The events of Monday night were pretty well timetabled. According to the driver of the taxi I had put Priscilla into, she had told him to take her to Grand Central Station. Arrived there, she said she had changed her mind; she wanted to ride around Central Park. He obliged. When, after a leisurely winding trip clear to the north end and back down to Central Park South, she had said she was thinking something over and wanted to do another lap, he had got prudent and mentioned money, and she had handed him a ten. When they were completing the second circuit, she gave him an address, 618 East Seventy-fourth Street, and he drove her there, arriving shortly after one o’clock. He helped her with the luggage, out of the cab and through the entrance door, which she opened with her key, and then returned to his cab and drove off.
It was generally believed, by both the cops and the press, that the murderer had been in her apartment waiting for her, and that he had got in with the key which the maid, Margaret Fomos, had in her bag. So he had already killed Margaret Fomos to get the bag, not necessarily planning it that way. He might have counted on getting it at smaller cost but had been recognized by her; and she, having been with Priscilla for years, could have recognized anyone who had known Priscilla well.
I filled half a notebook with the stuff Lon Cohen gave us that evening, but I guess the above samples will do for this record. After escorting him to the front, I returned to the office and found Wolfe with his chin on his chest and his eyes closed. Not opening them, he asked what time it was, and I told him ten-thirty.
He grunted. “Too late to expect a welcome from people. What time is it in Venezuela?”
“My God, I don’t know.”
I started to cross to the big globe over by the bookshelves, but he beat me to it. Anything for an excuse to consult the globe. He tan his finger along a meridian, starting at Quebec and ending at the equator. “Several degrees east. An hour later, I suppose.” He twirled the globe, looking disappointed.
I thought it was pure fake and I resented it. “You’re right near the Panama Canal,” I suggested. “Go on through to the other ocean. Try Galapagos. It’s only half-past nine there.”
He ignored it. “Get your notebook,” he growled. “If I’m saddled with this thing, I am. Your program for the morning.”
I obeyed.
Chapter VII
Probably my conception of a widow was formed in my early boyhood in Ohio, from a character called Widow Rowley, who lived across the street. I have known others since, but the conception has not been entirely obliterated, so there is always an element of shock when I meet a female who has been labeled widow and I find that she has some teeth, does not constantly mutter to herself, and can walk without a cane.
Mrs Sarah Jaffee was not visibly burdened with any handicaps whatever. She was probably more than one-third the age Widow Rowley had been, but not much. That much, along with the shock, took only one good glance as she admitted me to her sixth-floor apartment on East Eightieth Street, and the glance also furnished another mild shock. Although it was ten in the morning of a pleasant and sunny June day, there in her foyer was a man’s topcoat thrown carelessly over the back of a chair, and on a polished tabletop was a man’s felt hat. I kept my brows down, merely remarking to myself, as she led me through a large and luxurious living room, that since I had phoned for permission to come, and so was expected, it might have been supposed that a widow would have taken the trouble to tidy up a little.
When, beyond the living room, we came upon a table in an alcove with breakfast tools in place for two, I will not say that I blushed, but I felt that I had not been properly briefed.
“I was in bed when you phoned,” she said, sitting and picking up a spoon. “I assume you’ve had breakfast, but how about some coffee? Sit down—no, not there, that’s my husband’s place. Olga! A coffee cup, please!”
A door swung open and a Valkyrie entered with a cup and saucer in her hand.
“On a tray, my pet,” Mrs Jaffee said, and the Valkyrie whirled and disappeared. Before the door had stopped swinging she breezed in again with cup and saucer on a tray, and I backstepped not to get trampled. When she had gone I got my coffee from my hostess and went to a chair on the other side. She took her spoon and scooped a bite of melon.
“It’s all right,” she said, reassuring me. “I’m a nut, that’s all.” She opened wide for the bite of melon, and there was no question about her having teeth, very nice ones. I took a sip of coffee, which was barely drinkable for a man used to Fritz’s.
“You know my husband is dead,” she stated.
I nodded. “So I understood.”
She took another bite of melon and disposed of it. “He was in the Reserve, a major, a Signal Corps technician. When he went away, one day in March a year ago, he left his hat and coat there in the hall. I didn’t put them away. When I got word he had been killed, three months later, they were still there. That was a year ago, and there they are, and I’m sick of looking at them, I’m simply sick to death of looking at them, but there they are.”
She pointed. “There’s his breakfast place too, and I’m sick of looking at that. Weren’t you surprised when I told you on the phone, all right, come ahead? You, a complete stranger, a detective wanting to ask me questions about a murder?”
“A little, maybe,” I conceded, not to be cranky.
“Of course you were.” She dropped a slice of bread into the slot of the toaster and spooned another bite of melon. “But at that I lost my nerve. A while back I decided to quit being a nut, and I decided the way I would do it—I would have a man do it for me. I would have a man sit here with me at breakfast, in Dick’s place—my husband’s place—and I would have him take that awful hat and coat out of that hall. But do you know what?”
I said I didn’t.
She finished the melon, popped the toast out, and started putting butter on it before telling me what. “There wasn’t a man I could ask! Out of all the men I know, there wasn’t one that would have understood! But I was determined it had to be done that way, so there I was. And this morning, when you phoned, I was all shaky anyway, it was so horrible about Pris, the way she died, and I thought to myself, This man’s a stranger, it doesn’t matter whether he understands or not, he can sit and eat breakfast with me and he can take that coat and hat out of there.”
She turned her palms up and made a face. “And did you hear me?” She mimicked herself. “‘I assume you’ve had breakfast—no, not there, that’s my husband’s place.’ I just simply lost my nerve. Do you suppose I really am a nut?”
I arose, circled the end of the table, sat in the chair at her right, took the napkin, picked up the plate and extended my arm, and demanded, “That piece of toast, please?”
She goggled at me a full three seconds before she moved a hand for the toast, slow motion. The hand was quite steady.
“Excuse me,” I said, “but I suppose I ought to eat it if you want this to stick, and it’s that godawful cellophane special, so if there’s any jelly or marmalade or honey . . .”
She got up and left through the swinging door. In a little she was back with an assortment of jars on a tray. I selected one that was labeled plum jam and helped myself. She made another piece of toast, buttered it and took a bite, and poured more coffee for us. She ate the last crumb of toast before she spoke.
“If you hadn’t been rude about the bread I would soon have been crying.”
“Yeah, I thought so.”
“Will you take that coat and hat away with you?”
“Certainly.”
She was frowning at me. She put out a hand as if to touch my arm, then withdrew it. “Do you mean to say you understand?”
“Gosh, no, I’m just a stranger.” I pushed my coffee cup back. “Look, Mrs Jaffee, it’s like this. Nero Wolfe is investigating the murder of Priscilla Eads for a client. As I told you on the phone, we have no idea that you know anything at all about the murder, directly or indirectly, but you may have information that will help. You inherited from your father ten per cent of the stock of Softdown, Incorporated, and for a time you were Priscilla Eads’ closest friend. Isn’t that right?”