entering. It’s also disturbing a body in a death by violence. Her apartment looked as if a hurricane had hit it, and she was on the floor, dead and cold. Strangled. We took her clothes off and found a key to a Grand Central checking locker taped to her skin, and took it and left. I phoned the police from a booth, and Saul has gone to Grand Central to see what’s in the locker. He should be here in about twenty minutes.”
“When did she die?”
“More than twelve hours ago. That’s the best I can do.”
“What time was William Lesser here yesterday?”
“Four-thirty.”
Silence. Then: “There is nothing to say or do until we learn what is in the locker. If it is merely another fortune in currency-But speculation is idle. Whatever it is, you and Saul will examine it.”
I choked the temptation to ask if he wanted us to bring it up to the plant rooms. He would have had to say no, and to pile that on top of the news of another corpse would have been hitting him when he was down. But I had no ironclad rules between me and normal conduct, so when he hung up I went out to the stoop to wait for Saul. I even went down the seven steps to the sidewalk. Two neighborhood kids who were playing catch on the pavement stopped, stepped onto the opposite curb, and stood watching me. That house and its occupants had been centers of attraction, either sinister or merely mysterious, I wasn’t sure which, ever since a boy named Pete Drossos had been let in by me for a conference with Wolfe and had got murdered the next day. By the time I looked at my wristwatch the tenth time the situation was a little strained, with them standing there staring at me, and I was about ready to retreat to an inside post behind the glass panel when a taxi came rolling up and stopped at the curb, and Saul climbed out, after paying the driver, with a medium-sized black leather suitcase dangling in his hand. Letting him have the honor of delivering the bacon, I followed him up the steps and on in. He took it to the office and put it on a chair.
At a glance it had been manhandled. The lock had been pried open, not by an expert, and it was held shut only by the catches at the ends. I asked Saul, “Do you want to tell me or shall I tell you?”
“You tell me.”
“Glad to. Wolfe guessed right. Molloy had it stowed in her apartment, and after his death, maybe right after or maybe only yesterday, she busted it open and took a look.” I hefted it. “Another deduction: she didn’t clean it out. Because if she had why should she stash it in a locker and tape the key to her hide, and also because it’s not empty. Wolfe says we’re to examine it, but first, I think, for prints.”
I went to the cupboard and got things and we set to work. We weren’t as expert as the scientist had been with the safe-deposit box, but when we got through we. had an assortment of photographs marked with locations that were nothing to be ashamed of. Of course they were only for future reference, since we had no samples of anybody for comparison. After putting them in envelopes and putting things away, we placed the suitcase on my desk and opened it.
It was about two-thirds full of a mixed collection. There were shirts and ties, probably his favorites that he couldn’t bear to leave, a pair of slippers, six tubes of Cremasine for shaving, two suits of pajamas, socks and handkerchiefs, and other miscellaneous personal items. Stacking them on the desk, we came to a bulging leather briefcase. It should have been dusted for prints too, but we were too warm to wait, and I lifted it out, opened it, and extracted the contents.
It wasn’t a relic, it was a whole museum. Saul pulled a chair up beside mine, and we went through it together. I won’t describe the items, or even list them, because it would take too long and also because it was Wolfe who had guessed where they were and he should have the pleasure of showing them. We had just reached the bottom of the pile when six o’clock brought Wolfe down from the plant rooms. He started for his desk, veered to come to mine, and glared down at the haberdashery.
“That’s just packing,” I told him. I tapped the pile of papers. “Here it is. Enough relics to choke a camel.”
He picked it up and circled around his desk to his chair and started in. Saul and I put the rest of the stuff back in the suitcase and closed it, and then sat and watched. For ten minutes the only sounds were rustlings of the papers and Wolfe’s occasional grunts. He had nearly reached the bottom of the stack when the phone rang and I answered it.
“Nero Wolfe’s office, Archie Good-”
“This is Stebbins. About a woman named Brandt, Delia Brandt. When did you see her last?”
“Hold it a second while I sneeze.” I covered the transmitter and turned. “Stebbins asking about Delia Brandt, if you’re interested.” Wolfe frowned, hesitated, took his phone, and put it to his ear. I uncovered the transmitter and sneezed at it and then spoke.
“I hope I’m not going to have a cold. The last one I had-”
“Quit stalling,” he snarled. “I asked you a question.”
“I know you did, and you ought to know better by this time. If there’s any good reason, or even a poor one, why I should answer questions about a woman named Delia Brandt, what is it?”
“Her body has been found in her apartment. Murdered. Your name and address are on the memo page in her phone book, the last entry. When did you see her last?”
“My God. She’s dead?”
“Yeah. When you’re murdered you’re dead. Quit stalling.”
“I’m not stalling. If I didn’t react you might think I killed her myself. The first and last time I saw her was last Wednesday evening around nine-thirty, at her apartment. We were collecting background on Molloy, and she was his secretary for ten months, up to the time he died. I had a brief talk with her on the phone late Thursday afternoon. That’s all.”
“You were just collecting background?”
“Right.”
“We’d like to have you come and tell us what you collected. Now.”
