how he said it.” To Parker: “If you don’t mind?”

“Certainly.” The lawyer took a sip and put the glass down. “He didn’t say much. He had refused to answer any questions, any at all, until he saw me. Of course he knows the rules. But also he wouldn’t open up with me. He wouldn’t even tell me if he had known the woman or had any connection with her. He told me just three things. One, he hadn’t killed her and hadn’t been near her or her apartment at any time yesterday. Two, where he had been yesterday. Three, I should see you, and you should decide what to tell me. When I left, it was understood that he would tell them of his whereabouts and movements yesterday and stand mute on everything else, and that I would see him tomorrow, after I had talked with you.”

“You’re acting for him?”

“I agreed to, yes. Provisionally until I had seen you.”

“It’s up to me?”

“Yes. He said to tell you that he wants you to decide how to handle it.”

“That’s just dandy. To be trusted like that, I do appreciate it. Excuse me while I rub my nose.” I rubbed it with a fingertip, my eyes focused on the big globe over by the bookshelves but not seeing it. It didn’t take long because it was really quite simple; it was all or nothing, and it didn’t matter if Parker got it now or tomorrow.

I stood up. “I thought you played bridge on winter Sundays.”

“I do. The call from Cather intruded.”

“Then I suggest that you go back and resume. I have decided how to handle it. I’m going to report to Mr. Wolfe. I’d rather have him glare at me while I’m telling him than while I’m telling you. I’ll tell you later, or he will, say tomorrow morning. If you prefer, you can wait in the front room, but it will take a while.”

Wolfe, his lips pressed so tight he didn’t have any mouth, reached for a bottle and poured beer. Parker looked at him, picked up his glass and emptied it, put the glass down, rose, looked at me, and said, “You might tell me one thing, to be regarded as a privileged communication, did he kill her?”

“Even granting that I know,” I said, “it wouldn’t be privileged. I’m not your client.”

I headed for the hall, but out by the rack I stood and held his coat for a couple of minutes while he exchanged words with Wolfe. Finally he came, took his time getting his scarf adjusted, his overcoat buttoned, and his gloves on, and pulled his shoulders in as a gust hit him when he crossed the sill. When I re-entered the office Wolfe had opened his current book, Invitation to an Inquest, by Walter and Miriam Schneir. That was childish. He was rubbing it in that his Sunday-afternoon reading had been ruined, first by Orrie and now by me. I said as I sat, “If you’re in the middle of a chapter there’s no rush.”

He made a noise, put the book down, and glared.

“Friday afternoon,” I said, “day before yesterday, Orrie phoned and asked me to meet him that evening. You may remember that I wasn’t here to help with the capon Souvaroff, which I regretted. I met Orrie at seven o’clock at Giordano’s, a restaurant on West Thirty-ninth Street. I now -“

“Don’t cram it,” he snapped.

“I won’t. I now report what he told me. He was up a stump. He was going to marry a girl named Jill Hardy, an airline stewardess. He showed me a picture of her. They had set a date early in May, when she would have a vacation coming. But it had hit a snag. Another girl, by name Isabel Kerr, was objecting. She had the idea of marrying Orrie herself, and also the idea that he was, or would be, the father of the baby she expected to have in about seven months. She intended to make an issue of it, in public if necessary. She said she had in her possession, presumably in a locked drawer in her apartment, or possibly stashed somewhere, certain objects she could use. One of the objects was his private investigator’s license, which she had lifted from his pocket one night about a month ago. Also some pictures and letters, and perhaps other items that Orrie didn’t know about. The big point wasn’t that she could hook him, but that she could queer him with Jill Hardy.”

Wolfe grunted. “She couldn’t force him to marry her. Why marry at all?”

“Sure. That’s your slant, but it wasn’t Orrie’s. He wanted the objects, and he was pretty sure they were in the apartment. He knew she spent two or three afternoons a week at the movies, and nearly always Saturday afternoons. He had keys. The idea was that I was to go there the next day, Saturday, now yesterday, at a quarter past four, ring the bell, get no response, go in and up, and look around. I didn’t care for it much. Such a chore for Saul or Fred, of course, but while I have nothing against Orrie, I wouldn’t borrow his socks. He pointed out that I wouldn’t be out on a limb, no matter what. If she was there and answered the bell I would bow out. Almost certainly she wouldn’t come before I left, but if she or anyone did I could just be polite; I hadn’t broken and entered, I had used keys which she had given him.”

“So you went,” Wolfe growled.

“Don’t rush me. I told him nothing doing unless I had the whole picture. It took a while and a lot of questions, but I had to know if Isabel Kerr was something hot, like the runaway daughter of an ambassador. No. She had formerly been a showgirl, but three years ago had been rescued and installed in the nest she was still occupying. The toughest detail to get was the name of the rescuer. Orrie claimed he didn’t know, but of course he did, and I insisted. His name is Avery Ballou, president of the Federal Holding Corporation. Apparently Isabel had some quality that he enjoyed, for he was still paying the rent and the grocery bill and was paying her visits two or three times a week, evenings. But she knew that kind of setup never lasts forever, and anyway she wanted Orrie. They had met somewhere, that’s irrelevant and immaterial, about a year ago, and she had been ' well, feeding him some of Avery Ballou’s groceries, and she had decided she had to have him for keeps. I accepted that. Women don’t fall for Orrie quite as fast and furious as he thinks they do, but he is no baboon, and female eyes do sometimes fasten on him.”

“So you went.”

“Yes. I am not dodging, but I mention that it seemed advisable. While he is no Saul Panzer, for years he has come in very handy for you ' okay, for us. He has done a lot of pretty good chores and has never skunked as far as we know. So I went, yesterday afternoon, with gloves and an assortment of keys, arriving at exactly four-fifteen. There was no answer to my ring, and I went in and up. It’s one of those remodeled four-story houses, self-service elevator, no doorman or hallman, and I wasn’t seen. Since you have read the piece in the Times, you know what I found. I didn’t stay to use the gloves or keys; I don’t think Orrie rated that. Anyway, even if I found some objects, granting they were there, it was a cinch they would find his prints, since he had been there for hours only three days ago. So I left.”

“Seen?”

“No. I phoned you not to expect me for dinner, and -“

“That was at five o’clock.”

Just like him. He never seems to notice but he knows. I nodded. “Yeah. I had walked for nearly half an hour, to Orrie’s address, or near it. I waited around until he came, saw him in his apartment and told him, and returned his keys. I asked him if he killed her, and he said no. He was on a tailing job for Bascom all day but can’t prove it. For the important time, eight o’clock to noon, he’s wide open. He wanted to know why I didn’t stay for a look. I poked him a little, not much, and came home and ate two helpings of creme Genoise. Of course I knew he would be tagged ' if nothing else, his prints. That was the urgency on the radio this morning.”

“You should have told me.”

“What good would it have done'It would only have spoiled the day for you.”

“So you went to hear a man read poetry.”

I cocked my head. “Look,” I said, “you might as well forget me. You’re sore and want a target, but I’m not it. Of course, if you forget Orrie too, there is no target and you can go back to your book.”