could supply enough material on Michael M. Molloy, her late employer, for a magazine article under her by-line, to be ghosted by the client. The proceeds would be split. After a few questions she said she would be willing to consider it and would be at home for me at eight-thirty. So I hurried a little with the roast duckling and left Wolfe alone with the salad.
It wouldn’t have hurt the house at 43 Arbor Street any to get the same treatment as the one at 171 East 52nd. The outside could have used some paint, and a do-it-yourself elevator would have been a big improvement on the narrow, dingy wooden stairs. Three flights up, she was not waiting on the threshold to greet me, and, finding no button to push, I tapped on the door. From the time it took her you might have thought she had to traverse a spacious reception hall, but when the door opened the room was right there. I spoke.
“My name’s Goodwin. I phoned.”
“Oh,” she said, “of course. I had forgotten. Come in.”
It was one of those rooms that call for expert dodging to get anywhere. God knows why the piano bench was smack in the main traffic lane, and He also knows why there was a piano bench at all, since there was no piano. Anyway it was handy for my hat and coat. She crossed to a couch and invited me to sit, and since there was no chair nearby I perched on the couch too, twisting around to face her.
“I really had forgotten,” she said apologetically. “My mind must have been soaring around.” She waved a hand to show how a mind soars.
She was young, well shaped and well kept, well dressed and well shod, with a soft, clear skin and bright brown eyes, and well-cut fine brown hair, but a mind that soared…
“Didn’t you say you were a detective?” she asked. “Something about a magazine?”
“That’s right,” I told her. “This editor thinks he’d like to try a new slant on a murder. There have been thousands of pieces about murderers. He thinks he might use one called ‘The Last Month of a Murdered Man’ or ‘The Last Year of a Murdered Man.’ By his secretary.”
“Oh, not my name?”
“Sure, your name too. And, now that I’ve seen you, a good big picture of you. I wouldn’t mind having one myself.”
“Now don’t get personal.”
It was hard to believe, the contrast between what my eyes saw and my ears heard. Any man would have been glad to walk down a theater aisle with her, but there would have to be an understanding that she would keep her mouth shut.
“I’ll try not to,” I assured her. “I can always turn my back. The idea is this: you’ll tell me things about Mr. Molloy, what he said and did and how he acted, and I’ll report to the editor, and if he thinks there’s an article in it he’ll come and talk with you. How’s that?”
“Well, it couldn’t be called ‘The Last Year of a Murdered Man.’ It would have to be called ‘The Last Ten Months of a Murdered Man’ because I only worked for him ten months.”
“Okay, that’s even better. Now. I understand-”
“How many days are there in ten months?”
“It depends on the months. Roughly three hundred.”
“We could call it ‘The Last Three Hundred Days of a Murdered Man.’ “
“A good idea. I understand that occasionally you had dinner with Molloy at a restaurant. Was it-”
“Who told you that?”
I had three choices: get up and go, strangle her, or sit on her. “Look, Miss Brandt. I’m being paid by the hour and I’ve got to earn it. Was it to discuss business matters or was it social?”
She smiled, which made her even prettier. “Oh, that was just social. He never talked about business to me. It had got so he didn’t want to have dinner with his wife, and he hated to eat alone. I’d love to put that in. I know some people think I allowed him liberties, but I never did.”
“Did he try to take liberties?”
“Oh, of course. Married men always do. That’s because with their wives it’s not a liberty any more.”
“Yeah, that’s why I’ve never married. Did he-”
“Oh, aren’t you married?”
But you’ve had enough of her. So had I, but I was on duty, and I stuck with it for three solid hours. I had to go through another ordeal, about halfway through. We were thirsty, and she went to the kitchenette for liquid, and came back with a bottle of ginger ale, a bottle of gin, and two glasses with one cube of ice in each. I apologized, said I had ulcers, and asked for milk. She said she didn’t have any, and I asked for water. I will go beyond the call of duty in a pinch, but I wouldn’t drink gin and ginger ale to get the lowdown on Lizzie Borden. It was bad enough to sit there and watch her sipping away at it.
In the taxi on my way downtown to keep the date, I had felt some slight compunction at imposing on a poor working girl with a phony approach. In the taxi on my way home, having told her I would let her know if the editor still liked the idea, my conscience was sound asleep. If a conscience could snore, it probably would have.
Wolfe, who rarely turns in before midnight, was at his desk, reading
Then I stood and looked down at him. “Excuse me. Anything from Fred or Johnny that needs
