"Not at all. On whoever did it."
"No matter who it is?"
"Certainly."
"But you're sure it's Miss Nichols."
"I am not sure. I said I have a feeling." Bess Huddleston stood up and picked up her handbag from Wolfe's desk. "I have to go. Can you come up to my place tonight?"
"No. Mr.-"
"When can you come?"
"I can't. Mr. Goodwin can go-" Wolfe stopped himself. "No. Since you have already discussed it with all of those people, I'd like to see them. First the young women. Send them down here. I'll be free at six o'clock. This is a nasty job and I want to get it over with."
"My God," Bess Huddleston said, her eyes snapping at him, "you would have made a wonderful party! If I could sell it to the Crowthers I could make it four thousand- only there won't be many more parties for me if we don't get these letters stopped. I'll phone the girls-“
"Here's a phone," I said.
She made the call, gave instructions to one she called Maryella, and departed in a rush.
When I returned to the office after seeing the visitor to the door, Wolfe was out of his chair. There was nothing alarming about that, since it was one minute to four and therefore time for him to go up to the orchids, but what froze me in my tracks was the sight of him stooping over, actually bending nearly double, with his hand in my waste-basket.
He straightened up.
"Did you hurt yourself?" I inquired anxiously.
Ignoring that, he moved nearer the window to inspect an object he held between his thumb and forefinger. I stepped over and he handed it to me and I took a squint at it. It was a snapshot of a girl's face, nothing special to my taste, trimmed off so it was six-sided in shape and about the size of a half dollar.
"Want it for your album?" I asked him.
He ignored that too. "There is nothing in the world," he said, glaring at me as if I had sent him an anonymous letter, "as indestructible as human dignity. That woman makes money killing time for fools. With it she pays me for rooting around in mud. Half of my share goes for taxes which are used to make bombs to blow people to pieces. Yet I am not without dignity. Ask Fritz, my cook. Ask Theodore, my gardener. Ask you, my-"
"Right hand."
"No."
"Prime minister."
"No."
"Pal."
"No!"
"Accomplice, flunkey, Secretary of War, hireling, comrade…" He was on his way out to the elevator. I tossed the snapshot onto my desk and went to the kitchen for a glass of milk.
Chapter 2
You're late," I told the girls reproachfully as I showed them into the office. "Mr. Wolfe supposed you would be here at six o'clock, when he comes down from the plant rooms, and it's twenty after. Now he's gone to the kitchen and started operations on some corned beef hash."
They were sitting down and I was looking them over.
"You mean he's eating corned beef hash?" Maryella Timms asked.
"No. That comes later. He's concocting it."
"It's my fault," Janet Nichols said. "I didn't get back until after five, and I was in riding clothes and had to change. I'm sorry."
She didn't look much like a horseback rider. Not that she was built wrong, she had a fairly nice little body, with good hips, but her face was more of a subway face than a bridle-path face. Naturally I had been expecting something out of the ordinary, one way or another, since according to Bess Huddleston she was an anonymous letter writer and had thought up the Stryker dwarf and giant party, and to tell the truth I was disappointed. She looked more like a school teacher-or maybe it would be more accurate to say that she looked like what a school teacher looks like before the time comes that she absolutely looks like a school teacher and nothing else.
Maryella Timms, on the other hand, was in no way disappointing, but she was irritating. Her hair started far back above the slant of her brow, and that made her brow look even higher and broader than it was, and noble and spiritual. But her eyes were very demure, which didn't fit. If you're noble and spiritual you don't have to be demure. There's no point in being demure unless there's something on your mind to be demure about. Besides, there was her accent. Cawned beef ha-a-sh. I am not still fighting the Civil War, and anyway my side won, but these Southern belles-if it sounds like a deliberate come-on to me then it does. I was bawn and braht up in the Nawth.
"I'll see if I can pry him loose," I said, and went to the hall and through to the kitchen.
The outlook was promising for getting Wolfe to come and attend to business, because he had not yet got his hands in the hash. The mixture, or the start of it, was there in a bowl on the long table, and Fritz, at one side of the table, and Wolfe, at the other, were standing there discussing it. They looked around at me as I would expect to be looked at if I busted into a Cabinet meeting at the White House.
"They're here," I announced. "Janet and Maryella."
From the expression on his face as his mouth opened it was a safe bet that Wolfe was going to instruct me to tell them to come back tomorrow, but he didn't get it out. I heard a door open behind me and a voice floated past:
"Ah heah yawl makin' cawned beef ha-a-sh…"
That's the last time I try to reproduce it.
The owner of the voice floated past me too, right up beside Wolfe. She leaned over to peer into the bowl.
"Excuse me," she said, which I couldn't spell the way
she said it anyhow, "but corned beef hash is one of my specialties. Nothing in there but meat, is there?"
"As you see," Wolfe grunted.
"It's ground too fine," Maryella asserted.
Wolfe scowled at her. I could see he was torn with conflicting emotions. A female in his kitchen was an outrage. A woman criticizing his or Fritz's cooking was an insult. But corned beef hash was one of life's toughest problems, never yet solved by anyone. To tone down the corned flavor and yet preserve its unique quality, to remove the curse of its dryness without making it greasy- the theories and experiments had gone on for years. He scowled at her, but he didn't order her out.
"This is Miss Timms," I said. "Mr. Wolfe. Mr. Brenner. Miss Nichols is in-"
"Ground too fine for what?" Wolfe demanded truculently. "This is not a tender fresh meat, with juices to lose-"
"Now you just calm down." Maryella's hand was on his arm. "It's not ruined, only it's better if it's coarser. That's far too much potatoes for that meat. But if you don't have chitlins you can't-"
"Chitlins!" Wolfe bellowed.
Maryella nodded. "Fresh pig chitlins. That's the secret of it. Fried shallow in olive oil with onion juice-"
"Good heavens!" Wolfe was staring at Fritz. "I never heard of it. It has never occurred to me. Fritz? Well?"
Fritz was frowning thoughtfully. "It might go," he conceded. "We can try it. As an experiment."
Wolfe turned to me in swift decision. "Archie, call up Kretzmeyer and ask if he has pig chitlins. Two pounds."
"You'd better let me help," Maryella said. "It's sort of tricky…"
That was how I came to get so well acquainted with Janet that first day. I thought I might as well have company driving down to the market for chitlins, and Maryella was glued to Wolfe, and as far as that's concerned Wolfe was glued to her for the duration of the experiment, so I took Janet along. By the time we got back to the house I had decided she was innocent in more ways than one, though I admit that didn't mean much, because it's hard for me to believe that anyone not obviously a hyena could pull a trick like anonymous letters. I also admit there wasn't much sparkle to her, and she seemed to be a little absent-minded when it came to conversation, but under the circumstances that wasn't surprising, if she knew why she had been told to go to Nero Wolfe's office, as she probably did.