He growled and went and sat in the armchair which Marko Vukcic had bought years ago for his friend Nero’s exclusive use. Between Wolfe’s visits it is kept in the room that was Marko’s personal den. “I have decided,” he said, “that every man alive today is half idiot and half hero. Only heroes could survive in the maelstrom, and only idiots would want to.”
“It’s tough in spots,” I conceded, “but you’ll feel better after you eat. Felix has woodcock.”
“I know he has.” He glared. “You enjoy it.”
“I have up to now. Now, I’m not so sure. How about Hewitt?”
“Confound it, he enjoys it too. Everything is arranged. Saul was very helpful, as he always is. Satisfactory.”
I went and took a chair. “My report may not be satisfactory, but it has its points. To begin at the end, Mrs. Althaus says that she never heard her son mention Sarah Dacos.”
“Why should he?”
“That’s one of the points. Cause and effect.”
I reported, the conversations in full and the actions in detail, including the frolic with the G-men. It had been our first actual contact with the enemy, and I thought he should know how we had handled ourselves. That armchair wasn’t as good as his in the office for leaning back and closing his eyes, but it would do, and it was almost like home. When I finished he didn’t move a muscle, not even opening an eye. I sat through three minutes of complete silence and then spoke.
“I understand, of course, that all that bored you — if you bothered to listen. You don’t give a damn who killed Morris Althaus. All you’re interested in is this cocky shenanigan you’re cooking up, and to hell with who murdered whom. I appreciate your not snoring. A sensitive man like me.”
His eyes opened. “Pfui. I can say satisfactory, and I do. Satisfactory. But you could have proceeded. You could have had that woman here this afternoon instead of this evening.”
I nodded. “You’re not only bored, your connections are jammed. You said we prefer by far the second alternative, so we certainly want to know if there is any chance of getting it. Sarah Dacos was there in the house, if not when he was shot, soon after. It’s possible she can settle it, one way or the other. If you want—”
The door opened, and Pierre entered with a loaded tray. I glanced at my watch: 7:15. So he had told Felix a quarter past seven; by gum, he was hanging on to one rule at least, and he would certainly hang on to another one, no business talk at the table. He got up and left the room to wash his hands. By the time he got back Pierre had the mussels served and was waiting to hold his chair. He sat, forked a mussel to his mouth, used his tongue and teeth on it, swallowed, nodded, and said, “Mr. Hewitt has bloomed four crosses between Maltonia sanderae and Odontoglossum pyramus. One of them is worth naming.”
So they had found time to visit the orchid house.
Around half past eight Felix came and asked if he could have a minute to discuss the problem of shipping langoustes from France by air. It developed that what he really wanted was Wolfe’s approval of frozen langoustes, and of course he didn’t get it. But he was stubborn, and they were still at it when Pierre ushered Sarah Dacos in. She was right on time. As I took her coat she accepted my offer of coffee, so I put her in a chair at the table and waited until Felix had gone to tell Wolfe her name.
He sizes a man up, but not a woman, because of his conviction that any opinion formed by any woman is sure to be wrong. He looked at Sarah Dacos, of course, since he was to talk to her. He told her that he supposed Mrs. Bruner had told her of her conversation with me.
She wasn’t as chipper as she had been in her office; the hazel eyes weren’t so lively. Mrs. Bruner had said that she had just talked; perhaps, sent to tell Nero Wolfe about it, she was feeling that she had just talked too much. She said yes, Mrs. Bruner had told her.
Wolfe blinked at her. The light there wasn’t like the office, and besides, his eyes had had a hard day. “My interest is centered on Morris Althaus,” he said. “Did you know him well?”
She shook her head. “Not really, no.”
“You lived under the same roof.”
“Well... that doesn’t mean anything in New York, you know that. I moved there about a year ago, and when we met in the hall one day we realized we had met before — at Mrs. Bruner’s office, the day he was there with that man, Odell. After that we had dinner together sometimes — maybe twice a month.”
“It didn’t progress to intimacy.”
“No. No matter how you define ‘intimacy.’ We weren’t intimate.”
“Then that’s settled and we can get to the point. The evening of Friday, November twentieth. Did you dine with Mr. Althaus that evening?”
“No.”
“But you were out?”
“Yes, I went to a lecture at the New School.”
“Alone?”
She smiled. “You’re like Mr. Goodwin, you want to prove you’re a detective. Yes, I was alone. The lecture was on photography. I’m interested in photography.”
“What time did you get back to your apartment?”
“A little before eleven o’clock. About ten minutes to eleven. I was going to listen to the eleven-o’clock news.”
“And then? Be as precise as possible.”
“There isn’t much to be precise about. I went in and went upstairs — it’s one flight — and into my apartment. I took my coat off and got a drink of water, and I was starting to undress when I heard footsteps out on the stairs. It sounded as if they were trying to be quiet, and I was curious. There are only four floors, and the woman on the top floor was away — she had gone to Florida. I went to the window and opened it enough to put my head out, and three men came out and turned left, and they turned at the corner, walking fast.” She gestured. “That was all.”
“Did they, one or more of them, hear you open the window and look up?”
“No. I had the window open before they came out.”
“Did they speak?”
“No.”
“Did you recognize them? Any of them?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Not necessarily ‘of course.’ But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Could you identify them?”
“No. I didn’t see their faces.”
“Did you notice any peculiarities — size, manner of walking?”
“Well... no.”
“You didn’t?”
“No.”
“So you went to bed.”
“Yes.”
“After you entered your apartment, before you heard footsteps on the stairs, did you hear any sound above you, in Mr. Althaus’s apartment?”
“I didn’t notice any. I was moving around, taking my coat off and putting it away, and the water was running, getting it cold enough to drink. And his room had a thick carpet.”
“You had been in it?”
She nodded. “A few times. Three or four times. For a drink before we went to dinner.” She picked up her cup, and her hand was steady. I said her coffee was cold and offered to pour her some hot, but she said it was all right and drank. Wolfe poured himself some and took a sip.
“When and how,” he asked her, “did you learn that Mr. Althaus had been killed?”
“In the morning. I don’t work on Saturday and I sleep late. Irene, the cleaning woman, came and banged on my door. It was after nine o’clock.”
“Then it was you who phoned the police?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell them of seeing the three men leave the house?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell them that you thought they were FBI men?”
“No. That hadn’t — it was — I guess I was in shock. I had never seen a dead body before — except in a coffin.”