Death of a Doxy (Crime Line)

Chapter 13

At nine o'clock Sunday morning I entered the kitchen, told Fritz good morning, got orange juice from the refrigerator, sat at my breakfast table, yawned, sneered at The New York Times, and rubbed my eyes. Fritz came with a piece of paper in his hand and demanded, 'Were you drunk when you wrote this?'

I blinked at him. 'No, just pooped. I've forgotten what I said. Please read it.'

He cleared his throat. ''Three-twenty a.m. There's a guest in the South Room. Tell him. I'll cook her breakfast. AG.'' He dropped it on the table. 'I told him, and he asked who, and what could I say? And you will cook her breakfast in my kitchen?'

I took an economy-size swallow of orange juice. 'Let's see if I can talk straight,' I suggested. 'I had four hours' sleep, exactly half what I need. As for telling him who she is, that is my function. I admit it's your function to cook breakfast, but she likes fried eggs and you don't fry eggs. Let's get to the real issue. There is one man who is more allergic to a woman in this house than he is, and you are it. By God, I am talking straight.' I drank orange juice. 'Don't worry, this woman is allergic to a man in her house. As for the eggs, poach them – you know, in red wine and bouillon -'

'Burgundian.'

'That's it. With Canadian back bacon. That will show her what men are for. Her usual hour for breakfast is half past twelve. I'm still willing to cook it if -'

He uttered a French sound, loud, maybe it was a word. He was at the range, with sausage. I reached for the Times.

Since Wolfe goes up to the plant rooms on Sunday morning only for a brief look, if at all, I supposed he would be down around ten o'clock. But it was still ten minutes short of ten when the sound of the elevator came, then his footsteps in the hall. I hadn't seen him since bedtime Friday evening, nearly forty hours ago. Instead of stopping at the office, the footsteps kept coming, and the swing door opened and he appeared.

'Indeed,' he said. 'You're alive.'

I conceded it. 'Just barely. Don't count on me for much.'

'Who is the guest?'

'Miss Jaquette. Miss Jackson to you, Julie to me. She's alive too, but it's not my fault. She was shot at this morning, at half past one, in front of her hotel, from behind the Central Park wall. The sniper was not seen. Fred got it in the leg and is in Roosevelt Hospital. He was asleep when I phoned this morning. I phoned his wife when I got home last night. I also phoned Saul and told him to stand by. I brought Julie home with me because, with Orrie in the coop and Fred in the hospital, we're short-handed, and anyway I got tired of hearing bullets go by. She eats breakfast in bed, and Fritz will cook it and I'll take it up around half past twelve. That seems to cover it.'

'The sniper was not seen.'

'No, sir, but it was Barry Fleming. He reacted to the letter by coming to see her yesterday afternoon. That tagged him for blackmail, and the gunplay tagged him for murder. So all we need now is a little evidence. But I suppose you want a full report.'

He said yes, and we went to the office. The Saturday mail was on my desk, unopened. I don't know why he does that, but I suspect that it's because he wants to show me that he won't butt in on my routine if I won't butt in on his. Fritz hadn't butted in either; my desk top was dustier than it gets in one day. I put my copy of the Sunday Times on it and sat, and proceeded to report. I gave it verbatim only in spots, the few that might have a bearing, thinking it unnecessary for him to know that she had asked me if I realized it was a bed, or that I had called her snuggle bunny. Usually he opens his eyes and sits up when I finish, but that time he held it a full minute, and finally I spoke.

'If you're waiting for a comment, I have nothing to offer. I could say we know but can't prove we do, but that's obvious. As for last night, did he own a rifle, or did he get one, and if so where? Saul and I could dig up the answers, and then what? The first bullet either hit Fred's leg bone or went on through and hit the building, which is stone, and the second one presumably hit the building. Identifying them as coming from his rifle would take six experts, three on each side. If he had hit her and killed her that would be -'

'Pfui.' He came erect. 'That's mere futility. We have what we wanted, support for our surmise that he's a murderer. Is there any doubt now that we are going to extricate Orrie?'

'No.'

'Then that is no longer of concern. Supposing that we could proceed to get proof, conclusive evidence, that Fleming killed Isabel Kerr, do we want to? If we get it, and give it to Mr. Cramer, what will happen?'

'Three things. One, they'll drop Orrie fast. Two, Fleming will be arrested, tried, and probably convicted. Three, they'll try to keep Ballou's name out of it but can't. Make it four. Four, you won't get another look at that package.'

He nodded. 'What did I tell him?'

'If you can serve his purpose without damage to yours, you will.'

'Well?'

'Well, you can try. It's February sixth, with nothing coming in yet this year, and nothing in sight, and I know how much goes out, since I draw the checks. Do you want my opinion?'

'Yes.'