Death of a Doxy (Crime Line)

The door was wide open. She was squatting on the floor, looking at the underside of the table. At the sound of my footsteps she turned her head, scrambled up, and said, 'I'm looking for the bug.'

'You won't find it there. It's not that simple. It came through fine.'

'You heard it?'

'Sure. Why he called you a liar is beyond me. If ever I heard the ring of truth. How soon do you want breakfast?'

'Now. Right now.'

'It's nearly ready. Get in bed and I'll bring it.'

Chapter 14

I don't mention everything, for instance phone calls that have nothing to do with progress or the lack of it. There had been two phone calls from Jill Hardy, one from Dr. Gamm, two from Lon Cohen, and three from Nathaniel Parker. But I mention the one from Parker that Sunday afternoon because what he wanted to do might have helped or hurt. He had decided he should make a habeas corpus play Monday morning to get Orrie bailed out, and it took Wolfe ten minutes to talk him out of it. It wasn't easy. Wolfe couldn't very well tell him that we were no longer worried about Orrie, that we now had another fish to fry.

Or maybe we did. When I went to bed Sunday night, after winning $1.25 from Julie at gin, there had been no discussion and no instructions, nothing. The Ten Little Indians was closed Sundays. Julie had had an afternoon nap, and I had had a long walk. Wolfe had had the Times and a book, and probably, while I was out, his weekly battle with television. That may occur almost any evening, when he has got disgusted with a book, but usually it's a Sunday afternoon, because that's when TV is supposed to be dressed for company. He turns on one channel after another, getting grimmer and grimmer, until he is completely assured that it's getting worse instead of better, and quits.

The only time he and Julie were together was at the dinner table, and it was different from any meal at that table I could remember. Ordinarily Wolfe is perfectly willing to do most of the talking, with or without company, but that time, from the Neptune bouchees right through to the chestnut whip, he not only let the guest, a female guest, take over, he egged her on. He asked her questions, dozens of questions, about her work and her background and the people she knew. By the time coffee came, I had settled on the only possible explanation: he had decided that I didn't understand women as well as he had thought I did, and it was up to him to fill the gap. I could have told him that that kind of approach wouldn't help much, but apparently I was no longer regarded as an expert.

So I got a surprise when I entered the kitchen Monday morning and Fritz told me I was wanted, and I went up one flight and knocked and entered, and Wolfe said, 'Good morning. Can that woman be trusted in a matter that requires adroit execution and full discretion?'

'You ought to know,' I said, 'after the quiz you put her through.'

'I don't. Do you?'

'Yes. Adroit, yes. You heard her with Cramer. It would depend on how well she liked it, whatever it was. The discretion would also depend. She would never spill anything she didn't want to spill. She wouldn't talk just to hear herself.'

'How much verity was there in what she told Mr. Cramer?'

'None at all. She couldn't think I'm what a man because she couldn't think any man is.'

'Then we'll risk it. Ask Mr. Ballou to come at eleven o'clock. Tell him I'll need only ten minutes. Miss Jaquette must not see him. Can you make sure she doesn't?'

I said I could, and went up one flight to see if there was any sign of life there. It was only a quarter to nine, but she had gone to bed early – for her – and she might have opened the door to enjoy it. She hadn't. I had told her to buzz either the kitchen or the office on the house phone when she wanted breakfast, and to allow half an hour. I went down to the office and did the chores.

I didn't know if Avery Ballou was the early kind of president, and waited till a quarter to ten to dial the number of the Federal Holding Corporation. A woman answered, of course, and switched me to a man. He would submit my name to Mr. Ballou only if I told him what I wanted; that's one of the ways junior executives try to keep wise to what their seniors are up to. I finally persuaded him the name was enough and Ballou would want it, but there was a long wait before his voice came.

'Goodwin? Archie Goodwin?'

'Right. Mr. Ballou?'

'Yes.'

'There has been a development in that matter we discussed Thursday evening, and we must tell you about it. Can you be here at eleven o'clock? Same address.'

'This morning?'

'Yes.'

'I'm afraid I can't. Is it urgent?'

'Yes. Eleven-thirty or twelve would do, but eleven would be better. It shouldn't take more than ten minutes.'

'Hold the wire… All right. I'll be there at eleven or shortly after.'