either there had been a pinch of relief in her voice when she asked Wolfe if that was the flaw, or I was in the wrong business.
Her room was a surprise. First, it was big, much bigger than the one in front with the switchboards. Second, I am not Bernard Berenson, but I have noticed things here and there, and the framed splash of red and yellow and blue above the mantel was not only a real van Gogh, it was bigger and better than the one Lily Rowan had. I saw Wolfe spotting it as he lowered himself onto a chair actually big enough for him, and I pulled one around to make a group, facing the couch Miss Hart dropped onto.
As she sat she spoke. “What’s the flaw?”
He shook his head. “I’m the inquisitor, Miss Hart, not you.” He aimed a thumb at the van Gogh. “Where did you get that picture?”
She looked at it, and back at him. “That’s none of your business.”
“It certainly isn’t. But here is the situation. You have of course been questioned by the police and the District Attorney’s office, but they were restrained by their assumption that Leonard Ashe was the culprit. Since I reject that assumption and must find another in its stead, there can be no limit to my impertinence with you and others who may be involved. Take you and that picture. If you refuse to say where you got it, or if your answer doesn’t satisfy me, I’ll put a man on it, a competent man, and he’ll find out. You can’t escape being badgered, madam; the question is whether you suffer it here and now, by me, or face a prolonged inquiry among your friends and associates by meddlesome men. If you prefer the latter don’t waste time with me; I’ll go and tackle one of the others.”
She was tossing up again. From her look at him it seemed just as well that he had his bodyguard along. She tried stalling. “What does it matter where I got that picture?”
“Probably it doesn’t. Possibly nothing about you matters. But the picture is a treasure, and this is an odd address for it. Do you own it?”
“Yes. I bought it.”
“When?”
“About a year ago. From a dealer.”
“The contents of this room are yours?”
“Yes. I like things that-well, this is my extravagance, my only one.”
“How long have you been with this firm?”
“Five years.”
“What is your salary?”
She was on a tight rein. “Eighty dollars a week.”
“Not enough for your extravagance. An inheritance? Alimony? Other income?”
“I have never married. I had some savings, and I wanted-I wanted these things. If you save for fifteen years you have a right to something.”
“You have indeed. Where were you the evening that Marie Willis was killed?”
“I was out in Jersey, in a car with a friend-Bella Velardi. To get cooled off-it was a hot night. We got back after midnight.”
“In your car?”
“No, Helen Weltz had let us take hers. She has a Jaguar.”
My brows went up, and I spoke. “A Jaguar,” I told Wolfe, “is quite a machine. You couldn’t squeeze into one. Counting taxes and extras, four thousand bucks isn’t enough.”
His eyes darted to me and back to her. “Of course the police have asked if you know of anyone who might have had a motive for killing Marie Willis. Do you?”
“No.” Her rein wasn’t so tight.
“Were you friendly with her?”
“Yes, friendly enough.”
“Has any client ever asked you to listen in on calls to his number?”
“Certainly not!”
“Did you know Miss Willis wanted to be an actress?”
“Yes, we all knew that.”
“Mr. Bagby says he didn’t.”
Her chin had relaxed a little. “He was her employer. I don’t suppose he knew. When did you talk with Mr. Bagby?”
“I didn’t. I heard him on the witness stand. Did you know of Miss Willis’s regard for Robina Keane?”
“Yes, we all knew that too. Marie did imitations of Robina Keane in her parts.”
“When did she tell you of her decision to tell Robina Keane that her husband was going to monitor her telephone?”
Miss Hart frowned. “I didn’t say she told me.”
“Did she?”
