Death of a Doxy (Crime Line)

wasn't very satisfactory, since it made no sound on the thick rug, not like the linoleum in his office. He was looking at the chair instead of me because it wasn't my stand that was eating him. He had the answer to one question, where did Wolfe stand, and now the point was, why? Did we really have something, and, if so, what?

'It occurs to me,' I said, 'that we might make a deal. It would have to be okayed by Mr. Wolfe, but I'm sure he would. We'll make an affidavit, the last sentence of which will say that it includes everything we know, and everything Orrie has said and done to our knowledge, that could possibly have any bearing on the murder, and we'll trade it for a look at your file. The whole file. It would be a bargain for both of us. You would know exactly what we've got, and we would know why you're risking holding him without bail. Fair enough?'

'Balls,' Cramer said. He stood up. 'One thing I came for, to tell Wolfe something, but you can tell him. Tell him that it's too bad I can't show him Isabel Kerr's diary. If he read it he would change his mind about horning in. And a tip for you. When you decide to kill someone make damn sure he isn't keeping a diary. Or she.' He turned and marched out.

I stayed put. It would have been a shame to spoil such a good exit line. When I heard the front door open and close I went to the hall for a look, to see that he had been outside when he shut it, then stepped back into the office and considered a matter. Should Jill Hardy be there in the red leather chair when Wolfe came down? If I left her in the front room and reported, almost certainly he would refuse to see her, and of course he should. It would be eleven o'clock in three minutes. I decided to bring her in, went and opened the door and crossed the sill, and looked around at an empty room. She had exited without a line, by the door to the hall. I went and looked at the rack; her coat was gone. The house phone buzzed in the office, and I went and got it. It was Wolfe, in the plant rooms, wanting to know if she had gone, and I told him yes, and in a minute the sound came of the elevator grumbling its way down. He entered, in his hand the daily orchids for his desk – a panicle of Odonto-glossum hellemense, which, according to the records I keep, is a cross of harvengtense and crispum. A stunner if you feel like orchids, which I didn't just then. I sat and simmered as he put them in the vase, got settled in his chair, and glanced through the mail. When he finished with a letter from a man upstate who sends deer meat, the only important item, I said, rather loud, 'Miss Kerr kept a diary.'

He put the letter down, looked up, regarded me for half a minute, and asked, 'How did you pry it out of him?'

'Out of who?'

'Mr. Cramer, of course.'

I stared. 'To see the street from up there you have to stick your head way out.'

'I never have. But he would certainly come, and soon, and who else could supply such a particular? How did you pry it out of him?'

'All right, I'll report.' I did so, starting with Jill Hardy. Sometimes, reporting a conversation, it's essential to give it verbatim, but even when it isn't I do it anyway because that's how I have trained and it's easier. As usual, he leaned back with his eyes closed. I went right on through, from Jill Hardy on to Cramer, since there had been no break, just a change of cast. When I finished he opened his eyes halfway, closed them again, and muttered, 'Nothing.'

'Right,' I agreed. 'As for her, if she's a liar she's pretty good. Orrie certainly thinks she knows nothing about Isabel Kerr, and if she does it would take a lot of digging to prove it. If she doesn't she's crossed off completely and is absolutely useless. As for Cramer, he probably has got a diary, but so what, we knew he had something hot, and I doubt if it says at the end, 'He is reaching for the ashtray and is going to hit me with it,' which is the point. Cramer may have needed a diary to tell him that it would be handy for Orrie if she died, but we don't, we already knew it. What we need is somebody else it is handy for. It is for Jill Hardy, in a way, but I doubt if she knew it. As you say, nothing.'

He opened his eyes. 'You think Orrie killed her.'

'No. I have looked over Saul's point, from all angles, and I like it. At the very least it packs a reasonable doubt, which is enough for a jury, so it will do for me. Anyhow, we're now on record. With Cramer. If it turns out that Orrie did it I'll never forgive him. I'll cop his girl. She already thinks I look like him.'

He grunted. 'Now what? Who?'

'I suppose the sister. Or Avery Ballou.'

'We would have to discuss Mr. Ballou. The sister first.' He straightened up and reached for Invitation to an Inquest.

Chapter 5

There was a Barry Fleming in the Bronx phone book – address, 2938 Humboldt Avenue. Of course I didn't dial the number. According to the Times, she wasn't talking to reporters, and naturally she would think I was trying a dodge. I consulted the Bronx street guide to locate Humboldt Avenue, then grinned to myself as my hand went automatically to a pocket for my keyfold. Because of a regrettable occurrence some years back, I had made it a hard and fast rule never to go on an errand connected with a murder without a gun, and the rules you make yourself are the hardest to break, but there's a limit. Sororicide is by no means unheard of, but to suppose that Stella Fleming might have killed her sister, and therefore anyone who got in her reach should be ready to shoot, would be overdoing it, at least until I had a look at her. I returned the keyfold to my pocket, told Wolfe not to expect me for lunch, and left. After descending the stoop to the sidewalk I turned up my collar, even for the short stretch around the corner to the garage. Instead of a January thaw we were having a good long freeze, and the wind was doing its best to help.

It was twenty past twelve when I left the Heron in a parking lot and walked a block and a half to Number 2938, which was a regulation ten-story brick hive, to be found in all five boroughs, but especially the Bronx. Of course it might not be the right Barry Fleming, but I would soon find out. The tiled floor of the lobby had a rubber runner, no rugs. There was no doorman, but the elevator man was there, a pasty-faced bozo in a uniform that was past due for the cleaner and presser, leaning against the wall. I advanced and said, 'Fleming, please.'