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?”
“No telling. If so it’s been cleaned. It’s fully loaded
and the cartridges all look alike.”
“Did she shoot him?”
That was routine; he merely wanted my opinion as a
qualified expert on women. His over-all estimate of me
and my relations with females is full of contradictions,
but that doesn’t bother him. “For a quick guess,” I said,
“no. To make it final I would need facts.”
“So would I. Did you shoot your husband, Mrs.
Hazen?”
She shook her head.
“I prefer to hear it if you can speak. Did you shoot
him?”
“No.” She had to push it out.
“Since my promise was to you, you may of course
release me from it. Do you wish me to phone the po-
lice?”
“Not now.” The blood was beginning to creep back
into her skin. “You don’t have to now. You won’t ever
have to. He’s dead, and I didn’t kill him.” She rose to her
feet, not very steady, but not staggering. “That’s all
over now.”
“Sit down.” It was a command. “It’s not so simple.
When the police ask you where you were this morning
from eleven o’clock on what will you say? Confound it,
80 Rex Stout
quit propping yourself on my desk and sit down! That’s
better. What will you say?”
“Why . . .” She was on the edge of the chair. “Will
they ask me that?”
“Certainly. Unless they already have the murderer
and the evidence beyond all question, and that’s too
much to hope for. You will have to account for every
minute since you last saw your husband. Did you come
here in a cab?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll say so. You’ll have to. And when they
ask why you came to see me what will you say?”
She shook her head. She looked at me and back at
him. “Oh,” she said. “You’ll have to tell me what to say.”
He nodded. “I expected that.” His head turned.
“Archie. What grounds have you for your guess?”
I was back in my chair. “Partly personal,” I told him,
“and partly professional. Personal, my general impres-
sion of her, and specifically her smile when I let her in.
Professional, two points. First, if she shot him last night
after making an appointment with you and then came