Death of a Doxy (Crime Line)

'Don't rush me. I told him nothing doing unless I had the whole picture. It took a while and a lot of questions, but I had to know if Isabel Kerr was something hot, like the runaway daughter of an ambassador. No. She had formerly been a showgirl, but three years ago had been rescued and installed in the nest she was still occupying. The toughest detail to get was the name of the rescuer. Orrie claimed he didn't know, but of course he did, and I insisted. His name is Avery Ballou, president of the Federal Holding Corporation. Apparently Isabel had some quality that he enjoyed, for he was still paying the rent and the grocery bill and was paying her visits two or three times a week, evenings. But she knew that kind of setup never lasts forever, and anyway she wanted Orrie. They had met somewhere, that's irrelevant and immaterial, about a year ago, and she had been – well, feeding him some of Avery Ballou's groceries, and she had decided she had to have him for keeps. I accepted that. Women don't fall for Orrie quite as fast and furious as he thinks they do, but he is no baboon, and female eyes do sometimes fasten on him.'

'So you went.'

'Yes. I am not dodging, but I mention that it seemed advisable. While he is no Saul Panzer, for years he has come in very handy for you – okay, for us. He has done a lot of pretty good chores and has never skunked as far as we know. So I went, yesterday afternoon, with gloves and an assortment of keys, arriving at exactly four-fifteen. There was no answer to my ring, and I went in and up. It's one of those remodeled four-story houses, self-service elevator, no doorman or hallman, and I wasn't seen. Since you have read the piece in the Times, you know what I found. I didn't stay to use the gloves or keys; I don't think Orrie rated that. Anyway, even if I found some objects, granting they were there, it was a cinch they would find his prints, since he had been there for hours only three days ago. So I left.'

'Seen?'

'No. I phoned you not to expect me for dinner, and -'

'That was at five o'clock.'

Just like him. He never seems to notice but he knows. I nodded. 'Yeah. I had walked for nearly half an hour, to Orrie's address, or near it. I waited around until he came, saw him in his apartment and told him, and returned his keys. I asked him if he killed her, and he said no. He was on a tailing job for Bascom all day but can't prove it. For the important time, eight o'clock to noon, he's wide open. He wanted to know why I didn't stay for a look. I poked him a little, not much, and came home and ate two helpings of creme Genoise. Of course I knew he would be tagged – if nothing else, his prints. That was the urgency on the radio this morning.'

'You should have told me.'

'What good would it have done? It would only have spoiled the day for you.'

'So you went to hear a man read poetry.'

I cocked my head. 'Look,' I said, 'you might as well forget me. You're sore and want a target, but I'm not it. Of course, if you forget Orrie too, there is no target and you can go back to your book.'

He looked at the book, picked it up, and put it down again. He picked up his glass, frowned at it because the head was gone, drank it anyway, to the bottom, returned the glass to the tray, and pushed the tray aside. 'Orrie,' he said. 'Confound him. The question is, did he kill her? If he did, the problem is Mr. Parker's and can be left to him. If he didn't, we are -'

The phone rang, and I swiveled and got it. 'Nero Wolfe's resi -'

'Lon, Archie. I'm surprised you're there.'

'Shouldn't I be?'

'Of course not. With your sidekick in the jug?'

'You're ahead of me. I spent the afternoon at a poetry reading and just got here.'

'You're saying you didn't know that Orrie Cather has been pulled in on the Isabel Kerr murder?'

'Really?'

'Yep, really. If it would help to have something in print, I'm always available. I don't expect you to show me Wolfe's hole card, but if there's some little item…'

'Sure. Certainly. Of course. The minute I have something hot, or even warm, I'll ring you. Right now I'm busy. I'm telling Mr. Wolfe about a beautiful poem a man read.'

'I'll bet you are. Just enough for a paragraph?'

'At the moment, no. Not on Sunday. Thanks for calling.'

I hung up, swiveled, and told Wolfe, 'Lon Cohen fishing, probably from home, since it's Sunday. An item in the Gazette tomorrow will start: 'Orrie Cather, a private detective, trusted assistant of Nero Wolfe, is being held as a material witness in connection with the murder of Isabel Kerr. Mr. Cather, a free-lance operative, has been an important factor in the spectacular success of many of Nero Wolfe's famous cases. Archie Goodwin, who is merely Nero Wolfe's errand boy, told -''

'Shut up!'

I hunched my shoulders and raised my hands, palms up.

He slapped his desk blotter so hard the bottle trembled, and bellowed, 'Did he kill her?'

I said firmly, 'I pass.'

'That won't do. When you were with him Friday evening was he planning murder? When you saw him yesterday was he bearing guilt?'

'I still pass. As for Friday evening, he may not have planned it. He may have gone there yesterday morning, no telling why, and flapped. As for yesterday afternoon, what do you mean, bearing guilt? Murderers have sat here in this room and looked you in the eye and answered your questions, and when they left you were still guessing. Now I'm guessing. Of course you want a verdict, but I haven't got it.'