could I have some gin?”
She had let the newspaper drop to the floor. I picked it up and asked, “Straight?”
“That will do. Or a Gibson?”
“Onion?”
“No. No, thank you. But double?”
I went to the kitchen for the ingredients and ice. As I stirred I was thinking that if she was hoping for any cooperation from Wolfe it was too bad she had asked for gin, since in his book all gin drinkers were barbarians. That was probably why, when I took the tray in and put it on the little table beside her chair, he was leaning back with his eyes closed. I poured and served. First she swigged it, then had a few sips, and then swigged again. Meanwhile she kept her eyes lowered, presumably to keep me from looking in through them to watch her mind work.
Finally she emptied the glass the second time, put it on the tray and spoke. “A man was driving the car when it struck the boy.”
Wolfe opened his eyes. “The tray, Archie?”
The smell of gin, especially with lunch only half an hour away, was of course repulsive. I took the vile object to the kitchen and returned.
“… but though that isn’t conclusive,” Wolfe was saying, “since in a man’s clothes you could pass for a man if you avoided scrutiny, I admit it is relevant. Anyhow, I am not assuming that you killed the boy. I tell you merely that by being drawn to me by that advertisement, and coming rigged in those earrings and that bogus scratch, you have put your foot in it, and if you stick to it that you were driving that car on Tuesday you will have fully qualified as a feeble-minded donkey.”
“I wasn’t.”
“That’s better. Where were you Tuesday afternoon from six-thirty to seven?”
“At a meeting of the Executive Committee of the Association for the Aid of Displaced Persons. It lasted until after seven. It was one of the causes my husband was interested in, and I am going on with it.”
“Where were you Wednesday afternoon from six-thirty to seven?”
“What has that-oh. The boy was-yes. That was day before yesterday.” She paused, not for long. “I was having cocktails at the Churchill with a friend.”
“The friend’s name, please?”
“This is ridiculous.”
“I know it is. Almost as ridiculous as that scratch on your cheek.”
“The friend’s name is Dennis Horan. A lawyer.”
Wolfe nodded. “Even so you are in for some disagreeable hours. I doubt if you have been willfully implicated in murder. I have had some experience watching faces, and I don’t think your shock on hearing of the boy’s death was feigned; but you’d better get your mind arranged. You’re going to get it. Not from me. I don’t ask why you tried this masquerade, because I’m not concerned, but the police will be insistent about it. I won’t attempt to hold you here for them; you may go. You will hear from them.”
Her eyes were brighter and her chin was higher. It doesn’t take gin long to get in a kick. “I don’t have to hear from them,” she said with assurance. “Why do I?”
“Because they’ll want to know why you came here.”
“I mean why do you have to tell them?”
“Because I withhold information pertinent to a crime only under dictation by my interest.”
“I haven’t committed any crime.”
“That’s what they’ll want you to establish, but that won’t satisfy their curiosity.”
She looked at me, and I returned it. I may not be a Nero Wolfe at reading faces, but I too have had some experience at it, and I swear she was sizing me up, trying to decide if there was any way of lining me up with her in case she told Wolfe to go sit on a tack. I made it easy for her by looking manly, staunch and virtuous, but not actually hostile. I saw it on her face when she gave me up. Leaving me as hopeless, she opened the green suede bag, took from it a leather fold and a pen, opened the fold on the little table, and bent over it to write. Having written, she tore a small blue rectangle of paper from the fold and left her chair to put it in front of Wolfe on his desk.
“That’s a check for ten thousand dollars,” she told him.
“I see it is.”
“It’s a retainer.”
“For what?”
“Oh, I’m not trying to bribe you.” She smiled. It was the first time she had shown any reaction resembling a smile, and I gave her a mark for it. “It looks as if I’m going to need some expert advice, and maybe some expert help, and you already know about it, and I wouldn’t want-I don’t care to consult my lawyer, at least not now.”
“Bosh. You’re offering to pay me not to tell the police of your visit.”
“No, I’m not.” Her eyes were shining but not soft. “All right, I am, but not objectionably. I am Mrs. Damon Fromm. My husband left me a large fortune, including a great deal of New York real estate. I have position and responsibilities. If you report this to the police I would arrange to see the Commissioner, and I don’t think I would be abused, but I would much rather not. If you’ll come to my home at noon tomorrow, I’ll know
