I was stunned. It took me a full second to recover. Then I spoke, through my nose. “This is the city mortuary. We have a body here, a young man with classic Grecian features who jumped off Brooklyn Bridge. Papers in his wallet identify him as Archie Goodwin and his address-”
“Toss it back in the river,” Orrie said. “What good is it? It never was much good anyway.”
“Okay,” I said, not through my nose. “Now I know. May I please speak to Mr. Wolfe?”
“I’ll see. He’s reading a book. Hold it.”
I did so, and in a moment got a growl. “Yes?”
“I went for a walk and am in a booth. Reporting: the bed is good and the food is edible. I have met the family and they are not mine, except possibly the daughter, Lois. She shot a squirrel and wrote a poem about it. I’m glad you’ve got Orrie in to answer the phone and do the chores because that may simplify matters. You can stop my salary as of now. Jarrell has offered me sixty grand and expenses, me personally, to get the goods on his daughter-in-law and bounce her. I think his idea is that the goods are to be handmade, by me, but he didn’t say so in so many words. If it takes me twelve weeks that will be five grand a week, so my salary would be peanuts and you can forget it. I’ll get it in cash, no tax to pay, and then I’ll probably marry Lois. Oh yes, you’ll get your fee too.”
“How much of this is flummery?”
“None of the facts. The facts are straight. I am reporting.”
“Then he’s either a nincompoop or a scalawag or both.”
“Probably but not necessarily. He said he would give a million dollars to get rid of her and consider it a bargain. So it’s just possible he has merely got an itch he can’t reach and is temporarily nuts. I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt because he’s your client.”
“And yours.”
“No, sir. I didn’t accept. I decided an advance for expenses. I turned him down, but with a manner and a tone of voice that sort of left it hanging. He thinks I’m just being cagey. What I think, I think he expects me to fix up a stew that will boil her alive, but I have been known to think wrong. I admit it’s conceivable that she has it coming to her. One thing, she attracts men without apparently trying to. If a woman gathers them around by working a come-on, that’s okay, they have a choice, they can play or not as they please. But when they come just because she’s there, with no invitation visible to the naked eye, and I have good eyes, look out. She may not be a snake, in fact she may be an angel, but angels can be more dangerous than snakes and usually are. I can stick around and try to tag her, or you can return the ten grand and cross it off. Which?”
He grunted. “Mr. Jarrell has taken me for a donkey.”
“And me for a goop. Our pride is hurt. He ought to pay for the privilege, one way or another. I’ll keep you informed of developments, if any.”
“Very well.”
“Please remind Orrie that the bottom drawer of my desk is personal and there’s nothing in it he needs.”
He said he would, and even said good night before he hung up. I bought a picture postcard at the rack, and a stamp, addressed the card to Fritz, and wrote on it, “Having wonderful time. Wish you were here. Archie,” went and found a mailbox and dropped the card in, and returned to the barracks.
In the tenth-floor vestibule I gave my key a try, found that it worked, and was dazzled by no flash of light as I entered, so the thing hadn’t been turned on for the night. As I crossed the reception hall I was thinking that the security setup wasn’t as foolproof as Jarrell thought, until I saw that Steck had appeared from around a corner for a look at me. He certainly had his duties.
I went to him and spoke. “Mr. Jarrell gave me a key.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is he around?”
“In the library, sir, I think.”
“They’re playing cards?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you’re not tied up I cordially invite you to my room for some gin. I mean gin rummy.”
He batted an eye. “Thank you, sir, but I have my duties.”
“Some other time. Is Mrs. Wyman Jarrell on the terrace?”
“I think not, sir. I think she is in the studio.”
“Is that on this floor?”
“Yes, sir. The main corridor, on the right. Where you were with Mrs. Jarrell this afternoon.”
Now how the hell did he know that? Also, was it proper for a butler to let me know he knew it? I suspected not. I suspected that my gin invitation, if it hadn’t actually crashed the sound barrier, had made a dent in it. I headed for the corridor and for the rear, and will claim no credit for spotting the door because it was standing open and voices were emerging. Entering, I was in semi-darkness. The only light came from the corridor and the television screen, which showed the emcee and the panel members of “Show Your Slip.” The voices were theirs. Turning, I saw her, dimly, in a chair.
“Do you mind if I join you?” I asked.
“Of course not,” she said, barely loud enough. That was all she said. I moved to a chair to her left, and sat.
