Gwendolyn Yates was sitting straight and stiff. She was getting a hold on herself, and doing a fairly good job of it. There were no more inarticulate noises from her throat, and she wasn't shouting about lies and wasn't going to. She was a tough baby and she was tightening up.
"But you're not out of your mind now," Wolfe said, with a note of admiration in his tone. "You're adding it up, aren't you? You are realizing that I can prove little or nothing of what I've said. I can't prove what Tingley said to you yesterday, or what time you left there, or that you got the box from the safe and took it with you, or that it was you who mailed it to Mr. Cramer. I can't even prove that there wasn't someone there at eight O'clock who imitated Tingley's voice over the telephone. I can't prove anything."
"Except this." He shoved his chair back, opened a drawer of his desk, and got something, arose, walked around the end of the desk, and displayed the object in front of Carrie Murphy's eyes.
"Please look at this carefully, Miss Murphy. As you see, it is a small jar two-thirds full of something. Pasted on it is a plain white label bearing the notation in pencil, 'Eleven dash fourteen dash Y.' Does that mean any- thing to you? Does that 'Y' stand for Yates? Look at it "
But Carrie had no chance to give it a thorough inspection, let alone pronounce a verdict. The figure of Miss Yates, from eight feet away, came hurtling through the air. She uttered no sound, but flung herself with such unexpected speed and force that the fingers of her outstretched hand, missing what they were after, nearly poked Wolfe's eye out. He grabbed for her wrist but missed it, and then the dick was out of his chair and had her. He got her from behind by her upper arms and had her locked.
She stood, not trying to struggle, looked at Wolfe, who had backed away, and squeaked at him, "Where was it?"
He told her.
We were sitting down to a dinner that was worthy of the name when the doorbell rang. I went to answer it.
The pair that entered certainly needed a tonic. Leonard Cliff looked like something peeking out at you from a dark cave. Amy Duncan was pale and puffy, with bloodshot eyes.
"We've got to see Mr. Wolfe," Cliff stated. "We've just been talking with a lawyer, and he says--"
"Not interested," I said brusquely. "Wolfe's out of the case. Through. Done."
Amy gasped. Cliff grabbed my arm. "He can't be! He can't! Where is he?"
"Eating dinner. And, by the way. I've been trying to get you folks on the phone. Some news for you. Miss Yates is under arrest: they just took her away from here. Mr. Wolfe would like to have her prosecuted for feeding him quinine, but the cops prefer to try her for murder. She's guilty of both."
"What!"
"What!"
"Yep." I waved airily. "I got the evidence. It's all over. You won't get your pictures in the paper anymore."
"You mean--she--they--it--we
"That's one way of putting it. I mean, the operation has been brought to a successful conclusion. You're just ordinary citizens again."
They stared at me, and then at each other, and then went into a clinch. The condition they were both in, it certainly couldn't have been merely physical attraction. I stood and regarded them patiently. Pretty soon I cleared my throat. They didn't pay any attention.
"When you get tired standing up," I said, "there's a chair in the office that will hold two. We'll join you after dinner."
I returned to help Wolfe with the snipe fired with brandy.
By Rex Stout
A Nero Wolfe Short Story
Included in the Death Times Three Short Story Collection
I was tailing a man named Jonas Putz. You can forget Putz. I mention him only to explain how I happened to be standing, at five o'clock that Monday afternoon, in a doorway on the uptown side of 38th Street around the corner from Lexington Avenue. After spending an hour or so at the Tulip Bar of the Churchill, with an eye on Putz at a proper distance, I had followed him out to the street and then downtown, on foot; and after a few blocks I got the notion that someone else was also interested in his movements. When he stopped a couple of times to look at shop windows, I stopped, too, naturally, and so did someone else, about twenty paces back of me. I had first noticed her in the lobby of the Churchill, because she rated a glanced as a matter of principle--the principle that a man owes it to his eyes to let them rest on attractive objects when there are any around.
She was still tagging along when I turned the corner at 38th Street, and I was wondering whether her interest in Putz had any connection with the simple little problem Nero Wolfe had been hired to solve; and,
if so, what. When Putz crossed Madison Avenue and went on to the entrance of the building he lived in, and entered, I was through with him for the day, since he hadn't gone to a certain address, and it was only out of curiosity, to see what the female stalker would do, that I kept going and posted myself in a doorway across the street from Putz's entrance. My curiosity was soon satisfied.
She came right along straight to my post, stopped, faced me at arm's length, and spoke. "You are Archie Goodwin."
I raised my brows. "Prove it."
She smiled a little. "Oh, I have seen you once, at the Flamingo, and I have seen your picture in the paper. Are you detecting somebody?"
She looked about as foreign as she sounded enough to suggest a different flavor, which can broaden a man, but not enough to make it seem too complicated. Her chin was slightly more pointed than I would have specified if I had had her made to order, but everybody makes mistakes. Her floppy-brimmed hat and the shoulder spread of her mink stole made her face look smaller than it probably was.
She wasn't an operative, that was sure. Her interest in Putz must be personal, but still it might be connected with our client's problem.
I smiled back at her. "Apparently we both are. Unless you're Putz's bodyguard?"
"Putz? Who is that?"
"Now, really. You spoke first. Jonas Putz. You ought to know his name, since you tailed him all the way here from the Churchill."
She shook her head. "Not him. I was after you. This is a pickup. I am picking you up." She didn't say "picking," but neither did she say "peecking." It was in between.
"I am honored," I assured her. "I am flattered. I like the way you do it. Usually girls who pick me up beat around the bush. Look; if you'll tell me why you're interested in Putz, I'll tell you why I am, and then we'll see. We might "
"But I'm not! I never heard of him. Truly!" She started a hand out to touch my arm, but decided not to. "It is you I am interested in! When I saw you at the Churchill I wanted to speak, but you were going, and I followed, and all the way I was bringing up my courage. To pick you up." That time it was "peeck."
"O.K." I decided to table Putz temporarily. "Now that you've picked me up, what are you going to do with me?"
She smiled. "Oh, no. You are the man. What we do, that is for you to say."
If she had been something commonplace like a glamorous movie star I would have shown her what I thought of her passing the buck like that by marching off. If I had been busy I might have asked her for her phone number. As it was, I merely cocked my head at her.
"Typical," I said. "Invade a man's privacy and then put the burden on him. Let's see. Surely we can kill time together somehow. Are you any good at pool?"
"Poulet? The chicken?"
"No, the game. Balls on a table and you poke them with a stick."
"Oh, the billiards. No."
"How about shoplifting? There's a shop nearby and I need some socks. There's room for a dozen pairs in that pocketbook, and I'll cover the clerk."
She didn't bat an eye. "Wool or cotton?"
"Cotton. No synthetics."
"What colors?"
"Mauve. Pinkish mauve." If I have given the impression that her chin was pointed enough to be objectionable, I exaggerated. "But we ought to plan it properly. For instance, if I have to shoot the clerk, we should separate, you can pick me up later. Let's go around the corner to Martucci's and discuss it."
She approved of that. Walking beside her, I noted that the top of the floppy-brimmed hat was at my ear level. With it off, her hair would have grazed my chin if she had been close enough. At Martucci's the crowd wouldn't be showing for another quarter of an hour, and there was an empty table in a rear corner. She asked for vermouth frappe, which was wholesome, but not very appropriate for a shoplifting moll. I told her so.
"Also," I added, "since I don't know your name, we'll have to give you one. Slickeroo Sal? Too hissy, maybe. Fanny the Finger? That has character."
"Or it could be Flora the Finger," she suggested. "That would be better because my name is Flora. Flora Gallant. Miss Flora Gallant."
"The 'Miss' is fine," I assured her. "I don't mind shooting a clerk, but I would hate to have to shoot a husband. I've heard of someone named Gallant--has a place somewhere in the Fifties. Any relation?"
"Yes," she said, "I'm his sister."
That changed things some. It had been obvious that she was no dozy. Now that she was placed, some of the tang was gone. One of the main drawbacks of marriage is that a man knows exactly who his wife is; there's not a chance that she is going to turn out to be a runaway from a sultan's harem or the Queen of the Fairies. A female friend of mine had told me things about Alec
Gallant. He was a dress designer who was crowding two others for top ranking in the world of high fashion. He thumbed his nose at Paris and sneered at Rome and Ireland, and was getting away with it. He had refused to finish three dresses for the Duchess of Harwynd because she postponed flying over from London for fittings. He declined to make anything whatever for a certain famous movie actress because he didn't like the way she handled her hips when she walked. He had been known to charge as little as $800 for an afternoon frock, but it had been for a favorite customer, so he practically gave it away.
I looked at his sister over the rim of my glass as I took a sip, not vermouth, and lowered the glass. "You must come clean with me, Finger. You are Alec Gallant's sister?"
"But yes! I wouldn't try lying to Archie Goodwin. You are too smart."
"Thank you. It's too bad your brother doesn't sell socks; we could pinch them at his place instead of imposing on a stranger. Or maybe he does. Does he sell socks?"
"Good heavens, no!"
"Then that's out. As a matter of fact, I'm getting cold feet. If you're a shopkeeper's sister, you probably have a resistance to shoplifting somewhere in your subconscious, and it might pop up at a vital moment. We'll try something else. Go back to the beginning. Why did you pick me up?"
She fluttered a little hand. "Because I wanted to meet you."
"Why did you want to meet me?"
"Because I wanted you to like me."
"All right, I like you. That's accomplished. Now what?"
She frowned. "You are so blunt. You are angry with me. Did I say something?"
"Not a thing. I still like you, so far. But if you are Miss Flora Gallant you must have followed me all the way from the Churchill for one of two reasons. One would be that the sight of me was too much for you, that you were so enchanted that you lost all control. I reject that because I'm wearing a brown suit, and I get that effect only when I'm wearing a gray one. The other would be that you want something, and I ask you bluntly what it is, so we can dispose of that and then maybe go on from there. Let's have it, Finger."
"You are smart," she said. "You do like me?"
"So far, I do. I could tell better if that hat didn't shade your eyes so much."
She removed the hat, no fussing with it, and put it on a chair, and actually didn't pat around at her hair. "There," she said, "then I'll be blunt too. I want you to help me. I want to see Mr. Nero Wolfe."
I nodded. "I suspected that was it. I don't want to be rude, I am enjoying meeting you, but why didn't you just phone for an appointment?"
"Because I didn't dare. Anyway, I didn't really decide to until I saw you at the Churchill and I thought there was my chance. You see, there are three things. The first thing is that I know he charges very big fees, and I am not so rich. The second thing is that he doesn't like women, so there would be that against me. The third thing is that when people want to hire him, you always look them up and find out all you can about them, and I was afraid my brother would find out that I had gone to him, and my brother mustn't know about it. So the only way was to get you to help me, because you can make Mr. Wolfe do anything you want him to. Of course, now I've spoiled it."
"Spoiled it how?"
"By letting you pull it out of me. I was going to get friendly with you first. I know you like to dance, and I am not too bad at dancing. I would be all right with you -I know, because I saw you at the Flamingo. I thought I would have one advantage: being French I would be different from all your American girls; I know you have thousands of them. I thought in a week or two you might like me well enough so I could ask you to help me. Now I have spoiled it." She picked up her glass and drank.