She came to me and said, “I’ll leave right away. What’s the address?”
I told her we might as well go together, and when she objected that she must go out by the employees’ entrance I hurdled that by arranging for us to meet outside. My instructions were to bring her, and I’m great for instructions. My guesses on the role Wolfe was casting her for were nothing but guesses, and they contradicted one another, but if by any chance he had her down for top billing I didn’t want to be responsible for her not showing up. So I was really pleased to see her when she reached the meeting place on the sidewalk not more than a minute after I did.
On the way down in the taxi she sat with a tight two-handed grip on her bag, and had no comments or questions. That suited me, since I hadn’t the faintest idea what she was heading into and therefore would have been able to make no contribution except grunts.
Since I had been instructed not to tell her that Mrs. Whitten and Phoebe were our house guests, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see them both
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there in the office when I entered with Julie Alving, but Wolfe was alone, in his chair behind his desk, with a newspaper. He put the paper down, got to his feet, and bowed, which was quite a tribute, either to Julie or the part she was supposed to take. I’ve seen him react to a woman’s entrance in that office with nothing but a ferocious scowl. So I participated by giving Miss Alving the red leather chair.
She sat, still clutching her bag, and gazed at him. Wolfe told me to get my notebook and I did so. A man getting a notebook and pen ready sometimes makes quite an effect.
Wolfe returned her gaze. “I suppose Mr. Goodwin told you that I wanted to speak with you about Mrs. Whitten.”
She nodded. “Yes, that’s what he said—no, he said on behalf of Mrs. Whitten.”
Wolfe waved it away with a finger. “He may have used that phrase. He likes it. In any case, I’ll come straight to the point. I think I can arrange it so that Mrs. Whitten will not prosecute, if you’ll help me.”
“Prosecute?” She was only so-so at faking surprise. “Prosecute who?”
“You, Miss Alving. Have you no notion of what charge Mrs. Whitten can lay against you?”
“Certainly not. There isn’t any.”
“When did you last see her?”
“I never have seen her—that is, I’ve never met her.”
“When did you last see her?”
“I don’t know—a long while—months ago. I only saw her two or three times—never to speak to.”
“That was months ago?”
“Yes.”
“Do you owe her anything?”
“No.”
“Does she owe you anything?”
“No.”
“Have you ever had anything to do with her—anything at all?”
“No.”
“Have you any reason to expect or fear anything from her, good or bad?”
11 -\ T II
No.
“Then will you please tell me why, when Mr. Goodwin told you I wanted to speak with you on behalf of Mrs. Whitten, you left your work immediately and came here with him?”
Julie looked at him, and then at me as if it was up to me to answer that one. Seeing that I was no nearer ready with something adequate than she was, she went back to Wolfe.
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“Why wouldn’t I?” she demanded. “After what has happened, wouldn’t I want to know what she wanted?”
Wolfe nodded approvingly. “That was much the best you could do, and you did it. But it’s not good enough. If you maintain this attitude. Miss Alving, I’m afraid I’m out of it, and you’ll have others to deal with. I would advise you to reconsider. I think you’re wrong to assume that they will believe you, and not Mrs. Whitten, when she tells them that you attacked her with a knife and your target was her heart.”
“I didn’t!” Julie cried. That was only so-so too.
“Nonsense. Of course you did. I can understand your reluctance, since nothing has been published about it, and tor all you know Mrs. Whitten may be at the point of death. But she isn’t Your blade didn’t get beyond the rib, and twelve stitches were all that was necessary to make her capable of riding here to my office. Except for a little loss of blood she’s as good as ever. She hasn’t even reported it to the police, not wishing to give the public another mouthful to chew on—a mortal assault on her by the former friend of her murdered husband. So the limit of a charge against you would be assault with intent to kill.”
Wolfe waved that aside as if it were a mere peccadillo. “And if you’ll be frank with me and answer some questions, I undertake to arrange that Mrs. Whitten will not prosecute. If you had achieved your purpose, if she were dead, that would be different and I wouldn’t be so foolish as to expect frankness from you. I wouldn’t ask you to confess a murder, Miss Alving.”
She was doing her best and I admired her tor it. But the trouble was that she had to decide on her line right there facing us, and having to make up your mind with Nero Wolfe’s eyes, open an eighth of an inch, on you, is no situation for an amateur.
However, she wasn’t made of jelly. “When did this—when and where was Mrs. Whitten attacked?”
“I’ll refresh your memory,” Wolfe said patiently, “if you want it that way. A quarter to ten last evening, in front of her house, as she got out of her
car.
“It wasn’t in the papers. I should think a thing like that would be in the papers.”
“Only if the papers heard of it, and they didn’t. Naturally you searched for it. I’ve told you why Mrs. Whitten didn’t report it.”
Julie was still making up her mind. “It seems to me you’re expecting a good deal—1 mean, even if I did it, and I didn’t. If I had, the way it looks to me, I wouldn’t know whether you were trying to get me to confess to a murder or not. I wouldn’t know whether she were dead, or had just lost some blood as you said. Would I?”
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She had him there. He sat and gazed at her a long moment, grunted, and turned to me.
“Archie. Bring that witness down here. Only the one. If the other one is importunate, remind her that I said our talk about Miss Alving must be tete-a-tete.”
x
PHOEBE wasn’t importunate. When I entered the South Room on the third floor she was talking on the phone, that extension having been plugged in for an outside line, and her mother was sitting in a chair by the window with a newspaper on her lap. She arose at once, with no need for assistance, when I said Wolfe was ready for their private talk, and Phoebe, having finished on the phone, had no comment on that, but she wanted to know what I had for her. I told her she would be hearing from me shortly, or more probably from Wolfe, and escorted Mrs. Whitten to the elevator, which I never used except when I was convoying casualties, and out at the lower hall and into the office.
I kept right at her elbow because I didn’t want to miss the expression on Julie Alving’s face when she saw her. It was first just plain surprise and then a mixture in which the only ingredient I could positively label was just plain hate. As for Mrs. Whitten, I had only her profile from a comer of my eye, but she stopped dead and went as stiff as a steel beam.
Wolfe spoke. “This is my witness. Miss Alving. I believe you ladies haven’t met. Mrs. Whitten, Miss Alving.”
Mrs. Whitten moved, and for a second I thought she was turning to march out, but she was merely reaching for a hold on my sleeve. I took her arm and herded her left oblique. Being wounded, she rated the red leather chair, but it seemed inadvisable to ask Julie to move, so I took the witness to a yellow one with arms, not as roomy but just as comfortable. When she was in it I resumed my post at my desk with notebook and pen.
“I’m sorry,” Wolfe said, “if it makes a queasy atmosphere, you two here together, but Miss Alving left me no alternative.” He focused on Mrs. Whitten. “I was having a little trouble with Miss Alving. I wanted her to talk about certain aspects of the assault she made on you last evening, but she wouldn’t have it—and I don’t blame her—because she didn’t know how badly you were hurt. There was only one way to handle it—let her see for herself.”