Chapter Twelve
Strictly speaking, that wasn't my job. I know pretty well what my field is.
Aside from my primary function as the thorn in the seat of Wolfe's chair to keep him from going to sleep and waking up only for meals, I'm chiefly cut out for two things: to jump and grab something before the other guy can get his paws on it, and to collect pieces of the puzzle for Wolfe to work on. This expedition to
65th Street was neither of those. I don't pretend to be strong on nuances.
Fundamentally I'm the direct type, and that's why I can never be a really fine detective. Although I keep it down as much as I can, so it won't interfere with my work, I always have an inclination in a case of murder to march up to all the possible suspects, one after the other, and look them in the eye and ask them,
“Did you put that poison in the aspirin bottle?” and just keep that up until one of them says, “Yes.” As I say, I keep it down, but I have to fight it.
The Frost apartment on 65th Street wasn't as gaudy as I had expected, in view of my intimate knowledge of the Frost finances. It was a bit shiny, with one side of the entrance hall solid with mirrors, even the door to the closet where I hung my hat, and, in the living room, chairs and little tables with chromium chassis, a lot of red stuff around in upholsteries and drapes, a metal grille in front of the fireplace, which apparently wasn't used, and oil paintings in modern silver frames.
Anyway, it certainly was cheerfuller than the people that were in it. Dudley
Frost was in a big chair at one side, with a table at his elbow holding a whiskey bottle, a water carafe, and a couple of glasses. Perren Gebert stood near a window at the other end, with his back to the room and his hands in his pockets. As we entered he turned, and Helen's mother walked toward us, with a little lift to her brow as she saw me.
“Oh,” she said. To her daughter: “You've brought…”
Helen nodded firmly. “Yes, mother.” She was holding her chin a little higher than natural, to keep the spunk going. “You-all of you have met Mr. Goodwin.
Yesterday morning at…that candy business with the police. I've engaged Nero
Wolfe to investigate Uncle Boyd's death, and Mr. Goodwin works for him-”
Dudley Frost bawled from his chair, “Lew! Come here! Damn it, what kind of nonsense-”
Llewellyn hurried over there to stem it Perren Gebert had approached us and was smiling at me:
“Ah! The fellow that doesn't like scenes. You remember I told you, Calida?” He transferred the smile to Miss Frost. “My dear Helen! You've engaged Mr. Wolfe?
Are you one of the Erinyes? Alecto? Megaera? Tisiphone? Where's your snaky hair?
So one can really buy anything with money, even vengeance?”
Mrs. Frost murmured at him, “Stop it, Perren.”
“I'm not buying vengeance.” Helen colored a little. “I told you this morning,
Perren, you're being especially hateful. You'd better not make me cry again, or
I'll…well, don't. Yes, I've engaged Mr. Wolfe, and Mr. Goodwin has come here and he wants to talk to you.”
“To me?” Perren shrugged. “About Boyd? If you ask it, he may, but I warn him not to expect much. The police have been here most of the day, and I've realized how little I really knew about Boyd, though I've known him more than twenty years.”
I said, “I stopped expecting long ago. Anything you tell me will be velvet. – I'm supposed to talk to you, too, Mrs. Frost. And your brother-in-law. I have to take notes, and it gives me a cramp to write standing up…”
She nodded at me, and turned. “Over here, I think.” She started toward Dudley
Frost's side of the room, and I joined her. Her straight back was graceful, and she was unquestionably streamlined for her age. Llewellyn started carrying chairs, and Gebert came up with one. As we got seated and I pulled out my notebook and pencil, I noticed that Helen still had to keep her chin up, but her mother didn't. Mrs. Frost was saying:
“I hope you understand this, Mr. Goodwin. This is a terrible thing, an awful thing, and we were all very old friends of Mr. McNair's, and we don't enjoy talking about it. I knew him all my life, from childhood.”
I said, “Yeah. You're Scotch?”
She nodded. “My name was Buchan.”
“So McNair told us.” I jerked my eyes up quick from my notebook, which was my habit against the handicap of not being able to keep a steely gaze on the victim. But she wasn't recoiling in dismay; she was just nodding again.
“Yes. I gathered from what the policemen said that Boyden had told Mr. Wolfe a good deal of his early life. Of course you have the advantage of knowing what it was he had to say to Mr. Wolfe. I knew, naturally,
