Homicide Trinity (5 page)

Miles Heydecker, forty-seven, married and wife living but no children, got twenty-two per cent. His father, now dead, had been one of the original members of the firm. His specialty was trial work and he handled the firm’s most important cases in court. He had appeared for Mrs. Sorell at her husband’s request two years ago when she had been sued by a man who had formerly been her agent. He was tight with money and had a nice personal pile of it. Relations with his wife, uncertain; on the surface, okay. Too interested in his work and his hobbies, chess and behind-the-scene politics, to bother with women, including Mrs. Sorell.

Gregory Jett, thirty-six, single, had been made a firm member and allotted eleven per cent of the income because of his spectacular success in two big corporation cases. One of the corporations was controlled by Morton Sorell, and for the past year or so Jett had been a fairly frequent guest at the Sorell home on Fifth Avenue but had not been noticeably attentive to his hostess. His personal financial condition was one of the details Otis balked on, but he allowed it to be inferred that Jett was careless about the balance between income and outgo and was in the red in his account with the firm. Shortly after he had been made a member of the firm, about two years ago, he had dropped a fat chunk, Otis thought about forty thousand dollars, backing a Broadway show that flopped. A friend of his, female, had been in the cast. Whether he had had other
expenses connected with a female friend or Mends Otis either didn’t know or wasn’t telling. He did say that he had gathered, mostly from remarks Bertha Aaron had made, that in recent months Jett had shown more attention to Ann Paige than their professional association required.

But when Wolfe suggested the possibility that Ann Paige had left through a window because she suspected, or even knew, what was in the wind, and had decided to take a hand, Otis wouldn’t buy it. He was having all he could do to swallow the news that one of his partners was a snake, and the idea that another of his associates might have been in on it was too much. He would tackle Ann Paige himself; she would no doubt have an acceptable explanation.

On Mrs. Morton Sorell he didn’t balk at all. Part of his information was known to everyone who read newspapers and magazines: that as Rita Ramsey she had dazzled Broadway with her performance in
Reach for the Moon
when she was barely out of her teens, that she had followed with even greater triumphs in two other plays, that she had spurned Hollywood, that she had also spurned Morton Sorell for two years and then abandoned her career to marry him. But Otis added other information that had merely been hinted at in gossip columns: that in a year the union had gone sour, that it became apparent that Rita had married Sorell only to get her lovely paws on a bale of dough, and that she was by no means going to settle for the terms of the marriage agreement. She wanted much more, more than half, and she had carefully begun to collect evidence of certain activities of Sorell’s, but he had got wise and consulted his attorneys, Otis, Edey, Heydecker and Jett, and they had stymied her—or thought they had. Otis had been sure they had, until he had read the copy of my statement. Now he was sure of nothing.

But he was still alive. When he got up to go, at two hours past midnight, he had bounced back some. He wasn’t nearly as jittery as he had been when he asked for a glass of water to take the pills. He hadn’t accepted
Wolfe’s offer in so many words, but he had agreed to take no steps until he had heard further from Wolfe, provided he heard within thirty-two hours, by ten o’clock Wednesday morning. The only action he would take during that period would be to instruct Ann Paige to tell no one that he had read my statement and to learn why she had skedaddled. He didn’t think the police would tell him the contents of my statement, but if they did he would say that he would credit it only if it had corroboration. Of course he wanted to know what Wolfe was going to do, but Wolfe said he didn’t know and probably wouldn’t decide until after breakfast.

When I returned to the office after holding Otis’s coat for him and letting hin out, Fritz was there.

“No,” Wolfe was saying grimly. “You know quite well I almost never eat at night.”

“But you had no dinner. An omelet, or at least—”

“No! Confound it, let me starve! Go to bed!”

Fritz looked at me, I shook my head, and he went. I sat down and spoke. “Do I get Saul and Fred and Orrie?”

“No.” He took in air through his nose and let it out through his mouth. “If I don’t know how I am going to proceed, how the deuce can I have errands for them?

“Rhetorical,” I said.

“It is not rhetorical. It’s logical. There are the obvious routine errands, but that would be witless. Find the cheap restaurant or lunchroom where they met? How many are there?”

“Oh, a thousand. More.”

He grunted. “Or question the entire personnel ofthat law office to learn which of those three men spoke at length with Miss Aaron yesterday afternoon? Or, assuming that he followed her here, left the office on her heels? Or which one cannot account for himself from five o’clock to ten minutes past six? Or find the nearby phone booth from which he dialed this number? Or investigate their relations with Mrs. Sorell? Those are
all sensible and proper lines of inquiry, and by mid-morning Mr. Cramer and the District Attorney will have a hundred men pursuing them.”

“Two hundred. This is special.”

“So for me to put three men on them, four including you, would be frivolous. A possible procedure would be to have Mr. Otis get them here—Edey, Heydecker, and Jett. He could merely tell them that he has engaged me to investigate the murder that was committed in my house.”

“If they’re available. They’ll be spending most of the day at the DA’s office. By request.”

He shut his eyes and tightened his lips. I picked up the copy of my statement which Otis had surrendered, got the second carbon from my drawer, went and opened the safe, and put them on a shelf. I had closed the safe door and was twirling the knob when Wolfe spoke.

“Archie.”

“Yes sir.”

“Will they tackle Mrs. Sorell?”

“I doubt it. Not right away. What for? Since Cramer warned us that if we blab what Bertha Aaron told me we may be hooked for libel, which was kind of him, evidently he’s going to save it, and going to Mrs. Sorell would spill it.”

He nodded. “She is young and comely.”

“Yeah. I’ve never seen her offstage. You have seen pictures of her.”

“You have a flair for dealing with personable young women.”

“Sure. They melt like chocolate bars in the sun. But you’re exaggerating it a little if you think I can go to that specimen and ask her which member of the firm she met in a cheap restaurant or lunchroom and she’ll wrap her arms around me and murmur his name in my ear. It might take me an hour or more.”

“You can bring her here.”

“Maybe. Possibly. To see the orchids?”

“I don’t know.” He pushed the chair back and raised his bulk. “I am not myself. Come to my room at eight o’clock.” He headed for the hall.

A
t 10:17 that Tuesday morning I left the house, walked north fourteen short blocks and east six long ones, and entered the lobby of the Churchill. I walked instead of flagging a taxi for two reasons: because I had had less than five hours’ sleep and needed a lot of oxygen, especially from the neck up, and because eleven o’clock was probably the earliest Mrs. Morton Sorell, born Rita Ramsey, would be accessible. It had taken only a phone call to Lon Cohen at the
Gazette
to learn that she had taken an apartment at the Churchill Towers two months ago, when she had left her husband’s roof.

In my pocket was a plain white envelope, sealed, on which I had written by hand:

and inside it was a card, also handwritten:

No signature. It was twelve minutes to eleven when I handed the envelope to the chargé d’affaires at the lobby desk and asked him to send it up, and it still lacked three minutes of eleven when he motioned me to
the elevator. Those nine minutes had been tough. If it hadn’t worked, if word had come down to bounce me, or no word at all, I had no other card ready to play. So as the elevator shot up I was on the rise in more ways than one, and when I stepped out at the thirtieth floor and saw that she herself was standing there in the doorway my face wanted to grin at her but I controlled it.

She had the card in her hand. “You sent this?” she asked.

“I brought it.”

She looked me over, down to my toes and back up. “Haven’t I seen you before? What’s your name?”

“Goodwin. Archie Goodwin. You may have seen my picture in the morning paper.”

“Oh.” She nodded. “Of course.” She lifted the card. “What’s this about? It’s crazy! Where did you get it?”

“I wrote it.” I advanced a step and got a stronger whiff of the perfume of her morning bath—or it could have come from the folds of her yellow robe, which was very informal. “I might as well confess, Mrs. Sorell. It was a trick. I have been at your feet for years. The only pictures in my heart are of you. One smile from you, just for me, would be rapture. I have never tried to meet you because I knew it would be hopeless, but now that you have left your husband I might be able to do something, render some little service, that would earn me a smile. I had to see you and tell you that, and that card was just a trick to get to you. I made it up. I tried to write something that would make you curious enough to see me. Please—
please
forgive me!”

She smiled the famous smile, just for me. She spoke. “You overwhelm me, Mr. Goodwin, you really do. You said that
so
nicely. Have you any particular service in mine?”

I had to hand it to her. She knew darned well I was a double-breasted liar. She knew I hadn’t made it up. She knew I was a licensed private detective and had come on business. But she hadn’t batted an eye—or rather, she had. Her long dark lashes, which were home-grown and made a fine contrast with her hair, the color of corn
silk just before it starts to turn, also home-grown, had lowered for a second to veil the pleasure I was giving her. She was as good offstage as she was on, and I had to hand it to her.

“If I might come in?” I suggested. “Now that you’ve smiled at me?”

“Of course.” She backed up and I entered. She waited while I removed my hat and coat and put them on a chair and then led me through the foyer to a large living room with windows on the east and south, and across to a divan.

“Not many people ever have a chance like this,” she said, sitting. “An offer of a service from a famous detective. What shall it be?”

“Well.” I sat. “I can sew on buttons.”

“So can I.” She smiled. Seeing that smile, you would never have dreamed that she was a champion bloodsucker. I was about ready to doubt it myself. It was pleasant to be on the receiving end of it.

“I could walk along behind you,” I offered, “and carry your rubbers in case it snows.”

“I don’t walk much. It might be better to carry a gun. You mentioned my husband. I honestly believe he is capable of hiring someone to kill me. You’re handsome—
very
handsome. Are you brave?”

“It depends. I probably would be if you were looking on. By the way, now that I’m here, and this is a day I’ll never forget, I might as well ask you something. Since you saw my picture in the paper, I suppose you read about what happened in Nero Wolfe’s office yesterday. That woman murdered. Bertha Aaron. Yes?”

“I read part of it.” She made a face. “I don’t like to read about murders.”

“Did you read who she was? Private secretary of Lamont Otis, senior partner of Otis, Edey, Heydecker, and Jett, a law firm?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t notice.”

“I thought you might because they are your husband’s attorneys. You know that, of course.”

“Oh.” Her eyes had widened. “Of course. I didn’t notice.”

“I guess you didn’t read that part. You would have noticed those names, since you know all four of them. What I wanted to ask, did you know Bertha Aaron?”

“No.”

“I thought you might, since she was Otis’s secretary and they have been your husband’s attorneys for years and they handled a case for you once. You never met her?”

“No.” She wasn’t smiling. “You seem to know a good deal about that firm and my husband. You said that
so
nicely, about being at my feet and my pictures in your heart. So they sent you, or Nero Wolfe did, and he is working for my husband. So?”

“No. He isn’t.”

“He’s working for that law firm, and that’s the same thing.”

“No. He’s working for nobody but himself. He—”

“You’re lying.”

“I only allow myself so many lies a day and I’m careful not to waste them. Mr. Wolfe is upset because that woman was killed in his office, and he intends to get even. He is working for no one, and he won’t be until this is settled. He thought you might have known Bertha Aaron and could tell me something about her that would help.”

“I can’t.”

“That’s too bad. I’m still at your feet.”

“I like you there. You’re
very
handsome.” She smiled. “I just had an idea. Would Nero Wolfe work for me?”

“He might. He doesn’t like some kinds of jobs. If he did he’d soak you. If he has any pictures in his heart at all, which I doubt, they are not of beautiful women—or even homely ones. What would you want him to do?”

“I would rather tell him.”

She was meeting my eyes, with her long lashes lowered just enough for the best effect, and again I had to hand it to her. You might have thought she hadn’t the faintest idea that I was aware that she was ignoring
anything, and that I was ignoring it too. She was so damn good that looking at her, meeting her eyes, I actually considered the possibility that she really thought I had made up that card from nothing.

“For that,” I said, “you would have to make an appointment at his office. He never leaves his house on business.” I got a card from my case and handed it to her. “There’s the address and phone number. Or if you’d like to go now I’d be glad to take you, and he might stretch a point and see you. He’ll be free until one o’clock.”