“Nero Wolfe. It’s his house and he lives here.”
“That’s an odd name. Nero Wolfe? What does he- Is he a lawyer?”
Either she meant it or she was extremely good. If the former, it would be a pleasure to tell Wolfe and see him grunt. “No,” I said. Let her work for it.
“Is Mr. Kirk all right?”
“We haven’t been introduced,” I said. “My name is Archie Goodwin and I live here. Your turn.”
Her mouth opened and closed again. She considered it, her eyes meeting mine exactly as they had when she couldn’t see me. “I’m Rita Fougere,” she said. “Mrs. Paul Fougere. Will you tell Mr. Kirk I’m here and would like to see him?”
It was my turn to consider. The rule didn’t apply-the rule that I am to take no one in to Wolfe without consulting him; she wanted to see Kirk, not Wolfe. And I was riled. The tie had been mailed to me, not him, but he hadn’t even glanced at me before taking Kirk on and feeding him. I was by no means satisfied that Kirk was straight, and I wanted to see how he took it when Paul Fougere’s wife suddenly appeared.
“You might as well tell him yourself,” I said. “Also you might as well know that Nero Wolfe is a private detective, and so am I. Come in.”
I made room for her and she entered, and after shutting the door I preceded her down the hall and into the office. As I approached Wolfe’s desk I said, “Someone to see Mr. Kirk,” and I was right there when he twisted around and saw her, said “Rita!” and left the chair. She offered both hands, and he took them. “Martin, Martin,” she said, low, with those eyes at him.
“But how…” He let her hands go. “How did you know I was here?”
“I followed you.”
“
She nodded. “From down there. I was there too, and when I left and had got into a taxi you came out. I called to you but you didn’t hear me, and when you got another taxi I told my driver to follow. I saw you come in here, and I waited outside, and when you didn’t come out, a whole hour-”
“But what- You shouldn’t, Rita. You can’t- There’s nothing you can do. Were you there all night too?”
“No, just this morning. I was afraid-your face, the way you looked. I was terribly afraid. I know I can’t-or maybe I can. If you’ll come- Have you eaten anything?”
“Yes. I thought I couldn’t, but Nero Wolfe-” He stopped and turned. “I’m sorry. Mr. Wolfe, Mrs. Fougere.” Back to her: “They think I killed Bonny, but I didn’t, and Mr. Wolfe is going to-uh-investigate. That’s a swell word, that is-’investigate.’ There’s nothing you can do, Rita, absolutely nothing, but I-you’re a real friend.”
She started a hand to touch him but let it drop. “I’ll wait for you,” she said. “I’ll be outside.”
“If you please.” It was Wolfe. His eyes were at the client. “You have a chore, Mr. Kirk. I need to know if that article is among your belongings in your room, and you will please go and find out and phone me. Meanwhile I’ll talk with Mrs. Fougere. If you will, madam? I’m working for Mr. Kirk.”
“Why…” She looked at Kirk. Those eyes. “If he’s working for you…”
“I’ve told him,” Kirk blurted. “About Bonny and Paul. He asked and I told him. But you stay out of it.”
“Nonsense,” Wolfe snapped. “She has been questioned by the police. And she’s your friend?”
Her hand went out again, and that time reached him. “You go, Martin,” she said. “Whatever it is he wants. But you’ll come back?”
He said he would and headed for the hall, and I went to see him out. When I returned Mrs. Fougere was in the red leather chair, which would have held two of her, and Wolfe, leaning back, was regarding her without enthusiasm. He would rather tackle almost any man than any woman on earth.
“Let’s get a basis,” he growled. “Do you think Mr. Kirk killed his wife?”
She was sitting straight, her hands curled over the ends of the chair arms, her eyes meeting his. “You’re working for him,” she said.
“Yes. I think he didn’t. What do you think?”
“I don’t know. I don’t care. I know how that sounds, but I don’t care. I’m very-well, say very practical. You’re not a lawyer?”
“I’m a licensed private detective. Allowing for the strain you’re under, you look twenty. Are you older?”
She did not look twenty. I would have guessed twenty-eight, but I didn’t allow enough for the strain, for she said, “I’m twenty-four.”
“Since you’re practical you won’t mind blunt questions. How long have you lived in that house?”
“Since my marriage. Nearly three years.”
“Where were you Monday afternoon from one o’clock to eight?”
“Of course the police asked that. I had lunch with Martin Kirk and walked to his office building with him about half past two. Then I went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at costumes. I do some stage costumes. I was there about two hours. Then I-”
