'You didn't?'
'No.'
'So you went to bed.'
'Yes.'
'After you entered your apartment, before you heard footsteps on the stairs, did you hear any sound above you, in Mr Althaus's apartment?'
'I didn't notice any. I was moving around, taking my coat off and putting it away, and the water was running, getting it cold enough to drink. And his room had a thick carpet.'
'You had been in it?'
She nodded. 'A few times. Three or four times. For a drink before we went to dinner.' She picked up her cup, and her hand was steady. I said her coffee was cold and offered to pour her some hot, but she said it was all right and drank. Wolfe poured himself some and took a sip.
'When and how,' he asked her, 'did you learn that Mr Althaus had been killed?'
'In the morning. I don't work on Saturday and I sleep late. Irene, the cleaning woman, came and banged on my door. It was after nine o'clock.'
'Then it was you who phoned the police?'
'Yes.'
'Did you tell them of seeing the three men leave the house?'
'Yes.'
'Did you tell them that you thought they were FBI men?'
'No. That hadn't-it was-I guess I was in shock. I had never seen a dead body before-except in a coffin.'
'When did you tell Mrs Bruner that you thought they were FBI men?'
Her lips moved, a moment of hesitation. 'On Monday.'
'Why did you think they were FBI men?'
'They looked like it. They looked young, and-well, sort of athletic, and the way they walked.'
'You said there were no peculiarities.'
'I know I did. It wasn't-I wouldn't call it peculiarities.' She bit her lip. 'I knew you would ask me this. I think I ought to admit-I think the main reason I told her that was because I knew how she felt about the FBI, I had heard her talking about that book, and I thought she would like-I mean, that would agree with how she felt about them. I don't like to admit this, Mr Wolfe, of course I don't. I know how it sounds. I hope you won't tell Mrs Bruner.'
'I'll tell her only if it suits a purpose.' Wolfe picked up his cup, drank, put the cup down, and looked at me. 'Archie?'
'Maybe one or two little points.' I looked at her, and she looked back. The hazel eyes seemed darker when they were straight at you. 'Of course,' I said, 'the cops have asked you about the last time you spoke with Althaus. When was it?'
'Three days before-before that Friday. Tuesday morning, in the hall, just a minute or two. Just by accident.'
'Did he tell you he was doing a piece on the FBI?'
'No. He never talked to me about his work.'
'When was the last time you were with him-for dinner, for anything?'
'I'm not sure about the date. It was about a month before, some day in October. We had dinner together.'
'At a restaurant?'
'Yes. Jerry's Joint.'
'Have you ever met Miss Marian Hinckley?'
'Hinckley? No.'
'Or a man named Vincent Yarmack?'
'No.'
'Or one named Timothy Quayle?'
'No.'
'Did Althaus ever mention any of those names?'
'Not that I remember. He might have mentioned them.'
I raised my brows at Wolfe. He regarded her for half a minute, grunted, and told her he doubted if she had supplied anything that would help, so the evening had probably been wasted. As he spoke I went and got her coat, and held it for her when she got up. Wolfe didn't leave his chair. He does sometimes rise when a woman comes or goes; he probably has some kind of a rule for it, but I have never been able to figure it out. She said I needn't bother to see her downstairs, but, wishing to show her that some private detectives have some manners, I
