"Just about, yes."
"Did you see Mion?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"He wasn't there. At least--" She stopped. Her eyes weren't glistening quite so much. She went on, "That's what I thought then. I went to the thirteenth floor and rang the bell at the door to the studio. It's a loud bell--he had it loud to be heard above his voice and the piano when he was practicing--but I couldn't hear it from the hall because the door is soundproofed too, and after I had pushed the button a few times I wasn't sure the bell was ringing so I knocked on the door. I like to finish anything I start, and I thought he must be there, so I rang the bell some more and took off my shoe and pounded on the door with the heel. Then I went down to the twelfth floor by the public stairs and rang the bell at the apartment door. That was really stupid, because I know how Mrs. Mion hates me, but anyway I did. She came to the door and said
Curtains for Three 37
she thought Alberto was up in the studio, and I said he wasn't, and she shut the door in my face. I went home | and mixed myself a drink--which reminds me, I must admit this is good scotch, though I never heard of it ^before."
She lifted her glass and jiggled it to swirl the ice. 14<Any questions?"
"No," Wolfe growled. He glanced at the clock on the wall and then along the line of faces. "I shall cer| tainly report to Mrs. Mion," he told them, "that you were not grudging with the facts."
"And what else?" Arnold inquired.
"I don't know. We'll see."
That they didn't like. I wouldn't have supposed | anyone could name a subject on which those six characters would have been in unanimous accord, but Wolfe turned the trick in five words. They wanted a verdict; failing that, an opinion; failing that, at least a hint. Adele Bosley was stubborn, Rupert the Fat was |: so indignant he squeaked, andJudge Arnold was next door to nasty. Wolfe was patient up to a point, but finally stood up and told them good night as if he meant it. The note it ended on was such that before going not one of them shelled out a word of appreciation for all the refreshment, not even Adele, the expert on public relations, or Doc Lloyd, who had practically emptied the bourbon bottle.
With the front door locked and bolted for the night, I returned to the office. To my astonishment Wolfe was still on his feet, standing over by the bookshelves, glaring at the backbones.
"Restless?" I asked courteously.
He turned and said aggressively, "I want another bottle of beer."
"Nuts. You've had five since dinner." I didn't
38 Rex Stout
bother to put much feeling into it, as the routine was familiar. He had himself set the quota of five bottles between dinner and bedtime, and usually stuck to it, but when anything sent his humor far enough down he hiked to shift the responsibility so he could be sore at me too.
It was just part of my job. "Nothing doing," I said firmly. "I counted 'em. Five. What's the trouble, a whole evening gone and still no murderer?"
"Bah." He compressed his lips. "That's not it. If that were all we could close it up before going to bed. It's that confounded gun with wings." He gazed at me with his eyes narrowed, as if suspecting that I had wings too. "I could, of course, just ignore it-- No. No, in view of the state our clients are in, it would be foolhardy. We'll have to clear it up. There's no alternative."
"That's a nuisance. Can I help any?"
"Yes. Phone Mr. Cramer first thing in the morning. Ask him to be here at eleven o'clock."
My brows went up. "But he's interested only in homicides. Do I tell him we've got one to show him?"
"No. Tell him I guarantee that it's worth the trouble." Wolfe took a step toward me. "Archie."
"Yes/sir."
"I've had a bad evening and 111 have another bottle."
"You will not. Not a chance." Fritz had come in and we were starting to clear up. "It's after midnight and you're in the way. Go to bed."
"One wouldn't hurt him," Fritz muttered.
"You're a help," I said bitterly. "I warn both of you, I've got a gun in my pocket. What a household!"
Curtains for Three
[.'For nine months of the year Inspector Cramer of fHomicide, big and broad and turning gray, looked the , well enough, but in the summertime the heat kept pris face so red that he was a little gaudy. He knew it Piaid didn't like it, and as a result he was some harder to deal with in August than in January. If an occasion
* arises for me to commit a murder in Manhattan I hope fit will be winter.
Tuesday at noon he sat in the red leather chair and f looked at Wblfe with no geniality. Detained by another f appointment, he hadn't been able to make it at eleven, fithe hour when Wolfe adjourns the morning session | with his orchids up in the plant rooms. Wblfe wasn't ^exactly beaming either, and I was looking forward to j some vaudeville. Also I was curious to see how Wolfe I would go about getting dope on a murder from Cramer
without spilling it that there had been one, as Cramer
was by no means a nitwit.
"I'm on my way uptown," Cramer grumbled, "and
haven't got much time."
That was probably a barefaced lie. He merely didn't want to admit that an inspector of the NYPD would call on a private detective on request, even though it was Nero Wolfe and I had told him we had something hot.
"What is it," he grumbled on, "the Dickinson thing? Who brought you in?"
Wolfe shook his head. "No one, thank heaven. It's about the mu*der of Alberto Mion."
I goggled at him. This was away beyond me. Right off he had let the dog loose, when I had thought the whole point was that there was no dog on the place.
40 Rex Stout
"Mion?" mine."
Cramer wasn't interested. "Not one of
"It soon will be. Alberto Mion, the famous opera singer. Four months ago, on April nineteenth. In his studio on East End Avenue. Shot--"
"Oh." Cramer nodded. "Yeah, I remember. But you're stretching it a little. It was suicide."
"No. It was first-degree murder."
Cramer regarded him for three breaths. Then, in no hurry, he got a cigar from his pocket, inspected it, and stuck it in his mouth. In a moment he took it out again.
"I have never known it to fail," he remarked, "that you can be counted on for a headache. Who says it was murder?"
"I have reached that conclusion."
"Then that's settled." Cramer's sarcasm was usually a little heavy. "Have you bothered any about evidence?"
"I have none."
"Good. Evidence just clutters a murder up." Cramer stuck the cigar back in his mouth and exploded, "When did you start keeping your sentences so goddam short? Go ahead and talk!"
"Well--" Wolfe considered. "It's a little difficult. You're probably not familiar with the details, since it was so long ago and was recorded as suicide."
"I remember it fairly well. As you say, he was famous. Go right ahead."
Wolfe leaned back and closed his eyes. "Interrupt me if you need to. I had six people here for a talk last evening." He pronounced their names and identified them. "Five of them were present at a conference in Mion's studio which ended two hours before he was found dead. The sixth, Miss James, banged on the stu
Curtains for Three 41
> door at a quarter past six and got no reply, presum My because he was dead then. My conclusion that was murdered is based on things I have heard 1. I'm not going to repeat them to you--because it take too long, because it's a question of empha and interpretation, and because you have already
them."
"I wasn't here last evening," Cramer said dryly. "So you weren't. Instead of *y�u/1 should have said i Police Department. It must all be in the files. They s questioned at the time it happened, and told their i as they have now told them to me. You can get Have you ever known me to have to eat my
B?"
i've seen times when I would have liked to shove t down your throat."
it you never have. Here are three more I shall : Mion was murdered. I won't tell you, now, how that conclusion; study your files."