No what?
I don’t. You’re going too fast. She was frowning, concentrating. That’s not a story. The baby was left in my vestibule.
Sure, but it’s not a bad theory. I’ve known a lot worse. The point is that if we name the client you’11 be in for a little trouble, even if they don’t happen on that particular theory. And if we refuse. Wait a minute. Her frown was deeper.
I waited more than a minute while she sorted it out. I guess I’m confused, she said. Do you mean that woman was murdered on account of because you went to see her? What you said or something?
I shook my head. That’s not the way to put it. Put it that she was probably murdered very probably because someone didn’t want her to tell something or do something about the baby that was left in your vestibule. Or put it that if the inquiry about the baby hadn’t been started and got to her, she wouldn’t have been murdered.
You’re saying that I’m responsible for a murder.
I am not. That’s silly. Whoever put the baby in your vestibule with that note pinned to it must have known you would try to find out where it came from. The responsibility for the murder belongs to him, so don’t try to claim it.
I hate it. She was gripping the edges of the bench. I hate it. Murder. You said I would be invited to the District Attorney’s office. The questions, the talk There was an if, Mrs. Valdon. If we name the client. I started to add. Why don’t you call me Lucy?
Tell me to in writing and I will. You’re very giddy for a girl who doesn’t know how to flirt. I started to add, if we refuse to name the client we may be in for trouble, but that’s our lookout. We would rather not name you, and we won’t, if. If you won’t name yourself.
But I why should I?
You shouldn’t, but maybe you have already. Three people know that you have hired Nero Wolfe your maid, your cook, and your lawyer. Who else?
Nobody. I haven’t told anyone.
Are you sure?
Yes.
Well, don’t. Absolutely no one. Not even your best friend. People talk, and if talk about your hiring Nero Wolfe gets to the police, that will do it. Lawyers aren’t supposed to talk but most of them do, and on him and the maid and cook we’ll have to trust to luck. Don’t tell them not to, that seldom helps. People are so damn contrary telling them not to mention something gives them the itch. That doesn’t apply to you because you have something to lose. Will you bottle it?
Yes. But you what are you going to do?
I don’t know. Mr. Wolfe has the brains, I only run errands. I stood up. The immediate problem is keeping you out, that’s why I came. They haven’t come at us yet, though they found thousands of my prints in that house and as a licensed private detective mine are on file. So they’re being cute. For instance, it would have been cute to follow me here. When I left I didn’t bother to see if I had a tail; that takes time if he’s any good. I walked and made sure of losing him if I had one. I turned, and turned back. If you think we owe you an apology for letting a mother hunt hatch a murder, here it is.
I owe you an apology. She left the bench. For being rude. That day. She took a step. Are you going?
Sure, I’ve done the errand. And if I had a tail he may be sitting on the stoop waiting to ask me where I’ve been.
He wasn’t. But I had been home less than half an hour when Cramer came and started the wrangle that finally ended at eighteen minutes to four, when he took me.
When I arrived at the old brownstone shortly after noon on Monday, having been bailed out by Parker and given a lift to 35th Street, I was glad to see, as I entered the office, that Wolfe had kept busy during my absence. He had got a good start on another book, Silent Spring, by Rachel Carson. I stood until he finished a paragraph, shut the book on a finger, and looked the question.
Twenty grand, I told him. The DA wanted fifty, so I’m stepping high. One of the dicks was pretty good, he nearly backed me into a corner on the overalls, but I got loose. No mention of Saul or Fred or Orrie, so they haven’t hit on them and now they probably won’t. I signed two different statements ten hours apart, but they’re welcome to them. The status quo has lost no hide. If there’s nothing urgent I’ll go up and attend to my hide. I had a one-hour nap with a dick standing by. As for eating, what’s lunch?
Sweetbreads in béchamel sauce with truffles and chervil. Beet and watercress salad. Brie.
If there’s enough you may have some. I headed for the stairs.
I could list five good reasons why I should have quit that job long ago, but I could list six, equally good, why I shouldn’t and haven’t. Turning it around, I could list two reasons, maybe three, why Wolfe should fire me, and ten why he shouldn’t and doesn’t. Of the ten, the big one is that if I wasn’t around he might be sleeping under a bridge and eating scraps. He hates to work. It has never been said right out, by either of us, that at least half of my salary is for poking him, but it doesn’t have to be.
But when I poke hard he is apt to ask if I have any suggestions, and therefore, when we returned to the office after lunch that Monday afternoon and he settled back with his book, I didn’t let out a peep. If I had poked and he had asked for suggestions I would have had to pass. I had never seen a dimmer prospect. We had found out where the baby came from, and we were worse off than when we started.Three months had passed since it had arrived at Ellen Tenzer’s, so that was hopeless. As for the names and addresses and phone numbers I had collected at the house, I had spent hours on them Saturday afternoon and evening, and none of them was worth a damn, and anyway the cops had them now and they were working on a murder. If anything useful was going to be uncovered by checking on Ellen Tenor or the baby, the cops would get it. That was probably how Wolfe had it figured as he sat buried in his book. If they tagged the murderer he could go on from there to find the mother. Of course if they tagged someone not only as the murderer but also as the mother, he would have to shave the client’s bill, but it would save him a lot of work. I had to admit it would be a waste of Mrs. Valdon’s I mean Lucy’s money to send Saul and Fred and Orrie chasing around Putnam County.
So I didn’t poke and he didn’t work anyhow I assumed he didn’t. But when he closed the book and put it down at five minutes to four, and pushed his chair back and rose, to go to the elevator for his afternoon date with the orchids, he spoke.
Can Mrs. Valdon be here at six o’clock?
He must have decided on it hours ago, possibly before lunch, because he doesn’t decide things while he’s reading. But he had put off committing himself until the last minute. Not only would he have to work; he would have to converse with a woman.
I can find out, I said.
Please do so. If not at six, then at nine. Since our door may be under surveillance, she should enter at the back. He marched out, and I turned to the phone.
Entering the old brownstone by the back door is a little more complicated than by the front door, but not much. You come in from 34th Street through a narrow passage between two buildings and end up at a solid wooden gate seven feet high. There is no knob or latch or button to push, and if you have no key for the Hotchkiss lock and haven’t been invited you’ll need a tool, say a heavy ax. But if you’re expected and you knock on the gate it will open, as it did for Lucy Valdon at ten minutes past six that Monday afternoon, and you will be led along a brick walk between rows of herbs, down four steps and on in, and up a stair with twelve steps. At the top, you turn right for the kitchen or left for the office or the front.