Another factor was plain curiosity: would she come or wouldn’t she? Still another was the chance that it might develop into a decent fee. But what really settled it was her saying. “We shall see” instead of “We’ll see” or “We will see.” He will always stretch a point, within reason, for people who use words as he thinks they should be used. So he muttered at her, “Where is she?”
“At my brother’s place. She always is.”
“Give Mr. Goodwin the phone number.”
“I’ll get it. She may be downstairs.” She started a hand for the phone on Wolfe’s desk, but I told her to use mine and left my chair, and she came and sat, lifted the receiver and dialed.
In a moment she spoke. “Doris? Flora. Is Miss Voss around?… Oh. I thought she might have come down… No, don’t bother, I’ll ring her there.”
She pushed the button down, told us, “She’s up in her office,” waited a moment, released the button, and dialed again. When she spoke it was another voice, as she barely moved her lips and brought it out through her nose: “Miss Bianca Voss? Hold the line, please. Mr. Nero Wolfe wishes to speak with you… Mr. Nero Wolfe, the private detective.”
She looked at Wolfe and he got at his phone. Having my own share of curiosity, I extended a hand for my receiver, and she let me take it and left my chair. As I sat and got it to my ear Wolfe was speaking.
“This is Nero Wolfe. Is this Miss Bianca Voss?”
“Yes.” It was more like “yiss.” “What do you want?” The “wh” and the “w” were off.
“If my name is unknown to you, I should explain-”
“I know your name. What do you want?”
“I want to invite you to call on me at my office. I have been asked to discuss certain matters with you, and-”
“Who asked you?”
“I am not at liberty to say. I shall-”
“What matters?” The “wh” was more off.
“If you will let me finish. The matters are personal and confidential, and concern you closely. That’s all I can say on the telephone. I am sure you-”
A snort stopped him, a snort that might be spelled “Tzchaahh!” followed by: “I know your name, yes! You are scum, I know, in your stinking sewer! Your slimy little ego in your big gob of fat! And you dare to-
That’s the best I can do at spelling it. It was part scream, part groan, and part just noise. It was followed immediately by another noise, a mixture of crash and clatter, then others, faint rustlings, and then nothing. I looked at Wolfe and he looked at me. I spoke to my transmitter. “Hello hello hello.
I cradled it and so did Wolfe. Flora Gallant was asking, “What is it? She hung up?”
We ignored her. Wolfe said, “Archie? You heard.”
“Yes, sir. If you want a guess, something hit her and she dragged the phone along as she went down and it struck the floor. The other noises, not even a guess, except that at the end either she put the receiver back on and cut the connection or someone else did. I don’t-Okay, Miss Gallant. Take it easy.” She had grabbed my arm with both hands and was jabbering, “What is it? What happened?” I put a hand on her shoulder and made it emphatic. “Take a breath and let go. You heard what I told Mr. Wolfe. Apparently something fell on her and then hung up the phone.”
“But it couldn’t! It is not possible!”
“That’s what it sounded like. What’s the number? The one downstairs?”
She just gawked at me. I looked at Wolfe and he gave me a nod, and I jerked my arm loose, sat at my desk, got the Manhattan book, flipped to the Gs and got the number, PL2-0330 and dialed it.
A cultured female voice came. “Alec Gallant Incorporated.”
“This is a friend of Miss Voss,” I told her. “I was just speaking to her on the phone, in her office, and from the sounds I got I think something may have happened to her. Will you send someone up to see? Right away. I’ll hold the wire.”
“Who is this speaking, please?”
“Never mind that. Step on it. She may be hurt.”
I heard her calling to someone, then apparently she covered the transmitter. I sat and waited. Wolfe sat and scowled at me. Flora Gallant stood for a good five minutes at my elbow, staring down at me, then turned and went to the red leather chair and lowered herself onto its edge. I looked at my wristwatch: 11:40. It had said 11:31 when the connection with Bianca Voss had been cut. More waiting, and then a male voice came.
“Hello?”
“Hello.”
“This is Carl Drew. What is your name, please?”
“My name is Watson, John H. Watson. Is Miss Voss all right?”
“May I have your address, Mr. Watson, please?”
“What for? Miss Voss knows my address. Is she all right?”
