“Interest me?” he asked.
I nodded. “Of course this is no place to discuss it. The best place for that is Nero Wolfe’s office. He knows even more than the police do about that pink bedroom and about the man they’re holding, and about you. The best time would be now. That’s really all I have to say, I’m just the messenger boy. But you have to admit it was considerate of me not to go up to the thirty-fourth floor and give somebody that card to take in.”
He turned his head, clear around – to see if there was a cop handy? No. A Rolls-Royce town car had pulled up and stopped, and the uniformed chauffeur was getting out. Ballou turned back to me and asked, “Where is it?”
“West Thirty-fifth Street. Nine-thirty-eight.”
“Have you a car?”
“Not here.”
“If you ride with me you’ll keep your mouth shut.”
“Right. I’ve said my piece.”
He stepped to the Rolls and got in, and I followed, and the driver shut the door and got in behind the wheel. As we moved, Ballou told him we would make a stop and gave him the address. As we stopped for a light at the corner I was thinking that it was the first time I had ever delivered a murder suspect to the old brownstone in his own Rolls-Royce. The rest of the way, since we were not speaking, I concentrated on how it handled, and decided it was a little smoother than the Heron but not quite as fast on the take.
It was after six when we got there, so Wolfe would be down. While I am not as childish as he is about showing off, I like to do things right, so after attending to Ballou’s hat and coat, and mine, in the hall, I went to the office door, stepped in, announced, “Mr. Ballou,” and moved aside. He entered, stopped, glanced around, and asked, “Is this room bugged?”
“Confound it,” Wolfe said, “it will soon be impossible to converse anywhere about anything. I can give you my word of honor that what we say will not be recorded, and do, but though I know what my word is worth, you don’t.” He pointed to the vase. “The microphone could even be in there, but it isn’t.”
Ballou had taken the card from his overcoat pocket and had it in his hand. He showed it. “What is this about a pink bedroom and a diary?”
Wolfe turned a hand over. “That’s obvious. A device to get you here. But not bogus, factual. The bedroom is pink, as you know, since you have spent many hours in it; and Miss Kerr did keep a diary; and the police have it.” He motioned at the red leather chair. “Please be seated; eyes are better at a level.”
“I have never spent an hour in a pink bedroom.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I know something of your reputation. I know you are capable of elaborate maneuvers, and apparently you intended to involve me in one. I wanted to tell you, don’t try it.”
Wolfe shook his head. “No good, Mr. Ballou. The question is not whether I know of your association, over a three-year period, with Miss Kerr, nor is it what evidence I have at hand to support my knowledge. The question is, can public disclosure of it be prevented, and if so, how? That is the question for you. For me the question is, did you kill that woman? If you did, I’m going to establish it and you’re doomed. If you didn’t, I have no desire to expose your association with her, and it may never transpire. It is not overweening to say that that issue depends chiefly on how candid you are with me.”
Ballou turned his head as I crossed behind him to my desk. He regarded me as I sat, looked at Wolfe, moved to the red leather chair, got himself comfortably seated, taking his time, and told Wolfe, “I’m listening.”
Wolfe swiveled to have him straight front. “Some of this may be news to you, but some may not. You know, of course, that a man named Orrie Cather is in custody as a material witness, but he will be charged with homicide at any moment. I have assumed, on sufficient ground, that he is innocent. Mr. Cather has worked for me, on occasion, for years, and I am under an incumbency. If I am to satisfy it I must now violate a confidence. Mr. Cather had been on intimate terms with Miss Kerr for about a year. He visited her frequently at her apartment with the pink bedroom, at times when she knew you would not come, and there were traces there of his presence and the intimacy, not visible to you but discoverable by a search. The police found them, and that’s why they have him. Do you wish to comment?”
“I’m listening.” From Ballou’s face you might have thought he was merely hearing a proposition to hold something.
“Miss Kerr told Mr. Cather many things about you, her provider, but naturally did not tell you about him, her Strephon. Apparently she also put him in her diary, but not you. If you were there, you would have been visited before now by a policeman or the District Attorney. Have you been?”
“I’m listening.”
“That won’t do. I need to know, and it doesn’t commit you. Has anyone called on you?”
“No.”
“Have you had any indication whatever that your name might be a factor in the murder of Isabel Kerr?”
“No.”
“Then it isn’t in the diary. I know only one thing about the diary, that the police found it in Miss Kerr’s apartment. A policeman, an inspector, told Mr. Goodwin that they had it. I know nothing of its contents except, now, that it doesn’t name you, and that’s fortunate. It’s probable that the District Attorney will not charge Mr. Cather with murder until he learns who was paying for that apartment; that would be dictated by prudence. You hope he never learns, and I would be just as well satisfied.”
Wolfe cocked his head. “That’s the point, Mr. Ballou. If Mr. Cather is brought to trial, you’re in for it. He will take the stand, he will speak, and he will certainly name you; and the dogs will be loose. There may be a chance, even a good one, that if the murderer in fact is exposed and tried, and convicted, your name will never be divulged; but if Mr. Cather is tried, it will inevitably be divulged. Assuming his innocence as I do, I don’t want him to be tried, and neither do you, now that I have described the situation. We have a common interest, and I expect you to help me pursue it – to identify the man who killed Isabel Kerr. If you refuse, I shall of course assume that you killed her, and if you didn’t I would waste much valuable time, and that would be a pity. Have I made it clear?”
Ballou’s face looked seamier, but that was all; there was still no sag. He took a deep breath, rubbed his brow with a palm, and said, “Could I have a drink?” I rose and said certainly, name it, because that was quicker than ringing for Fritz, and he said gin on the rocks with lemon peel, and I went to the kitchen. Fritz shaved slivers of lemon peel while I got the gin and a glass and a bowl of ice cubes. When I re-entered the office the red leather chair was empty; Ballou was over by the globe, slowly twirling it with a fingertip. As I put the tray on the stand he came, sat, put one ice cube in the glass, poured gin, twisted two pieces of lemon peel and dropped them in, and stirred.
When I was back in my chair he was still stirring. Finally he picked up the glass, took two medium sips, and put it down.
“Yes,” he said. “You have made it clear.”
Wolfe opened his eyes and grunted.
“Obviously,” Ballou said, “I’m in a trap. I can’t check a single thing you have said. I did want a drink, I always have one as soon as I get home, but what I had to have was a little time to consider. I have decided that the probability is that the facts are as you have given them, partly because I don’t see what you could possibly expect to gain by inventing them. The only alternative is to walk out, and I can’t risk it. I have a question: when did Miss Kerr – when did that man, Cather, first learn my name?”
Wolfe turned. “Do we know, Archie?”
“No, sir.” To Ballou: “I can find out, if it’s important.”
“Could it have been as long as four months ago?”
“Certainly.”
“I would like to know. It may not be important now, but I would like to know.” He got the glass and took a sip. “I have nothing to say to your guess that I killed Miss Kerr except that I didn’t. Would a man in my position, of my standing – No, that wouldn’t impress you. To me the idea is simply fantastic. You say you expect me to help you identify the man who killed her. If Cather didn’t, and if the facts are as you say, I certainly want to, but how?”