I

In my opinion it was one of Nero Wolfe’s neatest jobs, and he never got a nickel for it.

He might or might not have taken it on merely as a favor to his old friend Marko Vukcic, who was one of the only three people who called him by his first name, but there were other factors. Rusterman’s Restaurant was the one place besides home where Wolfe really enjoyed eating, and Marko owned it and ran it, and he put the bee on Wolfe in one of the small private rooms at Rusterman’s as the cheese cart was being wheeled in to us at the end of a specially designed dinner. Furthermore, the man in trouble had at one time been a cook.

“I admit,” Marko said, reaching to give me another hunk of Cremona Gorgonzola, “that he forfeited all claim to professional respect many years ago. But in my youth I worked under him at Mondor’s in Paris, and at the age of thirty he was the best sauce man in France. He had genius, and he had a generous heart. I owe him much. I would choke on this cheese if I sat on my hands while he gets convicted of a murder he did not commit.” Marko gestured with the long thin knife. “But who am I? A Boniface. Whereas you are a great detective, and my friend. I appeal to you to save him.” Marko pointed the knife at me. “And, naturally, to Archie — also, I hope, my friend.”

I nodded with much feeling, having his food and wine all through me. “Absolutely,” I agreed, “but don’t waste any butter on me. All I do is carry things.”

“Ha,” Marko said skeptically. “I know how deep you go, my friend. As for the money that will be required, I shall of course furnish it.”

Wolfe grunted, drawing our eyes to him. His big face, which never looked big on account of the great expanse of the rest of him, was cheerful and a little flushed, as always after a good meal, but the annoyance that had brought forth the grunt showed in his eyes. They were on our host.

“Pfui.” He grunted again. “Is this right, Marko? No. If you want to hire me and pay me, I do business in my office, not at your table. If you want to draw on friendship, why mention money? Do you owe this man — what’s his name?”

“Pompa. Virgil Pompa.”

“Do you owe him enough to warrant a draft on my affection?”

“Yes.” Marko was slightly annoyed too. “Damn it, didn’t I say so?”

“Then I have no choice. Come to my office tomorrow at eleven and tell me about it.”

“That won’t do,” Marko declared. “He’s in jail, charged with murder. I had a devil of a time getting to him this afternoon, with a lawyer. Danger is breathing down his neck and he’s nearly dead of fear. He is sixty-eight years old.”

“Good heavens.” Wolfe sighed. “Confound it, there were things I wanted to talk about. And what if he killed that man? From the newspaper accounts it seems credible. Why are you so sure he didn’t?”

“Because I saw him and heard him this afternoon. Virgil Pompa could conceivably kill a man, of course. And having killed, he certainly would have sense enough to lie to policemen and lawyers. But he could not look me in the eye and say what he said the way he said it. I know him well.” Marko crossed his chest with the knife as if it had been a sword. “I swear to you, Nero, he did not kill. Is that enough?”

“Yes.” Wolfe pushed his plate. “Give me some more cheese and tell me about it.”

“Le Bondon?”

“All five, please. I haven’t decided yet which to favor.”

II

At half-past eight the following morning, Wednesday, Wolfe was so furious he got some coffee in his windpipe. This was up in his bedroom, where he always eats breakfast on a tray brought by Fritz. Who got him sore was a butler — at least, the male voice on the phone was a butler’s if I ever heard one. First the voice asked him to spell his name, and then, after keeping him waiting too long, told him that Mrs. Whitten did not care to speak with any newspapermen. After that double insult I was surprised he even remembered there was coffee left in his cup, and it was only natural he should swallow the wrong way.

Also we were up a stump, since if we were going to make a start at honoring Marko’s draft on Wolfe’s affection we certainly would have to get in touch with Mrs. Whitten or some member of the family.

It was strictly a family affair, as we had got it from the newspapers and from Marko’s account of what Virgil Pompa had told him. Six months ago Mrs. Floyd Whitten had been not Mrs. Whitten but Mrs. H. R. Landy, a widow, and sole owner of AMBROSIA. You have certainly seen an AMBROSIA unless you’re a hermit, and have probably eaten in one or more. The only ones I have ever patronized are AMBROSIA 19, on Grand Central Parkway near Forest Hills, Long Island; AMBROSIA 26, on Route 7 south of Danbury; and AMBROSIA 47, on Route 202 at Flemington, New Jersey. Altogether, in twelve states, either ninety-four thousand people or ninety-four million, I forget which, eat at an AMBROSIA every day.

H. R. Landy created it and built it up to AMBROSIA 109, died of overwork, and left everything to his wife. He also left her two sons and two daughters. Jerome, thirty-three, was a partner in a New York real estate firm. Mortimer, thirty-one, sort of fiddled around with radio packages and show business. And only the Internal Revenue Bureau, if anyone, knew how he was making out. Eve, twenty-seven, was Mrs. Daniel Bahr, having married the newspaper columnist whose output appeared in three times as many states as AMBROSIA had got to. Phoebe, twenty-four, had graduated from Vassar and then pitched in to help mama run AMBROSIA.

But most of the running of AMBROSIA had been up to Virgil Pompa, after Landes death. Years ago Landy had coaxed him away from high cuisine by talking money, thereby causing him, as Marko had put it, to forfeit all claim to professional respect. But he had gained other kinds of respect and had got to be Landy’s trusted field captain and second in command. When Landy died Pompa had almost automatically taken over, but it had soon begun to get a little difficult. The widow had started to get ideas, one especially, that son Mortimer should take the wheel. However, that experiment had lasted only two months, coming to an abrupt end when Mortimer had bought eight carloads of black-market lamb which proved to have worms or something. Then for a while the widow had merely been irritating, and Pompa had decided to carry on until his seventieth birthday. It became even easier for him when Mrs. Landy married a man named Floyd Whitten, for she took her new husband on a three months’ trip in South America, and when they returned to New York she was so interested in him that she went to the AMBROSIA headquarters in the Empire State Building only one or two mornings a week. Phoebe, the youngest daughter, had been on the job, but had been inclined to listen to reason — that is, to Pompa.

Suddenly, a month ago, Mrs. Whitten had told Pompa that he was old enough to retire, and that they would start immediately to train her husband to take over the direction of the business.

This dope on Floyd Whitten is partly from the papers, but mostly from Pompa via Marko. For a year before Landy’s death Whitten had been in charge of public relations for AMBROSIA, and had kept on after Landy died, but when he married the boss, and came back from the long trip with his bride, he didn’t resume at the office. Either he wanted to spend his time with her, or she wanted to spend hers with him, or both. Whitten (this from Pompa) was a smoothie who knew how to work his tongue. He was too selfish and conceited to get married, though he had long enjoyed intimate relations with a Miss Julie Alving, a woman about his age who earned her living by buying toys for Meadow’s department store. It appeared that the facts about Whitten which had outraged Pompa most were, first, he had married a woman a dozen years his senior, second, he had coolly and completely discarded Julie Alving when he married his boss, and third, he had kept extra shirts in his office at AMBROSIA so he could change every day after lunch. It was acknowledged and established that any draft by Whitten on Pompa’s affection would have been returned with the notation Insufficient Funds.

So the situation had stood the evening of Monday, July fifth — twenty-four hours before Marko had appealed to Wolfe to save Pompa from a murder conviction. That Monday had of course been a holiday, but Mrs. Whitten, proceeding with characteristic slapdash energy to get her husband trained for top man in AMBROSIA, had arranged a meeting for eight-thirty that evening at her house in the East Seventies between Fifth and Madison. She and Whitten would drive in from their country place near Katonah, which had been named AMBROSIA 1000 by the late Mr. Landy, though the public was neither admitted nor fed there, and Pompa would join them for a training session.

Pompa had done so, arriving at the Landy (then nominally Whitten) town house in a taxi precisely at half-past eight, and having with him a large leather case full of knives, forks, and spoons, but mostly knives. One of the tabloids had had a grand time with that prop, presenting the statistics that the case had contained a total of 126 knives, with blades all the way from 1½ inches in length to 28 inches, and speculating on the probability of any man being so thorough and comprehensive in providing himself with a murder weapon. The reason for Pompa’s toting the leather case was silly but simple. Mrs. Whitten, having decided that her husband was to be It in AMBROSIA, had made a list of over a hundred items to be embraced in his training, and they had reached Item 43, which was Buying of Cutlery.

Pompa pushed the bell button several times without result. That didn’t surprise him, since he knew that the servants were at AMBROSIA 1000 for the summer, and there was no telling how much the heavy holiday traffic might delay Mr. and Mrs. Whitten, driving in from the country. He had waited on the stoop only a few minutes when they drove up, in a long low special body job with Whitten at the wheel, parked at the curb, and joined him. Whitten used a key on the door and they entered.

The house, which Pompa knew well, had four stories. The first floor had a reception hall, a large living room to the right, and a dining room in the rear. The stairs were at the left of the reception hall. The trio had mounted directly to the second floor, where the front room had been used by H. R, Landy as an office-at-home and was now similarly used by Mrs. Whitten. They got down to business at once, and Pompa opened the leather case and took knives out. Whitten graciously pretended to be interested, though his real attitude was that it was foolish to waste time on Item 43, since cutlery buying was a minor detail which should be left to a subordinate. But Mrs. Whitten was quite serious about it, and therefore they stuck for nearly an hour to the contents of the leather case before Whitten managed to get onto the subject he was really hot about: unit managers.

There were four managers whom Whitten wanted to fire immediately, and one that he wanted to transfer to headquarters in New York. Within five minutes he had got sarcastic and personal, and Pompa was yelling at the top of his voice. Pompa, according to Marko, had always been a yeller and always would be. When Mrs. Whitten, intervening, lined up on her husband’s side, it was too much. Pompa yelled that he was done, finished, and through for good, and tramped out and down the stairs. Mrs. Whitten came after him, caught him in the reception hall, and pulled him into the living room. She appealed to him, but he stood pat. She made him sit down, and practically sat on him, and insisted. She was keenly aware, she said, that no one, not even her Floyd, was capable of directing successfully the complex and far-flung AMBROSIA enterprise without long and thorough preparation. Her attempt to put her son Mortimer in charge had taught her a lesson. One more year was all she asked of Pompa. She knew he owed no loyalty to her, and certainly not to Floyd, but what about the dead H. R. Landy and AMBROSIA itself? Would he desert the magnificent structure he had helped to build? As for the immediate point at issue, she would promise that Floyd should have no authority regarding unit managers for at least six months. Pompa, weakening, stated that Floyd was not even to mention managers. Mrs. Whitten agreed, kissed Pompa on the cheek, took his hand, and led him out of the room and across the reception hall to the stairs. They had been in the living room with the door closed, by Pompa’s best guess, about half an hour.

As they started to mount the stairs they heard a noise, a crash of something falling, from the dining room.

Mrs. Whitten said something like “My God.” Pompa strode to the door to the dining room and threw it open. It was dark in there, but there was enough light from the hall, through the door he had opened, to see that there were people. He stepped to the wall switch and flipped it. By then Mrs. Whitten was in the doorway, and they both stood and gaped. There were indeed people, five of them, now all on their feet: the two Landy sons, Jerome and Mortimer; the two Landy daughters, Eve and Phoebe; and the son-in-law, Eve’s husband, Daniel Bahr. As for the noise that had betrayed them, there was an overturned floor lamp.

Pompa, having supposed that these sons and daughters of AMBROSIA wealth were miles away on Independence Day weekends, continued to gape. So, for a moment, did Mrs. Whitten. Then, in a voice shaking either with anger or something else, she asked Pompa to go and wait for her in the living room. He left, closing the dining-room door behind him, and stood outside and listened.

The voices he heard were mostly those of Jerome, Eve, Daniel Bahr, and Mrs. Whitten. It was Bahr, the son-in-law — the only one, according to Pompa, not in awe of Mother — who told her what the conclave was for. They had gathered thus secretly and urgently to consider and discuss the matter of Floyd Whitten. Did the intention to train him to become the operating head of AMBROSIA mean that he would get control, and eventually ownership, of the source of the family fortune? If so, could anything be done, and what? He, Bahr, had come because Eve asked him to. For his part, he was glad that Mr. and Mrs. Whitten had unexpectedly arrived on the scene, and that an accidental noise had betrayed their presence; they had been sitting in scared silence, as darkness came, for nearly two hours, afraid even to sneak away because of the upstairs windows overlooking the street, talking only in low whispers, which was preposterous conduct for civilized adults. The way to handle such matters was open discussion, not furtive scheming. The thing to do now was to get Whitten down there with them and talk it out — or fight it out, if it had to be a fight.

The others talked some too, but Bahr, the professional word user, had more to use. Pompa had been surprised at Mrs. Whitten. He had supposed she would start slashing and mow them down, reminding them that AMBROSIA belonged exclusively to her, a fact she frequently found occasion to refer to, but apparently the shock of finding them there in privy powwow, ganging up on her Floyd, had cramped her style. She had not exactly wailed, but had come close to it, and had reproached them bitterly for ever dreaming that she could forget or ignore their right to a proper share in the proceeds of their father’s work. For that a couple of them apologized. Finally Bahr took over again, insisting that they should bring Whitten down and reach a complete understanding. There were murmurs of agreement with him, and when Mrs. Whitten seemed about to vote yes too, Pompa decided it was time for him to move. He walked out the front door and went home.

That was all we had from Pompa. He wasn’t there when Mrs. Whitten and her son Jerome and Daniel Bahr went upstairs together to get Whitten, and found him hunched over on the table with a knife in him from the back. It was one of the pointed slicing knives, with an eight-inch blade.

III

Wednesday morning, as I said, in Wolfe’s bedroom, when he started to save old Virgil Pompa by getting Mrs. Whitten on the phone before he finished breakfast, instead of getting Mrs. Whitten he got coffee in his windpipe. He coughed explosively, gasped, and went on coughing.

“You shouldn’t try to drink when you’re mad,” I told him. “Peristalsis is closely connected with the emotions. Anyhow, I think it was only a butler. Naturally she has brought the hired help in from the country. Do you care whether a butler has heard of you? I don’t.”

With the panic finally out of his windpipe, Wolfe took off his yellow silk pajama top, revealing enough hide to make shoes for four platoons, tossed it on the bed, and frowned at me.

“I have to see those people. Preferably all of them, but certainly Mrs. Whitten. Apparently they squirm if she grunts. Find out about her.”

So that was what I spent the day at.

The Homicide Bureau was of course a good bet, and, deciding a phone call would be too casual, I did a few morning chores in the office and then went to 20th Street. Inspector Cramer wasn’t available, but I got to Sergeant Purley Stebbins. I was handicapped because my one good piece of bait couldn’t be used. It was a fair guess that Mrs. Whitten and the Landy children had given the cops a distorted view of the reason for the secret gathering in the dining room and the two-hour silent sit in the dark — possibly even a fancy lie. If so, it would have helped to be able to give Purley the lowdown on it, but I couldn’t. Pompa, when first questioned by the city employees, had stated that when Mrs. Whitten had asked him to go to the living room and wait there for her, he had done so, and had left when he got tired of waiting. The damn fool hadn’t wanted to admit he had eavesdropped, and now he was stuck with it. If he tried to change it, or if Wolfe and I tried to change it for him, it would merely make his eye blacker than ever and no one would believe him.

Therefore the best I could do with Purley was to tell him Wolfe had been hired to spring Pompa, and of course that went over big. He was so sure they had Pompa for good that after a couple of supercilious snorts he got bighearted and conversed a little. It seemed that the secret meeting of scions in the dining room had been to discuss a scrape Mortimer had got into — a threatened paternity suit — which mamma mustn’t know about. So for me they were a bunch of barefaced liars, since Wolfe had decided to take Pompa for gospel. Purley had lots of fun kidding me, sure as he was that for once Wolfe had got roped in for a sour one. I took it, and also took all I could get on Mrs. Whitten and other details. The Homicide and DA line was that while waiting for Mrs. Whitten in the living room Pompa had got bored and, instead of just killing time, had trotted upstairs and killed Whitten, who was about to toss him out of his job.

Altogether I saw eight or nine people that day, building up an inventory on Mrs. Whitten and her offspring, and bought a drink for nobody, since there was no client’s expense account. They were a couple of radio men, a realtor who had once paid Wolfe a fee, a gossip peddler, and others, naturally including my friend Lon Cohen of the Gazette. During the afternoon Lon was tied up on some hot item, and I got to him so late that I made it back to West 35th Street barely in time for dinner. Marko Vukcic was there when I arrived.

After a meal fully as good as the one Marko had fed us the evening before, the three of us went across the hall to the office. Wolfe got himself arranged in the chair behind his desk, the only chair on earth he really loves; Marko sat on the red leather one; and I stood and had a good stretch.

“Television?” Wolfe inquired politely.

“In the name of God,” Marko protested. “Pompa will die soon, perhaps tonight.”

“What of?”

“Fear, rage, mortification. He is old.”

“Nonsense. He will live to get his eye back, if for nothing else.” Wolfe shook his head. “As you said yesterday, Marko, you’re a Boniface, not a detective. Don’t crack a whip at me. What have you got, Archie?”

“No news.” I pulled my chair away from my desk and sat. “Are we still swallowing Pompa whole?”

“Yes.”

“Then they’re all lying about what they were there for, except Daniel Bahr, Eve’s husband, who merely says it was a family matter which he prefers not to discuss. They say they met to consider a jam Mortimer is in with a female by the name of—”

“No matter. Mrs. Whitten?”

“She’s in on the lie, of course. Probably she clucked them into it. During Landy’s life he was absolutely the rooster, and she merely came along with the flock, but when he died she took command and kept it. She is of the flock, by the flock, and for the flock, or at least she was until Whitten got his hooks in. Since her marriage she has unquestionably been for Whitten, though there has been no sign that she intended to swear off clucking — at least there wasn’t until a month ago, when she installed Whitten in the big corner office that had been Landy’s. Pompa never moved into it. She is fifty-four, fairly bright, watches her figure, and looks as healthy as she is.”

“Have you seen her?”

“How could I? She wouldn’t even talk to you on the phone.”

“The son, Mortimer. Is he really in a scrape? Does he urgently need money?”

“Sure, I suppose so, like lots of other people, but this girl trouble is apparently nothing desperate, only enough of a mess so they could drag it in. About people urgently needing money, who knows? Maybe they all do. Jerome owns part of a real estate business, but he’s a big spender. Mortimer could owe a million. Eve and her husband might be betting on horse races, if you want to be trite. Phoebe may want to finance a big deal in narcotics, though that would be pretty precocious at twenty-four. There are plenty—”

“Archie. Quit talking. Report.”

I did so. It filled an hour and went on into the second, my display of all the little scraps I had collected, while Wolfe leaned back with his eyes closed and Marko obviously got more and more irritated. When the question period was finished too Marko exploded.

“Sacred Father above! If I prepared a meal like this my patrons would all starve to death! Pompa will die not of fear but of old age!”

Wolfe made allowances. “My friend,” he said patiently, “when you are preparing a meal the cutlet or loin does not use all possible resource, cunning, resolution, and malice to evade your grasp. But a murderer does. Assuming that Mr. Pompa is innocent, as I do on your assurance, manifestly one of those six people is behind a shield that cannot be removed by a finger’s flick. They may even be in concert, if one of them went upstairs and dealt with Mr. Whitten while Mrs. Whitten and Mr, Pompa were in the living room. But before I can move I must start.” Wolfe looked at the clock on the wall, which said ten past ten, and then at me. “Archie.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get them down here. As many of them as possible.”

“Yeah. During the week?”

“Tonight. Now.”

I gawked at him. “You don’t mean it.”

“The devil I don’t.” He was positively serious. “You probably can’t do it, but you can try. Confound it, look at Marko! At least you can bring the younger daughter. A woman that age likes to be with you no matter where you go, heaven knows why.”

“It’s my glass eye and wooden leg.” I stood up. “This is Wednesday. Hold your breath until Saturday.” I crossed to the door, and asked over my shoulder, “Have you any suggestions?”

“None. The circumstances may offer one.”

IV

Since there would be no parking problem in the East Seventies at that hour, I decided to take my own wheels and went around the corner to the garage for the car.

On the way uptown I went over it. I was quite aware that Wolfe didn’t really expect me to deliver, not even Phoebe. He merely wanted to get Marko off his neck, and sending me out to pass a miracle was his first and most natural notion, and also the least trouble for him. He knew it would make me sore, so the first thing I decided was not to be sore. When, stopping for a light on Fifth Avenue in the Forties, I caught myself muttering, “The fat lazy bum,” I saw that wasn’t working very good and took a fresh hold.

I parked a few yards west of the house I wanted to get into, on the same side of the street, just back of a dark gray sedan with an MD plate alongside the license. Sitting there with my eyes on the house entrance, which was the sort of granite portal to be expected in that upper-bracket neighborhood, I tried going over it again. I could get the door to open just by pushing the bell button. I could get inside by the momentum of 180 pounds. There were even simple stratagems that would probably get me to Mrs. Whitten. But what about from there on? With the house right there in front of me I got ambitious. It would be nice to make a delivery that Wolfe didn’t expect. The notion of playing it straight, saying that we had been engaged by Pompa and would like to have a conversation with the family, had been rejected before I had got to 42nd Street. I had other notions, some risky, some screwy, and some clever, but nothing that seemed to fit all the requirements. When I looked at my wrist watch and saw 10:40 I decided I had better settle for one and shoot it, did so, and climbed out to the sidewalk. As I swung the car door shut, I saw a man emerging from the entrance I was bound for. The light wasn’t very bright there, but there was plenty to see that it wasn’t either of the sons or the son-in-law. He was past middle age, and he was carrying the kind of black case that means doctor anywhere. He crossed the sidewalk to the gray sedan with an MD plate on it, got in, and rolled away. Naturally, with my training and habits, I automatically noted the license number and filed it.

I walked to the portal, entered the vestibule, and pushed the button. In a moment the door opened enough to show me a baldheaded guy in conventional black, with a big pointed nose, and to show me to him.

“My name is Archie Goodwin,” I informed him, “and I would like to see Mrs. Whitten.”

He said authoritatively, “No newspapermen are being admitted,” and started to close the door. My foot stopped it after a couple of inches.

“You have newspapermen on the brain,” I told him courteously but firmly. “I happen to be a detective.” I got my card case from my pocket. “Like this.” I pulled my license card, with photograph and thumbprint, from under the cellophane and handed it to him, and he inspected it.

“This does not indicate,” he asserted, “that you are a member of the police force.”

“I didn’t say I was. I merely—”

“What’s the trouble, Borly?” a voice came from behind him. He turned, and the pressure of my foot made the door swing in more. Since an open door is universally regarded as an invitation to enter, I crossed the threshold.

“There’s no trouble, Mr. Landy,” I said cheerfully. “The butler was just doing his duty.” As I spoke two other men came in sight from a door to the right, which made it four to one. I was going on. “My name’s Goodwin, and I work for Nero Wolfe, and I want to see Mrs. Whitten.”

“The hell you do. On out.” With a gesture he indicated the door he wished me to use. “I said out!”

He took a step toward me. I was mildly confused because I hadn’t expected to have to deal with a whole quartet immediately on entering. Of course it was no trick to spot them, from their pictures in the papers and descriptions. The one outing me, which he might possibly have done since he was a little bigger, up to heavyweight specifications, with a big red face having eyes too far apart, was Mortimer. The one with dark hair slicked back, wirier and smaller and smarter looking, was his elder brother Jerome. The middle-sized one, who looked like a washed-out high school teacher, was their brother-in-law, the famous columnist who was more widespread than AMBROSIA, Daniel Bahr.

“You can,” I admitted, “put me out, but if you wait half a minute you can still put me out. I have come to see Mrs. Whitten on behalf of Miss Julie Alving. It would be only fair to let Mrs. Whitten herself decide whether she wants to see someone who wishes to speak for Miss Alving. If you—”

“Beat it.” He took another step. “You’re damn right we can put you out—”

“Take it easy, Mort.” Jerome was approaching, in no haste or alarm. He saw the license card in the butler’s hand, took it and glanced at it, and handed it to me. “My mother’s upstairs asleep. I’m Jerome Landy. Tell me what you want to say for Miss Alving and I’ll see that it gets attention.”

“She’s asleep?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s sick?”

“Sick?”

“Yeah. Ill.”

“I don’t know. Not me. Why?”

“I just saw a doctor leave here carrying his case, and of course if he gave her sleeping pills and then stopped for a chat with you, naturally she would be asleep now. It’s the way a detective’s mind works, that’s all.” I grinned at him. “Unless she’s not the patient. One of your sisters maybe? Anyhow, I have nothing to say for Miss Alving except direct to Mrs. Whitten. I don’t know whether she would agree that it’s urgent and strictly personal, and there’s no way of deciding but to ask her. By tomorrow it might be too late. I don’t know about that either.”

“Ask him,” suggested Daniel Bahr, who had joined us, “whether it’s a request for money. If it is an attempt at a shakedown there is only one possible answer.”

“If that was it,” I said, “our blackmail department would be handling it, and I’ve been promoted from that. That’s as far as I can go except to Mrs. Whitten.”

“Wait here,” Jerome instructed me, and made for the stairs.

I stood in quiet dignity, but allowed my eyes to move. This, of course, was the reception hall, with the stairs at the left, the door to the living room on the right, and at the far end the door to the dining room, where the secret meeting of sons and daughters had been held. The hall was large and high-ceilinged and not overfurnished, except maybe a pink marble thing against the wall beyond the living-room door. It had a bare look because there was nothing but a couple of straw mats on the floor, but since it was July that was understandable. The only action while Jerome was gone was Mortimer’s dismissing the butler, who disappeared through the door to the dining room.

It wasn’t too long before Jerome came halfway down the stairs and called to me.

“Up here, Goodwin.”

I mounted to join him. On the landing above he turned to face me.

“You’ll keep it brief. I’m telling you. Is that understood?”

“Sure.”

“My mother’s in bed but not asleep. The doctor didn’t give her sleeping pills because she doesn’t need them. Her heart isn’t as good as it might be, and what happened here night before last, and these two days — I tried to persuade her not to see you, but she takes a lot of persuading. You’ll make it brief?”

“Sure.”

I followed him up to the third floor, which seemed a bad location for a woman with a weak heart, and into a room at the front. Inside I halted. Within range there was not one woman, but three. The one standing over by the bed, dark and small like Jerome, was Eve. The one who had been doing something at a bureau and turned as we entered was Phoebe, the child who, according to my day’s collection of scraps, most resembled her father. My quick glance at her gave me the impression that Father could have asked for no nicer compliment. Jerome was pronouncing my name, and I advanced to the bedside. As I did so there were steps to my rear and I swiveled my neck enough to get a glimpse of Mortimer and Daniel Bahr entering. That made it complete — all the six that Wolfe wanted to see!

But not for long. A voice of authority came from the bed.

“You children get out!”

“But mother—”

They all protested. From the way she insisted, not with any vehemence, it was obvious that she took obedience for granted, and she got it, though for a moment I thought Phoebe, who was said to resemble her father, might stick it. But she too went, the last one out, and closed the door after her as instructed.

“Well?” Mrs. Whitten demanded. She took in a long breath, with a long loud sigh. “What about Miss Alving?”

She was lying flat on her back with a thin blue silk coverlet nearly up to her throat, and against the blue pillow her face was so pale that I might not have recognized her from the pictures and descriptions. That made her look older, of course, and then her hair was in no condition for public display. But the snap and fire were in her eyes, as specified, and the firm pointed chin was even exaggerated at that angle.

“What about her?” she repeated impatiently.

“Excuse me,” I apologized. “I was wondering if I should bother you after all — right now. You look sick.”

“I’m not sick. It’s only — my heart.” She took a long sighing breath. “What would you expect? What about Miss Alving?”

I could and would have done better if my mind had been on it, but it wasn’t. I couldn’t even remember which tack I had decided to take, because an interesting idea had not only entered my head but evicted all the previous tenants. But I couldn’t just turn on my heel and blow, so I spoke.

“I don’t want to be crude, Mrs. Whitten, but you understand that while you have your personal situation and problems, other people have theirs. At least you will grant that the death of Floyd Whitten means more to Miss Alving than it does to people who never knew him, though they’re all reading about it and talking about it. The idea was for Nero Wolfe to have a little talk with you regarding certain aspects of the situation which are of special interest to Miss Alving.”

“I owe Miss Alving nothing.” Mrs. Whitten had raised her head from the pillow, aiming her eyes at me, but now she let it fall back, and again she sighed, taking in all the air she could get. “It is no secret that my husband knew her once, but their — it was ended when he got married. That is no secret either.”

“I know that,” I agreed. “But I couldn’t discuss things even if I knew about them. I’m just a messenger boy. My job was to arrange for Mr. Wolfe to talk with you, and it looks as if I’ll have to pass it up for now, since he never leaves his house to see anyone on business, and you can’t very well be expected to leave yours if your doctor has put you to bed.” I grinned down at her. “That’s why I apologized for bothering you. Maybe tomorrow or next day?” I backed away. “I’ll phone you, or Mr. Wolfe will.”

Her head had come up again. “You’re going to tell me,” she said in a tone that could not have been called a cluck, “exactly why Miss Alving sent you here to annoy me.”

“I can’t,” I told her from the door. “Because I don’t know. And I promised your son I’d make it brief.” I turned the knob and pulled. “You’ll be hearing from us.”

Two daughters and a son were out on the landing. “Okay,” I told them cheerfully, got by, and started down. Bahr and Mortimer were in the reception hall, and I nodded as I breezed past, opened the door for myself, and was out.

Since what I wanted was the nearest phone booth, I turned left, toward Madison, and one block down, at the corner, entered a drug store.

Routine would have been to call Wolfe and get his opinion of my interesting idea, but he had sicked me onto them with nothing to go by but his snooty remark that circumstances might offer suggestions, so I went right past him. I could have got what I wanted from 20th Street, but if I got a break and my hunch grew feathers I didn’t want the Homicide boys in on it, so the number I dialed was that of the Gazette office. Lon Cohen was always there until midnight, so I soon had him.

“I’m looking,” I told him, “for a good doctor to pierce my ears for earrings, and I think I’ve found one. Call me at this number” — I gave it to him — “and tell me who New York license UMX four three three one seven belongs to.”

He had me repeat it, which shouldn’t have been necessary with a veteran newspaperman. I hung up and did my waiting outside the booth, since the temperature inside was well over a hundred. The phone rang in five minutes, exactly par for that routine item of research, and a voice — not Lon’s, for he was a busy man at that time of night — gave me a name and address: Frederick M. Cutler, M.D., with an office on East 65th and a residence on Park Avenue.

It was ten blocks away, so I went for the car and drove it, parked on the avenue a polite distance from the canopy with the number on it, and went in. The lobby was all it should have been in that locality, and the night man took exactly the right attitude toward a complete stranger. On my way I had decided what would be exactly the right attitude for me.

“Dr. Frederick M. Cutler,” I said. “Please phone up.”

“Name?”

“Tell him a private detective named Goodwin has an important question to ask him about the patient he was visiting forty minutes ago.”

I thought that would do. If that got me to him my hunch would already have an attractive fuzz on its bare pink skin. So when, after finishing at the phone, he crossed to the elevator with me and told his colleague I was to be conveyed to 12C, my heart had accelerated a good ten per cent.

At 12C I was admitted by the man I had seen leaving the Whitten house with his black case. Here, with a better view of him, I could note such details as the gray in his hair, his impatient gray-blue eyes, and the sag at the corners of his wide full mouth. Also I could see, through an arch, men and women at a couple of card tables in the large room beyond.

“Come this way, please,” my victim said gruffly, and I followed him down a hall and through a door. This was a small room, its walls solid with books, and a couch, a desk, and three chairs, leaving no space at all. He closed the door, confronted me, and was even gruffer.

“What do you want?”

The poor guy had already given me at least half of what I wanted, but of course he would have had to be very nifty on the draw not to.

“My name,” I said, “is Archie Goodwin, and I work for Nero Wolfe.”

“So that’s who you are. What do you want?”

“I was sent to see Mrs. Floyd Whitten, and while I was parking my car in front I saw you leaving her house. Naturally I recognized you, since you are pretty well known.” I thought he might as well have a lump of sugar. “I went in and had a little talk with Mrs. Whitten up in her bedroom. Her son said, and she said, that the trouble was her heart. But then how come? There is a widespread opinion that she is in splendid health and always has been. At her age she plays tennis. She walks up two flights to her bedroom. People who know her admire her healthy complexion. But when I saw her, there in bed, she was as pale as a corpse, in fact she was pale like a corpse, and she kept taking long sighing breaths. I’m not a doctor, but I happen to know that those two symptoms — that kind of pallor and that kind of breathing — go with a considerable loss of blood, say over a pint. She didn’t have a cardiac hemorrhage, did she?”

Cutler’s jaw was working. “The condition of my patient is none of your business. But Mrs. Whitten has had an extremely severe shock.”

“Yeah, I know she has. But the business I’m in, I have seen quite a few people under the shock of the sudden death of someone they loved, and I’ve seen a slew of reactions, and this one is brand new. The pallor possibly, but combined with those long frequent sighs?” I shook my head. “I will not settle for that. Besides, why did you let me come up after the kind of message I sent, if it’s just shock? Why did you let me in and herd me back here so private? At this point I think you ought to either toss me out or invite me to sit down.”

He did neither. He glared.

“Lookit,” I said, perfectly friendly. “Do some supposing. Suppose you were called there and found her with a wound and a lot of blood gone. You did what was needed, and when she asked you to keep it quiet you decided to humor her and ignore your legal obligation to make a report to the authorities in such cases. Ordinarily that would be nothing for a special broadcast; doctors do it every day. But this is far from ordinary. Her husband was murdered, stabbed to death. A man named Pompa has been charged with it, but he’s not convicted yet. Suppose one of the five people hid in the dining room Wiled Whitten? They could have, easily, while Pompa and Mrs. Whitten were in the living room — a whole half-hour. Those five people are in Mrs. Whitten’s house with her now, and two of them live there. Suppose the motive for killing Whitten is good for her too, and one of them tried it, and maybe tonight or tomorrow makes another try and this time it works? How would you feel about clamming up on the first try? How would others feel when it came out, as it would?”

“You’re crazy,” Cutler growled. “They’re her sons and daughters!”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” I growled back at him. “And you a doctor who sees inside people? The parents who have been killed by sons and daughters would fill a hundred cemeteries. I’m not crazy, but I’m good and scared. I guess I scare easier than you. I say that woman has lost blood, and you’re not denying it, so one of two things has to happen. Either you give me the lowdown confidentially, and it will have to sound right, or I suggest to the cops that they send a doctor to have a look at her. Then if my supposes all come true I won’t have to feel that I helped to kill her. How you will feel is your affair.”

“The police have no right to invade a citizen’s privacy in that manner.”

“You’d be surprised. In a house where a murder was committed, and she was there and so were they?”

“Your suppositions are contrary to the facts.”

“Fine. That’s what I’m after, the facts. Let me have a look at them. If they appeal to us, Mr. Wolfe and I can ignore obligations as easy as you.”

He sat down, rested his elbows on the arms of the chair with his hands dangling, and thoroughly inspected a corner of a rug. I inspected him. He stood up again, said, “I’ll be back shortly,” and started for the door.

“Hold it,” I snapped. “This is your place and I can’t keep you from going to another room to phone, but if you do, any facts you furnish will need a lot of checking. It all comes down to which you like better, giving it to me straight or having a police doctor go over your patient.”

“I ought to kick you the hell out of here,” he said grimly.

I shook my head. “Not now. If you had taken that attitude when that message was phoned up to you I would have had to think again, but now it’s too late.” I gestured at the desk. “Use that phone, if all you want is to tell Mrs. Whitten that a skunk named Goodwin has got you by the tail and you’ve got to break your promise to keep it quiet.” I took a step and held his eye with mine. “You see, brother, when I said I was scared I meant it. Sons and daughters phooey. If Pompa is innocent, and he is, there’s a murderer in that house, and an animal that has killed can kill again, and often does. What is going on there right now? I’d like to know, and I’m getting tired of talking to you. And what’s more, something’s biting you too or you wouldn’t have let me up here.”

Cutler went and sat down again, and I sat on the edge of the couch, facing him. I waited.

“It couldn’t be,” he declared.

“What couldn’t be?”

“Something biting me.”

“Something bit Mrs. Whitten. Or was it a bite or a bullet or what?”

“It was a cut.” His voice was weary and precise, not gruff at all. “Her son Jerome phoned me at a quarter to ten, and I went at once. She was upstairs on the bed and things were bloody. They had towels against her, pressing the wound together. There was a cut on her left side, five inches long and deep enough to expose the eighth rib, and a shallow cut on her left arm above the elbow, two inches long. The cuts had been made with a sharp blade. Twelve sutures were required in the side wound, and four in the arm. The loss of blood had been substantial, but not serious enough to call for more than iron and liver, which I prescribed. That was all. I left.”

“How did she get cut?”

“I was proceeding to tell you. She said she had gone in the late afternoon to a conference in her business office, made urgent by the death of her husband and the arrest of Pompa. It had lasted longer than expected. Riding back uptown, she had dismissed her chauffeur, sent him home in a taxi, and had driven herself around the park for a while. Then she drove to her house. As she got out of her car someone seized her from behind, and she thought she was being kidnaped. She gouged with her elbows and kicked, and suddenly her assailant released her and darted away. She crossed the sidewalk to her door, rang, and was admitted by Borly, the butler. Only after she was inside did she learn that she had been stabbed, or cut. The sons and daughters were there, and they phoned me and got her upstairs. They also, directed by her, cleaned up; indoors and out. The butler washed the sidewalk with a hose. He was doing that when I arrived. Mrs. Whitten explained to me that the haste in cleaning up was on account of her desire to have no hullabaloo, as she put it. Under the circumstances the episode would naturally have been greatly — uh, magnified. She asked me to do her the favor of exercising professional discretion, and I saw no sufficient reason to refuse. I shall explain to her that your threat to have a police doctor see her left me no choice.”

He turned up his palms. “Those are the facts.”

I nodded. “As you got them. Who was it that jumped her?”

“She doesn’t know.”

“Man or woman?”

“She doesn’t know. She was attacked from behind, and it was after dark. When her assailant dashed off, by the time she got straightened and turned he — or she — was the other side of a parked car. Anyway, she was frightened, and her concern was safety.”

“She didn’t see him before he jumped her? As she drove up?”

“No. He could have been concealed behind the parked car.”

“Were there no passers-by?”

“None. No one appeared.”

“Did she scream?”

“I didn’t ask her.” He was getting irritated. “I didn’t subject her to an inquisition, you know. She had been hurt and needed attention, and I gave it to her.”

“Sure.” I stood up. “I won’t say much obliged because I squeezed it out. I accept your facts — that is, what you were told — but I ought to warn you that you may get a phone call from Nero Wolfe. I can find my way out.”

He stood up. “I think you used the word ‘confidential.’ May I tell Mrs. Whitten that she need not expect a visit from a police doctor?”

“I’ll do my best. I mean it. But if I were you I wouldn’t give her any more quick promises. They’re apt not to stick.”

I reached for the doorknob, but he was ahead of me and opened it. He took me back down the hall and let me out, and even told me good night. The elevator man kept slanted eyes on me, evidently having been told of the vulgar message I had sent up to a tenant, so I told him that his starting lever needed oil, which it did. Outside I climbed in the car and rolled downtown a little faster than I was supposed to. The clock on the dash said ten minutes to midnight.

When I’m not in the house, especially at night, the front door is always chain bolted, so I had to ring for Fritz to let me in. I went along with him to the kitchen, got a glass and a pitcher of milk, took them to the office, and announced, “Home again, and I brought no company. But I’ve got a tool I think you can pry Pompa loose with, if you want to play it that way. I need some milk on my stomach. My nerves are doubling in brass.”

“What is it?” Marko demanded, out of his chair at me. “What did you—”

“Let him alone,” Wolfe muttered, “until he has swallowed something. He’s hungry.”

V

“If you don’t tell the police about this at once, I will,” Marko said emphatically. He hit the chair arm with his fist. “This is magnificent! It is a masterpiece of wit!”

I had finished my report, along with the pitcher of milk, and Wolfe had asked questions, such as whether I had seen any bloodstains, inside or out, which the cleaners had overlooked. I hadn’t. Wolfe was leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed, and Marko was pacing back and forth. I was smirking, but not visibly.

“They must release him at once!” Marko exclaimed. “Tell them now! Phone! If you don’t—”

“Shut up,” Wolfe said rudely.

“He’s using his brain,” I informed Marko, “and you’re breaking the rules. Yell at me if you want to, but not at him. It’s not as simple as it looks. If we pass it to the cops it’s out of our hands, and if they’re stubborn and still like the idea of Pompa where are we? We couldn’t get through to that bunch again with anything less than a Sherman tank. If we don’t tell the cops but keep it for our private use, and we monkey around until whoever used a knife on Mrs. Whitten uses it again only more to the point, the immediate question would be how high the judge would set our bail.”

“Including me?” Marko demanded.

“Certainly including you. You especially, because you started the conspiracy to spring Pompa.”

Marko stopped pacing to frown at me. “But you make it impossible. We can’t tell the police, and we can’t not tell the police. Is this what I called a masterpiece?”

“Sure, and you were right. It was so slick that I’m going to ask for a raise. Because there’s a loophole, namely we don’t have to monkey around. We can keep going the way I started. We’ve got a club to use on Mrs. Whitten, which means all of them, and if she hadn’t just been sliced and had her side sewed up we could phone her that we want her down here within the hour, along with the family. As it is, I guess that’s out. The alternative is for Mr. Wolfe and me to get in the car, which is out at the curb, and go there — now.”

I ignored a little grunt from Wolfe’s direction.

“It has been years,” I told Marko, “since I tried to get him to break his rule never to go anywhere outside this house on business, and I wouldn’t waste breath on it now. But this has nothing to do with business. You’re not a client, and Pompa isn’t, and he has told you that he wouldn’t take your money. This is for love, a favor to an old friend, which makes it entirely different. No question of rule-breaking is involved.”

Marko was gazing at me. “You mean go to Mrs. Whitten’s home?”

“Certainly. Why not?”

“Would they let you in?”

“You’re damn right they would, if that doctor has phoned her, and it’s ten to one he did.”

“Would it accomplish anything?”

“The least it would accomplish would be that there wouldn’t be a second murder as long as we were there. Beyond that — circumstances might offer suggestions. I might add, not being a candidate for president, that when I went there alone it accomplished a little something.”

Marko wheeled to Wolfe with his arms extended. “Nero, you must go! At once! You must!”

Wolfe’s eyes came half open, slowly. “Pfui,” he said scornfully.

“But it is the only thing! Let me tell you what Archie—”

“I heard him.” The open eyes saw an unfinished glass of beer, and he picked it up and drank. He looked at me. “There was a flaw. You assume that if we withhold this information from the police, and Mrs. Whitten gets killed, we’ll be in a pickle. Why? Technically it is not murder evidence; it has no necessary connection with a committed crime. Legally we are clear. Morally we are also clear. What if we accept and credit Mrs. Whitten’s explanation as she gives it? Then there is no menace to her from the members of her family.”

“You mean you buy it?” I demanded. “That she couldn’t even tell whether it was a man or a woman?”

“Why not?”

I got up, threw up my hands, and sat down again.

“But this is not logical,” Marko protested earnestly. “Your questions indicated that you thought she had lied to the doctor. I don’t see why—”

“Nuts,” I said in disgust. “He knows damn well she lied. If he liked to bet he would give you odds that it was one of the family that cut her up, either in the house or out, and she knows who it was and so do the rest of them. I know him better than you do, Marko. If he did leave his damn house and ride at night through the dangerous streets, when he got there he would have to work like a dog, put all he’s got into it, to nail the one that has it coming. If instead of that he goes to bed and sleeps well, something may happen to simplify matters. That’s all there is to it.”

“Is that true, Nero?” Marko demanded.

“It contains truth,” Wolfe conceded big-heartedly. “So does this. Patently Mrs. Whitten is in danger. Anyone who cuts a five-inch gash in the territory of the eighth rib may be presumed to have maleficent intentions, and probably pertinacity to boot. But though Archie is normally humane, his exasperation does not come from a benevolent passion to prevent further injury to Mrs. Whitten. She is much too old for him to feel that way. It comes from his childish resentment that his coup, which was unquestionably brilliant, will not be immediately followed up as he would like it to be. That is understandable, but I see no reason—”

The doorbell rang. I got up and went for it. I might have left it to Fritz, but I was glad of an excuse to walk out on Wolfe’s objectionable remarks. The panel in our entrance door is one-way glass, permitting us to see out but not the outsider to see in, and on my way down the hall I flipped the switch for the stoop light to get a look.

One glance was enough, but I took a step for another one before turning, marching back to the office, and telling Wolfe, “You may remember that you instructed me to get six people down here — as many of them as possible, you said. They’re here. Out on the stoop. Shall I tell them you’re sleepy?”

“All of them?”

“Yes, sir.”

Wolfe threw his head back and laughed. He did that about once a year. When it had tapered off to a chuckle he spoke.

“Marko, will you leave by way of the front room? Through that door. Your presence might embarrass them. Bring them in, Archie.”

I went back out, pulled the door wide open, and greeted them.

“Hello there! Come on in.”

“You goddam rat,” Mortimer snarled at me through his teeth.

VI

The two sons were supporting their mother, one on either side, and continued to do so along the hall and on into the office. She was wearing a tan summer outfit, dotted with brown, which I would have assumed to be silk if I had not heard tell that in certain shops you can part with three centuries for a little number in rayon. Eve was in white, with yellow buttons, and Phoebe was in what I would call calico, two shades of blue. My impulse to smile at her of course had to be choked.

Thinking it might prevent an outburst, or at least postpone it, I formally pronounced their names for Wolfe and then saw that their chairs were arranged the way he liked it when we had a crowd, so that he wouldn’t have to work his neck too much to take them all in. Jerome and Mortimer, declining my offer of the big couch for Mom, got her comfortable in the red leather chair, but it was Phoebe who took the chair next to her. Mortimer stayed on his feet. The others sat.

Wolfe’s eyes swept the arc. “You all look mad,” he said inoffensively.

“If you think that’s witty,” Eve snapped.

“Not at all,” he assured her. “I was merely acknowledging an atmosphere.” His eyes moved to Mrs. Whitten. “Do you want me to talk, madam? You came here, and you might like to tell me why.”

“Your lousy punk,” Mortimer blurted, “might like to step outside and ask me why!”

“Mortimer!” Mrs. Whitten turned to him. “Sit down.”

He hesitated, opened his trap and shut it again, moved, and sat, next to Phoebe. A fine brother she picked.

“You will please remember,” Mrs. Whitten told the flock, “that I am to do the talking. I wanted to come alone, but you talked me out of it, and now you will please keep silent. Including you, Dan,” she added to the son-in-law. She returned to Wolfe. “I was getting my breath. The exertion was — not too much, but enough.” She was still using sighs to get oxygen, and she was even paler than when I had seen her in bed.

“I can wait,” Wolfe said placidly. “Would you like some brandy?”

“No, thank you.” She breathed long and deep. “I don’t take alcohol, even as medicine, though all my children do. Their father permitted it. I apologized for my son calling your associate, Mr. Goodwin, a lousy punk. Do you wish an apology from him?”

“Certainly not. He wouldn’t mean it.”

“I suppose not. Do you share Mr. Goodwin’s opinions?”

“Often. Not always, heaven knows.”

“He told Dr. Cutler that Virgil Pompa did not kill my husband, that he is innocent. Do you believe that too?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Wolfe regarded her. “It seems to me,” he suggested, “that you’re going a long way round, and it’s an hour past midnight, you need rest and quiet, and I have myself a great many questions to ask — all of you. What you most urgently want to know is whether I intend to tell the police about the assault that was made on you, and if not, what do I intend. That’s right, isn’t it?”

“It isn’t only a matter of intention,” Daniel Bahr said like a lecturer. “It may well be asked, by what right do you—”

“Dan, what did I tell you?” came at him from his mother-in-law.

“Hold it, chum,” Mortimer growled. “We’re just tassels.”

“Goodness knows,” Mrs. Whitten told Wolfe, “I didn’t get up and dress and come down here just to have an argument. My children all love to argue, just like their father, but I don’t. About my being assaulted, it was silly for me to ask my doctor not to report it, but I thought I simply couldn’t stand more talks with policemen.” She took a long breath. “That would have been better than this, but how could I know an extremely intelligent young man was going to come to see me on behalf of Miss Alving? He said he didn’t know why she sent him, but that you did. What does she want — money? I don’t owe her anything. Then he told my doctor that Virgil Pompa is innocent. Why did he tell my doctor that? Maybe he can prove Pompa is innocent — I don’t know, maybe he can. If he can, that police inspector is the man to tell, not my doctor. So I thought there were several things you might tell me about.”

“We agreed with her,” Jerome said quietly.

“I see.” Wolfe pursed his lips. His eyes took them in and settled on Mrs. Whitten. “Three things, apparently. First, Miss Alving. That is a private matter and should be tête-à-tête, so we’ll postpone it. Second, the innocence of Mr. Pompa. My reasons for assuming it would convince neither the police nor you, so we won’t waste time on them. Third, the assault on you with a knife. We might get somewhere discussing that.”

“One thing I didn’t tell Dr. Cutler,” Mrs. Whitten offered. “I didn’t notice it until after he had gone. My bag was stolen. The person who stabbed me must have taken it and run with it.”

“Good heavens.” Wolfe’s eyes widened at her. “You’re only making it worse, and it was bad enough already. It was a mistake to say you didn’t know whether it was a man or a woman, but this is pure poppycock. A bag snatcher who carries a naked knife and uses it on your torso as he snatches? Bah!”

“She probably dropped it,” Eve explained.

“And no one noticed its absence for an hour?” Wolfe shook his head. “No, this makes it worse. I offer an alternative. Either you, all of you, will discuss with me what happened up there Monday evening, and give me responsive answers to questions, or I put a case to Inspector Cramer.”

“What case?” Bahr demanded.

“I’ll give Mr. Cramer both the facts and my inferences. I’ll tell him of Mrs. Whitten’s injuries, and why her explanation of them is unacceptable. I’ll say that the use of a deadly weapon on her, soon after the fatal use of a similar weapon on her husband, is highly suggestive and demands the fullest inquiry; that if the same person made both attacks, which is at least a permissible conjecture, it could not have been Mr. Pompa, since he is locked up; that if the same person made both attacks it must have been one of you five here present, since only you and Mr. Pompa had an opportunity to kill Mr. Whitten; that—”

“Why, you bastard!” Mortimer blurted.

“Keep quiet, Mort,” Phoebe muttered at him.

“—that,” Wolfe continued, “this conjecture gets strong support from Mrs. Whitten’s untenable explanation of her injuries.” Wolfe upturned a palm. “That’s the kernel of it.” He spoke to Mrs. Whitten. “Why would you make up a story, good or bad? To conceal the identity of your assailant. Why would you want to protect one who had used a deadly weapon on you? Because it was one of these five people, a member of your family. But it must have been one of these five people who, if Mr. Pompa is innocent, killed Mr. Whitten. It fits neatly. It deserves inquiry; I propose to inquire; and if you won’t let me, then it will have to be the police.”

“This was inherent in the situation,” Bahr announced, as if that took the sting out of it.

“You’re accusing one of us of murder,” Jerome Landy told Wolfe.

“Not one, Mr. Landy. All of you. I’m not prepared yet to particularize.”

“That’s serious. Very serious.”

“It is indeed.”

“If you expect us to answer questions we have a right to have a lawyer present.”

“No. You have no right at all, except to get up and leave. I am not speaking for the people of the State of New York; I am merely a private detective who has you cornered. There are two ways out, and you are free to choose. But before you do so it is only fair to warn you that I have concealed weapons. I’ll show you one. I do not surmise that all of you lied to the police; I know it. You said that your clandestine meeting was for a discussion of a difficulty your brother Mortimer had encountered.”

“It was,” Jerome asserted.

“No, it wasn’t. Mr. Bahr told Mrs. Whitten that you had gathered to consider the problem posed by her new husband. What was indicated for the future by putting him at the head of the family business? Was he to be permitted to take it over and own it? If so, what about the Landy children? Mrs. Whitten, shocked by this concerted onset, did not counterattack as might have been expected. She did not even remind you that the business belonged to her. She reproached you for assuming that she was capable of violating your rights as your father’s children. During the talk Mr. Bahr twice suggested that the proper course was to have Mr. Whitten join you, and have it out. The second time he made the suggestion it was approved by all of you, including the one who knew it was futile because Mr. Whitten was dead. So, as I say, you all lied to the police.”

“I didn’t,” Bahr declared. “I only said it was a family matter which I could not discuss.”

“You see?” Wolfe snapped at them. “Thank you, Mr. Bahr. That might not be corroboration for a jury, but it is for me. Now.” He aimed his eyes at Eve. “I’ll start with you, Mrs. Bahr. There’s no point in sequestering you, since there has been ample time to arrange for concord. During the time you five were in the dining room Monday evening, who left the room and when?”

VII

But Mrs. Whitten delayed the question period another ten minutes by entering a demurrer. She had a point all right, but it seemed foolish for her to press it then. Of course it was obvious that one of two things was true: either Pompa had made a sucker of Marko, or Wolfe had boiled it down to the plain question of how to break through the family interference and get the one with the ball. If Mrs. Whitten saw him coming, as she certainly did, and if she was determined to protect the flock even if one of them had killed her Floyd and taken a whack at her, her best bet was just to sit on it and not budge. But she wanted to do it her way, so she called Wolfe on the detail of lying to the cops.

Her point was that he couldn’t possibly have learned anything about what happened Monday evening except from Pompa, and what would he expect from a man under arrest for murder? Jerome also had a point. Even if they had lied about the object of the meeting, which wasn’t so, that was no proof, not even an indication, that one of them had killed Whitten. Would any group of people, having found Whitten dead upstairs, have admitted that they had met secretly to find ways and means of keeping him from getting what belonged to them? Though completely innocent, they would be fools so to complicate a simple situation — simple, because Pompa was obviously guilty, not only to them but to the police.

Wolfe let them make their points.

The questions and answers went on for two hours. It seemed to me like an awful waste of time and breath, since no matter what was fact and what was fancy, they were certainly all glued together on it and the glue had had two days to dry. The first interruption in the dining room Monday evening had been when Pompa had rung the doorbell. They hadn’t known who it was, and had merely sat tight, supposing the bell ringer would depart. But in a few minutes had come the sound of the front door opening, and through the closed door of the dining room they could recognize voices in the reception hall and hear feet mounting the stairs. From there on they had talked in whispers and more about their immediate predicament than the object of the meeting. There were fierce arguments. Bahr had advocated ascending to the second floor in a body and going to the mat on it, but no one had supported him. Mortimer and Eve had wanted them to sneak out and go to the Bahr apartment, but were voted down on account of the risk of being seen from the upstairs windows. They spent the last hour sitting in the dark, hissing at one another, and Jerome had joined the Mortimer-and-Eve faction, making it a majority, when steps were heard descending the stairs, then, soon, other steps coming down fast, and Mrs. Whitten calling to Pompa. The voices were loud enough for them to hear words. After a door had closed and the voices were gone, a cautious reconnoiter by Phoebe had informed them that Pompa and Mrs. Whitten were in the living room. That had settled the argument about sneaking out, and the next event on the program, some half an hour later, had been the upsetting of a floor lamp by a careless movement in the dark by Bahr.

On the crucial question the glue held everywhere. Who had left the room after Pompa and Mrs. Whitten had entered the living room? Only Phoebe, for reconnaissance, and never for more than half a minute at a time. It didn’t leave much elbow room for genius, not even Wolfe’s. It was all well enough to remind them that it had been pitch dark, and to keep digging at where this one or that one had been, and what was Bahr doing when he upset the lamp, but if they were unanimous that they knew beyond doubt that no one had left the room except Phoebe for her brief excursions, what were you going to do, even if you knew in your bones that what they were really unanimous on was a resolution not to let one of them get tagged for murder? If what they had to be solid on had been some intricate series of events with a tricky time table, it might have been cracked open, but all they had to do was keep repeating that no one left the room during that half an hour except Phoebe, and that she wasn’t out for more than thirty seconds at a time.

It was exactly the same for that evening, Wednesday, as it was for Monday. No fancy getup was required. They simply stated that they had all been in the house together for nearly an hour when the bell had rung and the butler had answered it, and Mrs. Whitten had staggered in with blood all over her. Again there was no place to start a wedge. Jerome, in his quiet subdued manner, offered to help by going to bring the butler, but Wolfe declined without thanks.

Wolfe glanced at the clock on the wall; it was a quarter to three. He tightened his lips and moved his eyes along the arc.

“Well. I am merely flattening my nose, to no purpose. We can’t go on all night, ladies and gentlemen. You’d better go home and go to bed.” He looked at Mrs. Whitten. “Except you, madam. You will of course sleep here. We have a spare room with a comfortable—”

There were protests in five voices, of various tones and tenors. Mortimer was of course the loudest, with Eve a close second. Wolfe shut his eyes while the storm blew, and then opened them.

“What do you think?” he demanded peevishly. “Am I a dunce? In a murder case it sometimes happens that a detective, stopped at a dead end, simply withdraws to wait upon a further event that may start a new path. That may be allowable, but not when the expected event is another murder. Not for me. A desire or intention to harm Mrs. Whitten may be in none of your minds, but I’m not going to risk it. She would be dead now if that blade had gone five inches in instead of across. I am willing, for the time being, to pursue this inquiry myself without recourse to the police or the District Attorney, but only with that condition: Mrs. Whitten stays under my roof until I am satisfied on certain points. She can leave at any moment if she regards the police as less obnoxious than me.”

“If you ask me, they are,” Eve snapped.

“This is blackmail and actionable,” Bahr declared.

“Okay, she goes home and you call the goddam cops,” was Mort’s contribution.

“If she stays,” Phoebe said firmly, “I stay.”

Mrs. Whitten found use for a long deep sigh for about the thousandth time. Twice during the session I had been sure she was going to faint. But there was plenty of life in her eyes as she met Wolfe’s gaze. “You said you would speak to me privately about Miss Alving.”

“Yes, madam, I did.”

“Then you could do that in the morning. I’m afraid I couldn’t listen now — I’m pretty tired.” Her hands, on her lap, tightened into fists and then relaxed. She turned to her younger daughter. “Phoebe, you’ll have to go home and get things for us.” She went back to Wolfe. “Your spare room — will it do for two?”

“Admirably. There are twin beds.”

“Then my daughter Phoebe will be with me. I don’t think you need to fear for my safety — I’m sure she won’t kill me in my sleep. Tomorrow afternoon, if I’m still here, you will have to excuse me. My husband’s funeral will be at four o’clock.”

“Mother,” Jerome said quietly, “let me take you home.”

She didn’t use breath to answer him, but asked Wolfe, “Will I have to walk upstairs?”

“No indeed,” Wolfe said, as if that made everything fine and dandy. “You may use my elevator.”

VIII

The fact is we have two spare rooms. Wolfe’s room is at the rear of the house on the second floor, which he uses because its windows face south, and there is another bedroom on that floor in front, unoccupied. On the third floor my room is the one at the front, on the street, and there is another spare at the rear which we call the South Room, We put Mrs. Whitten and Phoebe there because it is large, and has better furniture and rugs, its own bathroom, and twin beds. I had told them where I could be found in case of fire.

I heard a noise. That put it up to me to decide whether I was awake or asleep, and I went to work on it. But I didn’t feel like working and was going to let it slide when there was another noise.

“Mr. Goodwin.”

Recognizing the name, I opened my eyes. An attractive young woman in a blue summer negligee, with hair the color of maple sirup, was standing at the foot of my bed. There was plenty of daylight from the windows to get details.

“I didn’t knock,” she said, “because I didn’t want to disturb anyone.”

“You’ve disturbed me,” I asserted, swinging my legs around and sitting on the bed’s edge. “What for?”

“I’m hungry.”

I looked at my wrist. “My God, it’ll be time for breakfast in three hours, and Fritz will bring it up to you. You don’t look on the brink of starvation.” She didn’t. She looked all right.

“I can’t sleep and I’m hungry.”

“Then eat. The kitchen is on the same—” I stopped, having got enough awake to remember that (a) she was a guest and (b) I was a detective. I slipped my feet into my sandals, arose, told her, “Come on,” and headed for the door. Halfway down the first flight I thought of a dressing gown, but it was too hot anyway.

Down in the kitchen I opened the door of the refrigerator and asked her, “Any special longing?”

“No, just food. Bread and meat and milk would be nice.”

We got out an assortment: salami, half a Georgia ham, pâté, cheese, cucumber rings, Italian bread, and milk. She volunteered to slice some ham, and was very nifty at it. Now that she had broken my sleep I saw no reason to let her monopolize things, so I joined in. I took the stool and let her have the chair. I had happened to notice before that she had good teeth, and now I also noticed that they knew how to deal with bread and meat. She chewed as if she meant it, but with no offense.

We made conversation. “When I heard my name and opened my eyes and saw you,” I told her, “I supposed it was one of two things. Either you had been drawn to my room as a moth to a candle, or you wanted to tell me something. When you said you were hungry it was a comedown. However—” I waved a hand, and on the way back it snared a slice of salami.

“I don’t think there’s much moth in me,” she said. “And you’re not so hot as a candle, with your hair like that and in those wrinkled pajamas. But I do want to tell you something. The hunger was just an opening.”

“My pajamas always get wrinkled by the middle of the week no matter how careful I am. What’s on your mind?”

She finished with a bite of cheese. Then she drank some milk. Then she arranged for her eyes to meet mine.

“We’re more apt to do some good if you’ll tell me something. What makes you think Pompa didn’t kill Floyd Whitten?”

That got me wide awake and I hastily shifted things around inside my head. Up to then the emphasis had been on this interesting, informal, early-morning, intimate association with a really pretty specimen, but she had made it quite different. Having never seen H. R. Landy, I didn’t know how much she looked like her father, but her manner and tone as she asked that question, and the look in her fine young eyes, had sure come straight from the man who had built up a ten-million-dollar business.

I grinned at her. “That’s a swell way to repay me for getting up to feed you. If we have any evidence it’s Mr. Wolfe’s, not mine, so ask him. If we haven’t any you wouldn’t be interested.”

“I might be. Try me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of boring you. More milk?”

“Then I’ll bore you. I know Pompa pretty well. I have been with him a lot the past two years, working with him — I suppose you know that. He’s an awful old tyrant in some ways, and he certainly is pig-headed, but I like him. I don’t believe he would have killed Floyd Whitten for the only motive he had, and I know darned well he wouldn’t have killed him by stabbing him in the back.”

I frowned. “What kind of a dodge is this? You’re out of my reach. Have you told that to the cops?”

“Of course not. I haven’t told it to you, either, in case they ask me, and anyhow it’s just my opinion. But that’s what I think, and you see what it means. If Pompa didn’t do it then one of us did, and I know we didn’t. Or take it the way you’re looking at it, that that’s a lie, that we’re all lying together — even so, there’s no way on earth of proving we’re lying, so it goes back on Pompa and he’ll have to suffer for it. But I’ve told you what I think about him, and so I wonder if he has told the police all the details, and if they believe him. I would like to help him if I can — I mean it. Has he told about the front door being open?”

“I don’t know. What front door, up at your house?”

She nodded. “As we told you, I left the room several times during that half-hour, to make sure Mother and Pompa were still in the living room. And each time, all the time, the front door wasn’t closed. It was standing a little open. I supposed that when Mother came down to keep Pompa from going, he had already opened the front door to leave when she stopped him, and they neglected to close it when they went into the living room. That must have been it, because I had looked out there before, before Mother and Pompa came down, and so had Eve and Jerome, and the front door had been closed up to then.”

I was letting the tingles inside of me enjoy themselves, and staying deadpan. “That’s very interesting,” I granted. “You’ve told about this, have you?”

“No, I haven’t mentioned it. I don’t know — I just didn’t mention it. It didn’t occur to me until this evening, from the questions Mr. Wolfe asked, how important it was. Of course the door being open meant that any time during that half-hour someone could have gone in and upstairs, and killed Floyd, and out again. So I wonder if Pompa has told about it. He must know it, since he must have opened the door himself and not closed it. I thought maybe he had told about it and they hadn’t believed him. But they would have to believe him if I said I saw the door open too. Wouldn’t they?”

“It would help,” I conceded. “And of course it would split it wide open. It would be a beautiful out, not only for Pompa, but for everybody. Two are much better than one, and three would be simply splendid. Do you suppose there’s any chance that your mother remembers about the open door too?”

Her eyes left mine, and she covered up fairly well by reaching for the milk bottle and pouring herself a third of a glass. I didn’t mark it against her, for she was too young to be expected to meet any and all contingencies.

“I sure was hungry and thirsty,” she said, retrieving. “I don’t know about Mother. I didn’t ask her about it because she was completely all in. But when I tell her I saw it, and she puts her mind on it, I’m practically certain she’ll remember about the door being open. She’s very observant and she has a good memory. I don’t think there’s any question about her remembering it. That would clear up everything, wouldn’t it?”

“It would at least scatter the clouds all over the sky,” I conceded. “What would be even sweeter would be if the first couple of times you ventured forth you noticed the door was open, and the last time you saw it had been closed. That would be really jolly. You probably have a good memory too, so why don’t you try it on that?”

But she wasn’t having any fancy touches from comparative strangers. Nope, she remembered it quite clearly, the door had been open all the time. Furthermore, she remembered going to close it herself, when her mother and brother and Dan Bahr had gone upstairs to get Floyd Whitten. I didn’t think it would be polite to urge her, and while we were cleaning up and putting things back in the refrigerator I told her that it was darned white of her to come out with it like that, and this was a real break for Pompa, and I would give Wolfe the good news just as soon as he was awake. We went back up the two flights together, and in the upper hall I took her offered hand and got a fine firm clasp and a friendly smile. Then I went back to bed and was sound asleep before I knew it.

My eyes opened again without any order from me. Naturally that was irritating, and I wondered why I couldn’t sleep. Seeing it was broad daylight, I glanced at my wrist. It was a quarter past nine. I jumped out and leaped for the bathroom, set a record dressing, ran down to the kitchen, and asked Fritz if Wolfe was awake. Yes, he had breakfasted at eight-fifteen as usual and was up in the plant rooms. There had just been word from the South Room, on the house phone, from the guests, and Fritz was getting their trays ready. On account of my snack at dawn I wasn’t starving, so I had my orange juice and some toast and coffee, and then went, three steps at a time, up to the roof.

Wolfe was in the intermediate room inspecting some two-year Miltonia roezelis. The brief glance he gave me was as sour as expected, since he hates being interrupted up there.

I apologized without groveling. “I’m sorry I overslept, but it was Phoebe’s fault. She has a nerve. She came to my room, and damned if she didn’t complain about my wrinkled pajamas.”

He dehydrated me with a look. “If true, boorish. If false, inane.”

“Just adjectives. She came because she was hungry, and I took her down and fed her. But what she really wanted was to peddle a lie. Would you care to buy a good lie? It’s a beaut.”

“Describe it.”

“She offers to trade an out for Pompa for an out for the dining-room gang. During that crucial half-hour, each time she sallied to the reception hall she noticed that the front door was part way open. Mama will corroborate. But Pompa will have to say that when he started to beat it he got as far as the front door and had opened it when Mom caught up with him, and neither of them closed it before they went into the living room. Which is that, boorish or inane?”

Wolfe finished inspecting a plant, returned it to the bench, and turned to inspect me. He seemed to have a notion there was something wrong with my necktie, as there may well have been since I had set a record.

“What inspired you to use Miss Alving’s name to get in to Mrs. Whitten?” he demanded.

“Hell, I had to use something. Knowing how women are apt to feel about their husbands’ former sweethearts, I thought that was as good as anything and probably better.”

“Was that all?”

“Yep. Why, did I spill salt?”

“No. On the contrary. Do you know where Miss Alving can be found?”

I nodded. “She’s the toy buyer at Meadow’s. But you certainly have changed the subject. What about that Grade A lie, do we want it at the price? Phoebe will be after me as soon as she gets through breakfast.”

“We’ll see. That can wait. How do you know it’s a lie? Come in the potting room where we can sit down. I have some instructions.”

IX

Never to find yourself in a situation where you have to enter a big department store is one of the minor reasons for not getting married. I guess it would also be a reason for not being a detective. Anyway, Meadow’s is unquestionably a big department store, and that Thursday morning I had to enter it in the practice of my profession. The toy department is on the fourth floor, I suppose to give the kids more fun on the escalators. By the time I got there the sweat on my back was starting to freeze in the conditioned air, and I had to resist an impulse to go up another flight and buy a topcoat.

The salesperson I approached said she thought Miss Alving was busy and would I wait. I found an empty chair over by the scooters. I thought contact with the chair’s back might melt the ice on mine, but it was plastic, so I sat straight. After a while a woman came hurrying to me, and I arose.

“Miss Julie Alving?”

“Yes, I’m Miss Alving.”

When Marko had told us about Floyd Whitten’s former love whom he had ditched when he married the boss, I had made a casual mental comment that there was something droll about a man living in sin with a toy buyer, but one look at Julie Alving showed me that such casual comments can be silly. She was forty and looked it, and she was not an eyestopper in any obvious way, but everything about her, the way she walked, the way she stood, her eyes and mouth and whole face, seemed to be saying, without trying or intending to, that if you had happened to be hers, and she yours, life would be full of pleasant and interesting surprises. It wasn’t anything personal, it was just her. I was so impressed, in spite of her age, that I was smiling at her before I knew it.

I spoke. “My name’s Archie Goodwin, Miss Alving, and I work for Nero Wolfe. You may have heard of him? The detective?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of him.” Her voice was a little thin.

“He would like to see you. He would appreciate it very much if you can get away for an hour and come to his office with me. He has something to say to you on behalf of Mrs. Floyd Whitten.”

I thought for a second she was going to topple. The way her head jerked up and then came down again as all her muscles sagged, it was as if I had landed an uppercut. My hand even started to reach, to be there if the muscles really quit, but she stayed upright.

“Mrs. — Mrs. Whitten?” she stammered.

I nodded. “You used to know her husband. Here, sit down.”

She ignored that. “What does she want?”

“I don’t know, but Mr. Wolfe does. She came to see him last night and they talked. He said to tell you it’s important and urgent, and he has to see you this morning.”

“But I–I’m here at work.”

“Yeah, I know. I work too and know how it is. I told him you might not be able to make it until after the store closes, but he said that wouldn’t do.”

“What did Mrs. Whitten talk to him about?”

I shook my head. “You’ll have to ask him.”

She got her teeth on her lower lip, kept them there a while, said, “Wait here, please,” and left me. She passed behind a counter and disappeared through a partition opening. I sat down. When my watch showed me that I had waited twenty-two minutes I began to wonder if I was being imposed on, but no, she returned.

She came to me and said, “I’ll leave right away. What’s the address?”

I told her we might as well go together, and when she objected that she must go out by the employees’ entrance I hurdled that by arranging for us to meet outside. My instructions were to bring her, and I’m great for instructions. My guesses on the role Wolfe was casting her for were nothing but guesses, and they contradicted one another, but if by any chance he had her down for top billing I didn’t want to be responsible for her not showing up. So I was really pleased to see her when she reached the meeting place on the sidewalk not more than a minute after I did.

On the way down in the taxi she sat with a tight two-handed grip on her bag, and had no comments or questions. That suited me, since I hadn’t the faintest idea what she was heading into and therefore would have been able to make no contribution except grunts.

Since I had been instructed not to tell her that Mrs. Whitten and Phoebe were our house guests, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see them both there in the office when I entered with Julie Alving, but Wolfe was alone, in his chair behind his desk, with a newspaper. He put the paper down, got to his feet, and bowed, which was quite a tribute, either to Julie or the part she was supposed to take. I’ve seen him react to a woman’s entrance in that office with nothing but a ferocious scowl. So I participated by giving Miss Alving the red leather chair.

She sat, still clutching her bag, and gazed at him. Wolfe told me to get my notebook and I did so. A man getting a notebook and pen ready sometimes makes quite an effect.

Wolfe returned her gaze. “I suppose Mr. Goodwin told you that I wanted to speak with you about Mrs. Whitten.”

She nodded. “Yes, that’s what he said — no, he said on behalf of Mrs. Whitten.”

Wolfe waved it away with a finger. “He may have used that phrase. He likes it. In any case, I’ll come straight to the point. I think I can arrange it so that Mrs. Whitten will not prosecute, if you’ll help me.”

“Prosecute?” She was only so-so at faking surprise. “Prosecute who?”

“You, Miss Alving. Have you no notion of what charge Mrs. Whitten can lay against you?”

“Certainly not. There isn’t any.”

“When did you last see her?”

“I never have seen her — that is, I’ve never met her.”

“When did you last see her?”

“I don’t know — a long while — months ago. I only saw her two or three times — never to speak to.”

“That was months ago?”

“Yes.”

“Do you owe her anything?”

“No.”

“Does she owe you anything?”

“No.”

“Have you ever had anything to do with her — anything at all?”

“No.”

“Have you any reason to expect or fear anything from her, good or bad?”

“No.”

“Then will you please tell me why, when Mr. Good win told you I wanted to speak with you on behalf of Mrs. Whitten, you left your work immediately and came here with him?”

Julie looked at him, and then at me as if it was up to me to answer that one. Seeing that I was no nearer ready with something adequate than she was, she went back to Wolfe.

“Why wouldn’t I?” she demanded. “After what has happened, wouldn’t I want to know what she wanted?”

Wolfe nodded approvingly. “That was much the best you could do, and you did it. But it’s not good enough. If you maintain this attitude, Miss Alving, I’m afraid I’m out of it, and you’ll have others to deal with. I would advise you to reconsider. I think you’re wrong to assume that they will believe you, and not Mrs. Whitten, when she tells them that you attacked her with a knife and your target was her heart.”

“I didn’t!” Julie cried. That was only so-so too.

“Nonsense. Of course you did. I can understand your reluctance, since nothing has been published about it, and for all you know Mrs. Whitten may be at the point of death. But she isn’t. Your blade didn’t get beyond the rib, and twelve stitches were all that was necessary to make her capable of riding here to my office. Except for a little loss of blood she’s as good as ever. She hasn’t even reported it to the police, not wishing to give the public another mouthful to chew on — a mortal assault on her by the former friend of her murdered husband. So the limit of a charge against you would be assault with intent to kill.”

Wolfe waved that aside as if it were a mere peccadillo. “And if you’ll be frank with me and answer some questions, I undertake to arrange that Mrs. Whitten will not prosecute. If you had achieved your purpose, if she were dead, that would be different and I wouldn’t be so foolish as to expect frankness from you. I wouldn’t ask you to confess a murder, Miss Alving.”

She was doing her best and I admired her for it. But the trouble was that she had to decide on her line right there facing us, and having to make up your mind with Nero Wolfe’s eyes, open an eighth of an inch, on you, is no situation for an amateur.

However, she wasn’t made of jelly. “When did this — when and where was Mrs. Whitten attacked?”

“I’ll refresh your memory,” Wolfe said patiently, “if you want it that way. A quarter to ten last evening, in front of her house, as she got out of her car.”

“It wasn’t in the papers. I should think a thing like that would be in the papers.”

“Only if the papers heard of it, and they didn’t. Naturally you searched for it. I’ve told you why Mrs. Whitten didn’t report it.”

Julie was still making up her mind. “It seems to me you’re expecting a good deal — I mean, even if I did it, and I didn’t. If I had, the way it looks to me, I wouldn’t know whether you were trying to get me to confess to a murder or not. I wouldn’t know whether she were dead, or had just lost some blood as you said. Would I?”

She had him there. He sat and gazed at her a long moment, grunted, and turned to me.

“Archie. Bring that witness down here. Only the one. If the other one is importunate, remind her that I said our talk about Miss Alving must be tête-à-tête.”

X

Phoebe wasn’t importunate. When I entered the South Room on the third floor she was talking on the phone, that extension having been plugged in for an outside line, and her mother was sitting in a chair by the window with a newspaper on her lap. She arose at once, with no need for assistance, when I said Wolfe was ready for their private talk, and Phoebe, having finished on the phone, had no comment on that, but she wanted to know what I had for her. I told her she would be hearing from me shortly, or more probably from Wolfe, and escorted Mrs. Whitten to the elevator, which I never used except when I was convoying casualties, and out at the lower hall and into the office.

I kept right at her elbow because I didn’t want to miss the expression on Julie Alving’s face when she saw her. It was first just plain surprise and then a mixture in which the only ingredient I could positively label was just plain hate. As for Mrs. Whitten, I had only her profile from a corner of my eye, but she stopped dead and went as stiff as a steel beam.

Wolfe spoke. “This is my witness, Miss Alving. I believe you ladies haven’t met. Mrs. Whitten, Miss Alving.”

Mrs. Whitten moved, and for a second I thought she was turning to march out, but she was merely reaching for a hold on my sleeve. I took her arm and herded her left oblique. Being wounded, she rated the red leather chair, but it seemed inadvisable to ask Julie to move, so I took the witness to a yellow one with arms, not as roomy but just as comfortable. When she was in it I resumed my post at my desk with notebook and pen.

“I’m sorry,” Wolfe said, “if it makes a queasy atmosphere, you two here together, but Miss Alving left me no alternative.” He focused on Mrs. Whitten. “I was having a little trouble with Miss Alving. I wanted her to talk about certain aspects of the assault she made on you last evening, but she wouldn’t have it — and I don’t blame her — because she didn’t know how badly you were hurt. There was only one way to handle it — let her see for herself.”

I had to hand it to him. He not only wasn’t taking too big a risk, he was taking none at all, since they weren’t on speaking terms.

“How did you find out it was her?” Mrs. Whitten demanded. Her voice was harsh and high-pitched.

“Oh, that was simple. I’ll tell you presently. But first we should understand one another. I appreciate your reason for not wanting it bruited, and sympathize with it, but here in private there should be candor. You positively recognized her?”

“Certainly I did.”

“Beyond possibility of doubt?”

“Certainly. I saw her face when I got turned and that was when she tore loose and ran. And she spoke to me.”

“What did she say?”

“I’m not sure of the words, but it was something like “I’ll kill you too.’ That’s what I thought it was, but later I thought it must be wrong because I thought Pompa had killed my husband and I didn’t realize she could have done it. But now that my daughter remembers about the open door, and I remember it too, I see that must have been it — what she said.”

“That’s a lie!” Julie blurted, not at Mrs. Whitten, since she wasn’t speaking to her, but at Wolfe. She was fully as pale as Mrs. Whitten had been the evening before, but not like a corpse, anything but. She was blurting on. “I didn’t say that! I said ‘You killed him and I’ll kill you!’ And I wish I had — oh, I wish I had!”

“You came close to it,” Wolfe growled. He let his eyes come halfway open, now that he had them. “I should explain to both of you that I’ve merely been trying to get started. Please forget each other, as far as possible, and listen to me. If we’re going to work this out together you need to know how I got where I am now.”

The doorbell rang. Under the circumstances it was up to Fritz, but on the other hand we didn’t want any trivial interruptions just then, so I scooted for the hall, closing the office doors as I went. One glance through the glass panel showed that my point was well taken. Inspector Cramer was there. He was alone, so I didn’t bother with the chain bolt but put my foot where it would keep the door to a six-inch crack. I spoke through the crack to his big broad shoulders and his round, red, but by no means flabby face.

“Good morning. What have I done now?”

“We sent a man,” he snapped, “to see Mrs. Whitten about something, and he was told she’s here. What’s Wolfe up to? I want to see her.”

“I never know what he’s up to, but I’ll go ask him. He’ll want to know how it stands. Is there a warrant for her?”

“Hell no. A warrant for what?”

“I merely asked. Kindly withdraw your toe.”

I banged the door shut, went to the office, and told Wolfe, “The man about the chair. The one with a gash in it. He learned more or less accidentally that it’s here, and that made him curious, and he wants to talk. He has no signed paper and no idea of getting one. Shall I tell him you’re busy?”

I was sure he would say yes, but he didn’t. Instead, he decoded it. “Is it Mr. Cramer?”

“Yes, sir.” He knew darned well it was, since I had started years ago calling Cramer that.

“He wants to speak with Mrs. Whitten?”

“One of his men did, probably about some trifle, and found out she was here. What he really wants is to see if you’re getting up a charade.”

“He’s barely in time. If he engages to let me proceed without interruption until I’ve finished, admit him.”

“I don’t like it. He’s got Pompa.”

“He won’t have him long. We’re waiting for you. I want a record of this.”

I didn’t like it at all, but when Wolfe has broken into a gallop what I like has about the weight of an undersized feather from a chicken’s neck.

I returned to the front and opened to a crack again and told the inspector, “Mrs. Whitten is in the office with him, chatting. So is Miss Julie Alving, toy buyer at Meadow’s, who was formerly on good terms with the late Whitten. You may have heard of her.”

“Yeah, I have. What the hell is he trying to pull?”

“You name it. I’m just the stenographer. You have a choice. Being an inspector, you can go somewhere for lunch and then take in a ball game, or you can give me your sacred word of honor that you’ll absolutely keep your mouth shut until and unless Wolfe hands you the torch. If you choose the latter you’re welcome, and you can have a chair to sit on. After all, you have no ticket even for standing room, since neither of those females is under a charge.”

“I’m a police officer. I’m not going to tie myself—”

“Don’t haggle. You know damn well where you stand. I’m needed in there to take notes. Well?”

“I’m coming in.”

“Under the terms as I stated?”

“Yes.”

“Strictly clam?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Otherwise you’d better bring a bulldozer if you ever want in again.” I swung the door open.

Wolfe greeted him curtly and left it to me to introduce him to the ladies. It wasn’t surprising that he hadn’t met Mrs. Whitten, since his men had settled on Pompa as a cinch after a few hours’ investigation and therefore there had been no occasion for their superior officer to annoy the widow. He acknowledged the introductions with stingy nods, gave Wolfe a swift keen glance that would have liked to go on through his hide to the interior, and indicated that he intended to keep his vow by taking a chair well out of it, to the rear and right of Mrs. Whitten.

Wolfe spoke to him. “Let’s put it this way, Mr. Cramer. You’re here merely as a caller waiting to see me.

“That will do,” Cramer growled.

“Good. Then I’ll proceed. I was just starting to explain to these ladies the manner and extent of my progress in an investigation I’m on.”

“Go ahead.”

From there on Wolfe ignored Cramer completely. He looked at Julie and Mrs. Whitten. “What persuaded me,” he said conversationally, “of Mr. Pompa’s innocence, and who engaged me to prove it, are details of no importance. Neither is it important why, when Mr. Goodwin wanted to contrive an entree to Mrs. Whitten, he hit on the stratagem of saying he wished to speak with her on behalf of Miss Alving.”

Julie made a sound.

“Oh, it was a lie,” he told her. “We use a great many of them in this business, sometimes calculated with great care, sometimes quite at random. This one was extremely effective. It got Mr. Goodwin admitted to Mrs. Whitten at once, though she was in bed with a gash in her side, having just narrowly escaped from an attempt on her life.”

Cramer let out a growl, no doubt involuntary, and stood up. Wolfe ignored him and went on to his female audience.

“That, of course, is news to Mr. Cramer, and there will be more for him, but since he’s merely waiting to see me I’ll finish with you ladies. The success—”

“You not only lie,” Mrs. Whitten said harshly, “you break your promise. You promised that if we answered your questions you wouldn’t report the attack on me to the police.”

“No,” Wolfe said curtly. “I do not break promises. It was implied, not explicit, and it was without term, and assuredly not for eternity. Certainly I could not be expected to keep that information to myself if and when it became necessary evidence for the disclosure of a murderer. It has now become necessary.”

“It has?” She wasn’t so harsh.

“Yes.”

“Then — go on.”

He did. “The success of Mr. Goodwin’s device for getting to Mrs. Whitten was highly suggestive. True, her husband had been intimate with Miss Alving at one time, but he had discarded her before his marriage. Then why should the name of Miss Alving get quick entry to Mrs. Whitten at such a moment? There had to be a good reason, but I could only guess. Among my guesses was the possibility that the assault on Mrs. Whitten had been made by Miss Alving, but that’s all it was at the time, one of a string of guesses. However, when Mr. Goodwin reported that detail to me we already had a good deal more. He had, in a keen and rapid stroke, discovered why Mrs. Whitten had been put to bed by a doctor, and, on account of her determination not to let it be known, had provided us with a powerful instrument to use on her. It was indeed powerful. It got her out of bed after midnight and brought her down here to see me, accompanied by her family.”

“When, last night?” Cramer demanded.

Wolfe glared at him. “Sir, you are committed. Later you’ll get all you want. Now I’m working.”

“Who told you he discarded me?” Julie asked. I thought her voice sounded much like Mrs. Whitten’s, and then I realized that it wasn’t the voices that were similar, it was the emotions. It was hate.

“The source was Mr. Pompa,” Wolfe told her. “If the word was unfortunate and offends you, I am sorry. It may not fit the occasion at all. To go on. Last evening, looking at those people and hearing them, I concluded that none of them was capable of trying to kill their mother. I couldn’t exclude the possibility, but I could tentatively reject it, and I did. But that brought Miss Alving in again. Mrs. Whitten claimed that not only could she not identify her assailant, she didn’t even know whether it was a man or a woman. That was absurd. It was of course intrinsically improbable, but it was made absurd by the question, if she had no idea who the attacker was why was she going to such lengths to keep the incident from disclosure? Even leaving her bed to come to see me in the dead of night? Therefore she knew who had attacked her, and desperately wanted no one else to know. I excluded her children, as I have said, whom she might have shielded through love or pride, and I knew of no one else in that category. But not only love rides with pride; hate also does. There was Miss Alving again.”

Wolfe shook his head. “Miss Alving was still only a guess, though now a much more likely one. It was worth having a try at her. The device Mr. Goodwin had used on Mrs. Whitten got an encore. He went to see Miss Alving and told her that I wished to speak with her on behalf of Mrs. Whitten. It worked beautifully. For a department buyer in a great department store to leave her post in the middle of the morning on her private affairs is by no means routine or casual, but Miss Alving did that. She came here at once with Mr. Goodwin. My guess was now good enough to put to the test, and Miss Alving’s reaction removed all doubt, though she did her best. Mr. Goodwin brought Mrs. Whitten down, and that made the situation impossible for both of you. You have both admitted that the attack on Mrs. Whitten was made by Miss Alving. That is true, Miss Alving?”

“Yes.” Julie tried to swallow. “I wish I had killed her.”

“A very silly wish. It is true, Mrs. Whitten?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Whitten’s expression was not a wishing one. “I didn’t want it to be known because I knew — I knew my husband wouldn’t. I hadn’t thought of the open door, and so I didn’t realize that she had killed him. She had waited for six long months, waited and hoped, hoping to get him back.” Mrs. Whitten’s eyes left Wolfe, and they were hot with hate and accusation as they fixed on Julie. “But you couldn’t! He was mine, and you couldn’t have him! So you killed him!”

“That’s a lie,” Julie said, deadly quiet and low. “It’s a lie and you know it. I did have him. He was mine all the time, and you knew it. You found it out.”

Wolfe pounced. “What’s that?” he snapped. “She found it out?”

“Yes.”

“Look at me, Miss Alving. Let her go. Look at me. You are in no danger; there was no open door. When did she find it out?”

Julie’s head had slowly turned to face him. “A month ago.”

“How do you know?”

“He wrote me that he didn’t dare to come — where we met — because she had learned about it. He was afraid, terribly afraid of her. I knew he was a coward. Don’t ever fall in love with a coward.”

“I’ll guard against it. Have you got the letter?”

She nodded. The pallor was gone and her face was flushed, but her voice was quiet and dull. “I have all of them. He wrote eleven letters in that month, but I never saw him again. He kept saying he would come soon, and he would as soon as he could, but he was a coward.”

“Did he tell you how she learned about it?”

“Yes, it was in the first letter.”

“And when he died, and you knew she had killed him, you thought you would avenge him yourself, was that it?”

“Yes. What else could I do?”

“You might — but no matter. You loved him?”

“I do love him.”

“Did he love you?”

“Yes — oh, yes!”

“Better than he loved his wife?”

“He hated her. He despised her. He laughed at her.”

Mrs. Whitten made a choking noise and was out of her chair. But I, rather expecting a little something, was on my feet too, and in front of her. She started to stretch a hand to me and then sat down again. Thinking it remotely possible that she had a cutlery sample in her bag, I stood by.

Wolfe spoke to her. “I should tell you, madam, that I’ve had you in mind from the first. When you discovered your family secretly gathered in the dining room you were not yourself. Instead of upbraiding and bullying them, which would have been in character, you appealed to them. What better explanation could there be of that reversal in form than that you knew your husband was upstairs dead, you having killed him with one swift stab in the back as you passed behind him, leaving him to go down after Mr. Pompa? Your shrewd and careful plan to have it laid to Pompa was badly disarranged by the awful discovery that your sons and daughters were there too; no wonder you were upset. Your plan was not only shrewd and careful, but long and deep, for when, a month ago, you learned of your husband’s infidelity, what did you do? Drive him out with a blast of fury and contempt? No. Understand him and forgive him and try to win him all for you? No. You displayed the blooming and ripening of your affection and trust for him by announcing that he was to be put in control of the family business. That made it certain, you thought, that when you chose your moment and he died, you would be above suspicion. And indeed you were, but you had bad luck. It was ruthless, but wise, to arrange for the police to have a victim at hand, but you had the misfortune to select for that role a man who was once a good cook — indeed, a great one.”

Wolfe jerked his head up. “Mr. Cramer, you are no longer committed. I don’t know how you handle a case like this. You have a man in jail charged with murder, but the murderer is here. How do you proceed?”

“I need things,” Cramer rasped. He was flabbergasted and trying not to show it. “I need those letters. What’s that about an open door? I need—”

“You’ll get all of it. I mean what happens immediately? What about Mrs. Whitten?”

“That’s no problem. There are two men in my car out front. If her wound didn’t keep her from riding down here last night it won’t keep her from riding downtown now.”

“Good.” Wolfe turned to Julie. “I was under an obligation to you. I told you that I thought I could arrange it so that Mrs. Whitten would not prosecute, if you would help me. You have unquestionably helped me. You have done your part. Do you agree that I have done mine?”

I don’t think she heard a word of it. She was looking at him but not seeing him. “There was a notice in yesterday’s paper,” she said, “that his funeral would be today at four o’clock, and it said omit flowers. Omit flowers!” She seemed to be trying to smile, and suddenly her head dropped into her hands and she shook with sobs.

XI

I stood facing the door of the South Room, in the hall on the third floor, with my hand raised. Wolfe, positively refusing to do it himself, had left it to me. I knocked. A voice told me to come in, and I entered.

Phoebe tossed a magazine onto the table and left the chair. “You certainly took long enough. Where’s Mother?”

“That’s what I came to tell you.”

Her face changed and she took a step and demanded, “Where is she?”

“Don’t push. First I apologize. When you pulled that gag about the front door being open I thought you knew that one of you in the dining room had killed Whitten, and possibly even you had been involved in it, and you thought maybe Mr. Wolfe was getting warm and you wanted to fix an out. Now I know how it was. You couldn’t believe Pompa had done it, and you knew none of you had, so it was your mother. So it was her you wanted the out for. Therefore it seems to me I should apologize, and I do.”

“I don’t want your apology. Where is my mother?”

“She is either at Police Headquarters or the District Attorney’s office, depending on where they took her. I don’t know. She is, or soon will be, charged with murder. Mr. Wolfe did most of it of course, but I had a hand in it. For that I don’t apologize. You know damn well she’s a malicious and dangerous woman — look at her framing Pompa — and while I appreciate the fact that she’s your mother, she is not mine. So much for her. You are another matter. What do you want me to do? Anything?”

“No.”

She hadn’t batted an eyelash, nor turned pale, nor let a lip quiver, but the expression of her eyes was plenty.

“What I mean,” I told her, “I got you down here, and you’re here alone now, and I would like to do anything at all that will help. Phone somebody, drive you somewhere, get a taxi, send your things to you later—”

“No.”

“Okay. Fritz will let you out downstairs. I’ll be in the office typing, in case.”

That was the last chat I had with her for a long time, until day before yesterday, a month after her mother was sentenced by Judge Wilkinson. Day before yesterday, Tuesday afternoon, she phoned to say she had changed her mind about accepting my apology, and would I care to drive her up to Connecticut and eat dinner with her at AMBROSIA 26? Even if I hadn’t had another date I would have passed. An AMBROSIA may be perfectly okay as a source of income, but with the crowd and the noise it is no place to make any progress in human relations.