Three Doors to Death (The Rex Stout Library)

home and get things for us.' She went back to Wolfe. 'Your spare room – will it do for two?'

'Admirably. There are twin beds.'

'Then my daughter Phoebe will be with me. I don't think you need to fear for my safety – I'm sure she won't kill me in my sleep. Tomorrow afternoon, if I'm still here, you will have to excuse me. My husband's funeral will be at four o'clock.'

'Mother,' Jerome said quietly, 'let me take you home.'

She didn't use breath to answer him, but asked Wolfe, 'Will I have to walk upstairs?'

'No indeed,' Wolfe said, as if that made everything fine and dandy. 'You may use my elevator.'

VIII

The fact is we have two spare rooms. Wolfe's room is at the rear of the house on the second floor, which he uses because its windows face south, and there is another bedroom on that floor in front, unoccupied. On the third floor my room is the one at the front, on the street, and there is another spare at the rear which we call the South Room. We put Mrs. Whitten and Phoebe there because it is large, and has better furniture and rugs, its own bathroom, and twin beds. I had told them where I could be found in case of fire.

I heard a noise. That put it up to me to decide whether I was awake or asleep, and I went to work on it. But I didn't feel like working and was going to let it slide when there was another noise.

'Mr. Goodwin.'

Recognizing the name, I opened my eyes. An attractive young woman in a blue summer negligee, with hair the color of maple syrup, was standing at the foot of my bed. There was plenty of daylight from the windows to get details.

'I didn't knock,' she said, 'because I didn't want to disturb anyone.'

'You've disturbed me,' I asserted, swinging my legs around and sitting on the bed's edge. 'What for?'

'I'm hungry.'

I looked at my wrist. 'My God, it'll be time for breakfast in three hours, and Fritz will bring it up to you. You don't look on the brink of starvation.' She didn't. She looked all right.

'I can't sleep and I'm hungry.'

'Then eat. The kitchen is on the same -' I stopped, having got enough awake to remember that (a) she was a guest and (b) I was a detective. I slipped my feet into my sandals, arose, told her, 'Come on,' and headed for the door. Halfway down the first flight I thought of a dressing gown, but it was too hot anyway.

Down in the kitchen I opened the door of the refrigerator and asked her, 'Any special longing?'

'No, just food. Bread and meat and milk would be nice.'

We got out an assortment: salami, half a Georgia ham, pate, cheese, cucumber rings, Italian bread, and milk. She volunteered to slice some ham, and was very nifty at it. Now that she had broken my sleep I saw no reason to let her monopolize things, so I joined in. I took the stool and let her have the chair. I had happened to notice before that she had good teeth, and now I also noticed that they knew how to deal with bread and meat. She chewed as if she meant it, but with no offense.

We made conversation. 'When I heard my name and opened my eyes and saw you,' I told her, 'I supposed it was one of two things. Either you had been drawn to my room as a moth to a candle, or you wanted to tell me something. When you said you were hungry it was a comedown. However -' I waved a hand, and on the way back it snared a slice of salami.

'I don't think there's much moth in me,' she said. 'And you're not so hot as a candle, with your hair like that and in those wrinkled pajamas. But I do want to tell you something. The hunger was just an opening.'

'My pajamas always get wrinkled by the middle of the week no matter how careful I am. What's on your mind?'

She finished with a bite of cheese. Then she drank some milk. Then she arranged for her eyes to meet mine.

'We're more apt to do some good if you'll tell me something. What makes you think Pompa didn't kill Floyd Whitten?'

That got me wide awake and I hastily shifted things around inside my head. Up to then the emphasis had been on this interesting, informal, early-morning, intimate association with a really pretty specimen, but she had made it quite different. Having never seen H. R. Landy, I didn't know how much she looked like her father, but her manner and tone as she asked that question, and the look in her fine young eyes, had sure come straight from the man who had built up a ten-million-dollar business.

I grinned at her. 'That's a swell way to repay me for getting up to feed you. If we have any evidence it's Mr. Wolfe's, not mine, so ask him. If we haven't any you wouldn't be interested.'

'I might be. Try me.'

'I wouldn't dream of boring you. More milk?'