When I went to let them out I stood on the sill long enough to see that the limousine waiting for them at the curb was a Rolls-Royce, and then returned to the office. Wolfe was hunched forward in his chair with his eyes closed and his lips screwed up.
“Does it hurt?” I asked cheerfully.
He grunted.
I stood and looked down at him. “A very fine client,” I declared. “He probably has a couple of hundred million left and that pink Vanda plant. It’s too bad you can’t fill his order. The way it stacks up, your best move is to hide the orchids. If only we could figure a way to frame Tabby—”
“Shut up,” he growled. His eyes opened. “That woman. I’ll have to see her.” He glanced up at the wall clock. “Tonight if possible. Get her here.”
“Sure. In a box. She’s probably downtown with the DA, if they like her as much as Frimm thinks they do, but you need her worse than they do. I’ll whistle her out. First I’ll see if she’s listed.” I went to my desk for the Manhattan phone book, turned to the I’s and found an entry: “Innes Iris 116 Arbor... SUlvn 7-6608.” I told Wolfe, “This must be her,” and reached for the phone.
“One moment,” he said. “I have a suggestion.”
Chapter 5
At midnight of that Easter Sunday I was propped against the wall of a corridor on an upper floor of 155 Leonard Street, and getting tired of it, having been there well over an hour. After Wolfe had made his suggestion, and I had dialed the Sullivan number and got no answer, I had rung the Gazette. Lon Cohen wasn’t there, but his assistant told me that the latest report was that Iris Innes was still at the DA’s office, and, knowing that they rarely keep at a woman all night even when she is charged, I had got the sedan from the garage, and driven downtown and posted myself outside the anteroom. At midnight I was still posted. Three minutes later she showed. The door opened and there she was, but not alone.
It took me two seconds to size up her escort. He was not an assistant DA. He was not her lawyer. He was therefore a dick on the DA’s staff, one I didn’t know, and he did not have her in custody. His mission was merely to see her to a police car for transportation. With that settled, I fronted them as they started down the corridor and said, “Hi, Iris. I’ll take you home.”
“Who are you?” the dick demanded.
“A friend of hers. Any objection?”
“I can use a friend,” she said, and took my arm, and we headed for the elevator. The dick said something to our backs, and we ignored it. When we reached the elevator and I glanced back, he was standing there making up his mind whether action was called for, and he was still there when the door opened and I ushered her in. Down in the ground-floor corridor a journalist tried to head us off, and, recognizing me as well as her, tagged along out to the sidewalk, where I got rude and gave him an elbow in the ribs.
When we were half a block away I spoke. “I’ve got a car parked around the corner.”
“No, thanks,” she said. “Just find me a taxi. I’ve never been put in a taxi by a prince of the blood. Only you’re more like a Boy Scout.”
We turned the corner. “Why I took your cue,” she said, “he was going to take me home and I had had all I could stand of cops for one day. How did you know I wasn’t under arrest?”
“The look on his face. I’m an expert on cops’ faces. Also the way he walked.” I touched her arm to stop her. “Here’s my car.” I pulled the door open. “Climb in. You know who I am, and you know I want to say something, or what was I there for? I’ll say it on the way to one-sixteen Arbor Street.”
She gave me a look. In the dim street light her face was more like the one I had seen twelve hours earlier peering down at me from her perch on the box, not as shadowed and saggy as it had been in the corridor. Apparently I passed, for she turned and got in, and I went around to the other side, ducked in behind the wheel, started the engine, and rolled.
She spoke. “You wanted to say something.”
“Yeah. You may know I work for Nero Wolfe.”
“Of course.”
“Millard Bynoe and Henry Frimm came to see him this evening.”
Her head jerked around. “What for?”
“It was confidential. But do you happen to know that you were going to marry Frimm and now you’re out?”
“Oh my Lord, here we go again. Let me out. If I can’t find a taxi I’ll walk.”
“I merely ask if you know it.”
“Certainly I know it.”
“Then I can admit that that entered into the conversation.” I took time out to make a left turn. “I presume you also know that the cops think a poisoned needle was shot at Mrs. Bynoe by one of us there with cameras. Or have they saved that for tomorrow?”
“They have not. They have my camera. They showed me the needle.”
“Then you’re caught up and I can speak my piece. It is widely known that I am a sharp observer, and I have good eyes. If I go to the DA’s office to answer questions, say tomorrow morning, and if I say I got a good look at your camera at close range, and I am positive that it had no trick gadgets on it, that may not make them cross you off, but it will certainly cool them down. Especially if I add that I will swear to it on a witness stand. Of course at present it’s just an if. What I want to suggest is this, that we go and talk it over with Nero Wolfe. Now.”
Her face was turned to me, and, stopping for a red light, I turned mine to her.
“I don’t get it,” she said.
“It’s simple enough. If they suspect that you shot that needle—”
“Oh, I get that. It’s you I don’t get, and Nero Wolfe.” She shut her eyes tight. “I’m too tired to think. It wasn’t Henry Frimm that got you — not Henry — and why would Millard Bynoe? Take me home.”
My eyes had left her because the light had changed and we were moving. “Mr. Wolfe will explain,” I assured her. “When you’ve had something to eat and drink you’ll feel better. He’ll tell you what—”
“No! I’m going home!” Her voice was up. “I’ll get out at the next light!”
She would have. It was no go. We would have a red light in twenty seconds, and that wasn’t time enough to talk her around, and if I pulled over and stopped she would hop out, and if I tried holding her she would yell. Her nerves had had all they could take. “Okay,” I told her, “skip it. Home it is. I’ll ring you in the morning.”
Arbor Street, in the Village, was only three minutes away, and at that time of night on Easter Sunday there was no competition. When I pulled up at the curb in front of 116 she had the door open and was out the instant I stopped, but then she stuck her head back in and was smiling at me, or thought she was. It wasn’t much of a smile, but she tried. “Thank you anyway,” she said. “I’ll sleep on it, if I can sleep.”
I waited until she was inside, then headed uptown, drove to the garage and left the car, walked around the corner to the brownstone, and mounted the stoop, but when I used my key on the door it opened only to a two-inch gap. The chain-bolt was on. I pushed the button, and when I had to wait a full minute I knew it would be not Fritz but Wolfe. The bolt clanked and the door swung open and I entered.
“No?” he said in a tone of relief. Of course that was to be expected. I will not say that he would rather be arrested for flower-stealing than tackle a woman, but he was relieved. Postpone the evil hour.