using all the decency he has left after a life of evil. You have forbidden me to use the word louse, so I would say that Muir is an insect. Clara Fox is the ideal of my dreams, but it wouldn't stun me to know that she lifted the roll, though I'd be surprised.'
Wolfe nodded. 'You may remember that four years ago Mr. Perry objected to our bill for an investigation of his competitors' trade practices. I presume that now he would like us to shovel the mud from his executive offices for twelve dollars a day. It is not practicable always to sneer at mud; there's too much of it. So it gives the greater pleasure to do so when we can afford it. At present our bank balance is agreeable to contemplate. Pfui!' He lifted his glass and emptied it and wiped his lips with his handkerchief.
'Okay,' I agreed. 'But there's something else to consider. Perry wants you to phone him this evening. If you take the case on we'll at least get expenses, and if you don't take it on Clara Fox may get five years for grand larceny and I'll have to move to Ossining so as to be near her and take her tidbits on visiting day. Balance the mud-shoveling against the loss of my services-but that sounds like visitors. I'll finish my appeal later.'
I had heard the doorbell sending Fritz into the hall and down it to the door. I glanced at the clock: 6:30; they were half an hour late. I remembered the attractive telephone voice, and wondered if we were going to have another nymph, cool and sweet in distress, on our hands.
Fritz came in and shut the door behind him, and announced callers. Wolfe nodded. Fritz went out, and after a second in came a man and two women. The man and the second woman I was barely aware of, because I was busy looking at the one in front. It certainly was a nymph cool and sweet in distress. Evidently she knew enough about Nero Wolfe to recognize him, for with only a swift glance at me she came forward to Wolte's desk and spoke.
'Mr. Wolfe? I telephoned on Saturday. I'm sorry to be late for the appointment. My name is Clara Fox.' She turned. 'This is Miss Hilda Lindquist and Mr. Michael Walsh.'
Wolfe nodded at her and at them. 'It is bulk, not boorishness, that keeps me in my chair.' He wiggled a finger at me. 'Mr. Archie Goodwin. Chairs, Archie?'
I obliged, while Clara Fox was saying, 'I met Mr. Goodwin this afternoon, in Mr. Perry's office.' I thought to myself, you did indeed, and for not recognizing your voice I'll let them lock me in the cell next to yours when you go up the river.
'Indeed.' Wolfe had his eyes half closed, which meant he was missing nothing. 'Mr. Walsh's chair to the right, please. Thank you.'
Miss Fox was taking off her gloves. 'First I'd like to explain why we're late. I said on the telephone that I couldn't make the appointment before Monday because I was expecting someone from out of town who had to be here. It was a man from out west named Harlan Scovil. He arrived this morning, and I saw him during the lunch hour, and arranged to meet him at a quarter past five, at his hotel, to bring him here. I went for him, but he wasn't there. I waited and… well, I tried to make some inquiries. Then I met Miss Lindquist and Mr. Walsh, as agreed, and we went back to Mr. Scovil's hotel again. We waited until a quarter past six, and decided it would be better to come on without him.'
'Is his presence essential?'
'I wouldn't say essential. At least not at this moment. We left word, and he may join us here any second. He must see you too, before we can do anything. I should warn you, Mr. Wolfe, I have a very long story to tell.'
She hadn't looked at me once. I decided to quit looking at her, and tried her companions. They were just barely people. Of course I remembered Harlan Scovil telling Anthony D. Perry that he wasn't Mike Walsh. Apparently this bird was. He was a scrawny little mick, built wiry, over sixty and maybe even seventy, dressed cheap but dean, sitting only half in his chair and keeping an ear palmed with his right hand. The Lindquist dame, with a good square face and wearing a good brown dress, had size, though I wouldn't have called her massive, first because it would have been only a half-truth, and second because she might have socked me. I guess she was a fine woman, of the kind that would be more apt to be snapping a coffee cup in her fingers than a champagne glass. Remembering Harlan Scovil to boot, it looked to me as if, whatever game Miss Fox was training for, she was picking some odd numbers for her team.
Wolfe had told her that the longer the story the sooner it ought to begin, and she was saying, 'It began forty years ago, in Silver City, Nevada. But before I start it, Mr. Wolfe, I ought to tell you something that I hope will make you interested. I've found out all I could about you, and I understand that you have remarkable abilities and an equally remarkable opinion of their cash value to people you do things for.'
Wolfe sighed. 'Each of us must choose his own brand of banditry, Miss Fox.'
'Certainly. That is what I have done. If you agree to help us, and if we are successful, your fee will be one hundred thousand dollars.'
Mike Walsh leaned forward and blurted, 'Ten per cent! Fair enough?'
Hilda Undquist frowned at him. Clara Fox paid no attention. Wolfe said, 'The fee always depends. You couldn't hire me to hand you the moon.'
She laughed at him, and although I had my notebook out I decided to look at her in the pauses. She said, 'I won't need it. Is Mr. Goodwin going to take down everything? With the understanding that if you decide not to help us his notes are to be given to me?'
Cagey Clara. The creases of Wolfe's cheeks unfolded a little. 'By all means.'
'All right.' She brushed her hair back. 'I said it began forty years ago, but I won't start there. I'll start when I was nine years old, in 1918, the year my father was killed in the war, in France. I don't remember my father much. He was killed in 1918, and he sent my mother a letter which she didn't get until nearly a year later, because instead of trusting it to the army mail he gave it to another soldier to bring home. My mother read it then, but I never knew of it until seven years later, in 192,6, when my mother gave it to me on her deathbed. I was seventeen years old. I loved my mother very dearly.'
She stopped. It would have been a good spot for a moist film over her eyes or a catch in her voice, but apparently she had just stopped to swallow. She swallowed twice, ha the pause I was looking at her. She went on.
'I didn't read the letter until a month later. I knew it was a letter father had written to mother eight years before, and with mother gone it didn't seem to be of any importance to me. But on account of what mother had said, about a month after she died I read it. I have it with me. I'll have to read it to you.'
