'Okay, that'll only take-excuse me a minute.' I had caught a glimpse of something comical. 'Climb in,' I told her, 'I'll be right back.'
I left her and went down the sidewalk to where a taxi had parked twenty feet behind the roadster. My glimpse had been of the passenger inside ducking out of our sight. As I lifted a foot to the running-board the driver said:
'Busy.'
'Yeah, so I see.' I stretched my neck to get a better view of Fred Durkin huddled on the seat. So Wolfe was putting a tail on his own client. 'I just wanted to save you some trouble. 404 East 38th Street.'
I returned to the roadster and got in and started off, telling Neya that I had merely exchanged the time of day with a Russian nobleman friend of mine who was driving a taxicab for his health. She said nothing. Apparently she was concentrating again on Balkan history, or whatever kind it was she was making. I retaliated by concentrating on my driving.
There was space for me directly in front of 404. It was an old house, one of a row, that had been done over into inexpensive flats by blocking off the stairs and sticking in some partitions. Eight steps up to the stoop, then a vestibule with mailboxes and bell buttons, then the door into the narrow hall. It wasn't even necessary for Neya to use her key on the door because it had stopped an inch short of closing and all I had to do was push it open. I let her go ahead. She led me up two flights of stairs with just enough light to keep you from groping, went to a door towards the front, and opened her bag and started fishing for a key. Then she thought better of that and pushed the button, and I could hear a bell ringing inside. But nothing else was heard, though after an interval she rang the bell again, and then again.
She muttered, 'He said she was coming home.'
'So he did. Got a key?'
She opened her bag again, and this time produced the key. She used it herself, pushed the door open, went in four paces with me on her heels, and stopped in her tracks, jerking her head up and freezing there. Over her shoulder I could see what she saw: the body of a man sprawled on the floor in a very unlikely attitude; and the face, which was the one I had undertaken to alter with my fist two hours previously.
Before I could stop her she jerked her head up higher and yowled in to space: 'Carla!'
Chapter Thirteen
I said resentfully, 'Will you kindly close your trap?'
She didn't move. I got in front of her and took a look at her face. She didn't seem to be preparing for more clamour, so I went and squatted for a quick survey of the corpus. A quick one was enough. I glanced up at her again and saw that she was breathing through her nose. I rocked on my heels for half a minute, gazing at the chinless wonder and using my brain up to capacity. Then I stood up and said:
'The first and worst thing seems to be that I've got that goddam paper in my pocket.'
She met my eye and said with her lips barely moving, 'Give it to me.'
'Sure. That'd be swell.'
I walked around a table to get at one of the windows, which fronted on 38th Street, and opened it and poked my head out, and saw what I hoped to see. I pulled my head in and asked her, 'How's your nerve?'
'My nerve's all right.'
'Then come over here.'
She came, nice and steady, and I told her to look out the window with me.
'See the grey and white taxi-cab at the kerb in the middle of the block?'
'Yes.'
'Go down there and you'll find a man inside. Ask him if his name is Fred Durkin, and he'll say it is. Tell him I want him up here quick, but no more than that, because the driver will hear you. Come back up with him and use your keys. I'll be watching from the window, and if you get an impulse to scoot off-'
'I won't.'
'Okay. Step on it. You're a good, brave girl.'
She went. In a few seconds, from my post at the window, I saw her descend the stoop, trot to the taxi, open the door and speak to its inhabitant, and come back with Fred. Not sure of what a Montenegrin female might do under stress, I stayed at the window until they both entered the room. Fred stopped short at sight of the casualty on the floor.
'I'll be darned,' he said, and looked at me.
'No,' I said, 'not guilty this time. Nobody will ever sock him again.' I pulled the paper from my pocket. 'Here's something important. I discovered this corpse and I can't leave it, and after certain events that happened yesterday they're apt to frisk me to the skin when they come. Take this-hey, you little devil!'
Neya had lunged like a champion with an йpйe, grabbed the paper from my fingers and sprung back. She stood there clutching it.
'Jesus,' I said, 'you're like a streak of lightning! But you're dumb. You've got to stay here too, and I'll
