“I’m not as eloquent as you are.” He shook his head. “No, I don’t believe I can help you any. I can’t say I’m a total stranger to dirt; that would be smug; but what you’re after—no. You have my opinion of Kampf, whom I knew quite well; he was in some respects admirable but had his full share of faults. I would say approximately the same of Talento. I have known Aland only casually—certainly not intimately. I know no more of Meegan than you do. I haven’t the slightest notion why any of them might have wanted to kill Philip Kampf. If you expect—”
A phone rang. Chaffee crossed to a table at the end of the divan and answered it. He told it yes a couple of times, and then a few words, and then, “But one of your men is here now…. I don’t know his name, I didn’t ask him…. He may be, I don’t know…. Very well, one-fifty-five Leonard Street…. Yes, I can leave in a few minutes.”
He hung up and turned to me. I spoke first, on my feet. “So they want you at the DA’s office. Don’t tell them I said so, but they’d rather keep a murder in the file till hell freezes over than have the squad crack it. If they want my name they know where to ask.”
I marched to the door, opened it, and was gone.
There were still no PD cars out in front. After turning left on Court Street and continuing two blocks, I was relieved to find the cab still there, with its passenger perched on the seat looking out at the scenery. If the hackie had gone off with him to sell him, or if Stebbins had happened by and hijacked him, I wouldn’t have dared to go home at all. He seemed pleased to see me, as he damned well should have been. During the drive to Thirty-fifth Street he sat with his rump braced against me for a buttress. The meter said only six dollars and something, but I didn’t request any change. If Wolfe wanted to put me to work on a murder merely because he had got infatuated with a dog, let it cost him something.
I noticed that when we entered the office Jet went over to Wolfe, in place behind his desk, without any sign of bashfulness or uncertainty, proving that the evening before, during my absence, Wolfe had made approaches, probably had fed him something, and possibly had even patted him. Remarks occurred to me, but I saved them. I might be called on before long to spend some valuable time demonstrating that I had not been guilty of impersonating an officer, and that it wasn’t my fault if murder suspects mistook me for one.
Wolfe put down his empty beer glass and inquired, “Well?”
I reported. The situation called for a full and detailed account, and I supplied it, with Wolfe leaning back with his eyes closed. When I came to the end he asked no questions. Instead, he opened his eyes, straightened up, and began, “Call the—”
I cut him off. “Wait a minute. After a hard morning’s work I claim the satisfaction of suggesting it myself. I thought of it long ago. What’s the name of the Institute in Pittsburgh where they have shows of pictures?”
“Indeed. It’s a shot at random.”
“I know it is, but it’s only a buck. I just spent ten on a taxi. What’s the name?”
“Pittsburgh Art Institute.”
I swiveled for the phone on my desk, got the operator, and put in the call. I got through to the Institute in no time, but it took a quarter of an hour, with relays to three different people, to get what I was after.
I hung up and turned to Wolfe. “The show ended a week ago yesterday. Thank God I won’t have to go to Pittsburgh. The picture was lent by Mr. Herman Braunstein of New York, who owns it. It was shipped back to him by express four days ago. He wouldn’t give me Braunstein’s address.”
“The phone book.”
I had it and was flipping the pages. “Here we are. Business on Broad Street, residence on Park Avenue. There’s only one Herman.”
“Get him.”
“I don’t think so. He may be a poop. It might take all day. Why don’t I go to the residence without phoning? It’s probably there, and if I can’t get in you can fire me. I’m thinking of resigning anyhow.”
He had his doubts, since it was my idea, but he bought it. After considering the problem a little, I went to the cabinet beneath the bookshelves, got out the Veblex camera, with accessories, slung the strap of the case over my shoulder, told Wolfe I wouldn’t be back until I saw the picture, wherever it was, and beat it. Before going I dialed Talento’s number to tell him not to bother to keep his appointment, but there was no answer. Either he was still engaged at the DA’s office or he was on his way to Thirty-fifth Street, and if he came during my absence that was all right, since Jet was there to protect Wolfe.
A taxi took me to the end of a sidewalk canopy in front of one of the palace hives on Park Avenue in the Seventies, and I undertook to walk past the doorman without giving him a glance, but he stopped me. I said professionally, “Braunstein, taking pictures, I’m late,” and kept going, and got away with it. After crossing the luxurious lobby to the elevator, which luckily was there with the door open, I entered, saying, “Braunstein, please,” and the chauffeur shut the door and pulled the lever. We stopped at the twelfth floor, and I stepped out. There was a door to the right and another to the left, and I turned right without asking, on a fifty-fifty chance, listening for a possible correction from the elevator man, who was standing by with his door open.
It was one of the simplest chores I have ever performed. In answer to my ring the door was opened by a middle-aged female husky, in uniform with apron, and when I told her I had come to take a picture she let me in, asked me to wait, and disappeared. In a couple of minutes a tall and dignified dame with white hair came through an arch and asked what I wanted. I apologized for disturbing her and said I would deeply appreciate it if she would let me take a picture of a painting which had recently been shown at the Pittsburgh Institute, on loan by Mr. Braunstein. It was called “Three Young Mares at Pasture.” A Pittsburgh client of mine had admired it, and had intended to go back and photograph it for his collection, but the picture had gone before he got around to it.
She wanted some information, such as my name and address and the name of my Pittsburgh client, which I supplied gladly without a script, and then led me through the arch into a room not quite as big as Madison Square Garden. It would have been a pleasure, and also instructive, to do a little glomming at the rugs and furniture and other miscellaneous objects, especially the dozen or more pictures on the walls, but that would have to wait. She went across to a picture near the far end, said, “That’s it,” and lowered herself onto a chair.
It was a nice picture. I had half expected the mares to be without clothes, but they were fully dressed. Remarking that I didn’t wonder that my client wanted a photograph of it, I got busy with my equipment, including flash bulbs. She sat and watched. I took four shots from slightly different angles, acting and looking professional, I hoped; got my stuff back in the case; thanked her warmly on behalf of my client; promised to send her some prints; and left. That was all there was to it.
Out on the sidewalk again, I walked west to Madison, turned downtown and found a drugstore, went in to the phone booth, and dialed a number.
Wolfe’s voice came. “Yes? Whom do you want?”
I’ve told him a hundred times that’s a hell of a way to answer the phone, but he’s too damn pigheaded.
I spoke. “I want you. I’ve seen the picture, and I wouldn’t have thought that stallion had it in him. It glows with color and life, and the blood seems to pulsate under the warm skin. The shadows are transparent, with a harmonious blending—”
“Shut up! Yes or no?”
“Yes. You have met Mrs. Meegan. Would you like to meet her again?”
“I would. Get her.”
I didn’t have to look in the phone book for her address, having already done so. I left the drugstore and flagged a taxi.
There was no doorman problem at the number on East Forty-ninth Street. It was an old brick house that had been painted a bright yellow and modernized, notably with a self-service elevator, though I didn’t know that until I got in. Getting in was a little complicated. Pressin
g the button marked “Jewel Jones” in the vestibule was easy enough, and also unhooking the receiver and putting it to my ear, and placing my mouth close to the grille, but then it got more difficult.
A voice crackled. “Yes?”
“Miss Jones?”
“Yes. Who is it?”
“Archie Goodwin. I want to see you. Not a message from Victor Talento.”
“What do you want?”
“Let me in and I’ll tell you.”
“No. What is it?”
“It’s very personal. If you don’t want to hear it from me I’ll go and bring Richard Meegan, and maybe you’ll tell him.”
I heard the gasp. She should have known those house phones are sensitive. After a pause. “Why do you say that? I told you I don’t know any Meegan.”
“You’re way behind. I just saw a picture called ‘Three Young Mares at Pasture.’ Let me in.”
Another pause, and the line went dead. I put the receiver on the hook, and turned and placed my hand on the knob. There was a click, and I pushed the door and entered, crossed the little lobby to the elevator, pushed the button and, when the door opened, slid in, pushed the button marked 5, and was ascending. When the elevator stopped I opened the door and emerged into a tiny foyer. A door was standing open, and on the sill was Miss Jones in a blue negligee. She started to say something, but I rudely ignored it.
“Listen,” I said, “There’s no sense in prolonging this. Last night I gave you your pick between Mr. Wolfe and Sergeant Stebbins; now it’s either Mr. Wolfe or Meegan. I should think you’d prefer Mr. Wolfe because he’s the kind of man that understands; you said so yourself. I’ll wait here while you change, but don’t try phoning anybody, because you won’t know where you are until you’ve talked with Mr. Wolfe, and also because their wires are probably tapped. Don’t put on anything red. Mr. Wolfe dislikes red. He likes yellow.”
She stepped to me and had a hand on my arm. “Archie. Where did you see the picture?”
“I’ll tell you on the way down. Let’s go.”
She gave the arm a gentle tug. “You don’t have to wait out here. Come in and sit down.” Another tug, just as gentle. “Come on.”
I patted her fingers, not wishing to be boorish. “Sorry,” I told her, “but I’m afraid of young mares. One kicked me once.”
She turned and disappeared into the apartment, leaving the door standing open.
VI
“Don’t call me Mrs. Meegan!” Jewel Jones cried.
Wolfe was in as bad a humor as she was. True, she had been hopelessly cornered, with no weapons within reach, but he had been compelled to tell Fritz to postpone lunch until further notice.
“I was only,” he said crustily, “stressing the fact that your identity is not a matter for discussion. Legally you are Mrs. Richard Meegan. That understood, I’ll call you anything you say. Miss Jones?”
“Yes.” She was on the red leather chair, but not in it. Just on its edge, she looked as if she were set to spring up and scoot any second.
“Very well.” Wolfe regarded her. “You realize, madam, that everything you say will be received skeptically. You are a competent liar. Your offhand denial of acquaintance with Mr. Meegan last night was better than competent. Now. When did Mr. Chaffee tell you that your husband was in town looking for you?”
“I didn’t say Mr. Chaffee told me.”
“Someone did. Who and when?”
She was hanging on. “How do you know someone did?”
He wiggled a finger at her. “I beg you, Miss Jones, to realize the pickle you’re in. It is not credible that Mr. Chaffee couldn’t remember the name of the model for that figure in his picture. The police don’t believe it, and they haven’t the advantage of knowing, as I do, that it was you and that you lived in that house for a year, and that you still see Mr. Chaffee occasionally. When your husband came and asked Mr. Chaffee for the name, and Mr. Chaffee pleaded a faulty memory, and your husband rented an apartment there and made it plain that he intended to persevere, it is preposterous to suppose that Mr. Chaffee didn’t tell you. I don’t envy you your tussles with the police after they learn about you.”
“They don’t have to learn about me, do they?”
“Pfui. I’m surprised they haven’t got to you already, though it’s been only eighteen hours. They soon will, even if not through me. I know this is no frolic for you, here with me, but they will almost make it seem so.”
She was thinking. Her brow was wrinkled and her eyes straight at Wolfe. “Do you know,” she asked, “what I think would be the best thing? I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. You’re a detective, you’re an expert at helping people in trouble, and I’m certainly in trouble. I’ll pay you to help me. I could pay you a little now.”
“Not now or ever, Miss Jones.” Wolfe was blunt. “When did Mr. Chaffee tell you that your husband was here looking for you?”
“You won’t even listen to me,” she complained.
“Talk sense and I will. When?”
She edged back on the chair an inch. “You don’t know my husband. He was jealous about me even before we married, and then he was worse. It got so bad I couldn’t stand it, and that was why I left him. I knew if I stayed in Pittsburgh he would find me and kill me, so I came to New York. A friend of mine had come here—I mean, just a friend. I got a job at a modeling agency and made enough to live on, and I met a lot of people. Ross Chaffee was one of them, and he wanted to use me in a picture, and I let him. Of course he paid me, but that wasn’t so important, because soon after that I met Phil Kampf, and he got me a tryout at a night club, and I made it. About then I had a scare, though. A man from Pittsburgh saw me at a theater and came and spoke to me, but I told him he was wrong, that I had never been in Pittsburgh.”
“That was a year ago,” Wolfe muttered.
“Yes. I was a little leery about the night club, in public like that, but months went by and nothing happened, and then all of a sudden this happened. Ross Chaffee phoned me that my husband had come and asked about the picture, and I asked him for God’s sake not to tell him who it was, and he promised he wouldn’t. You see, you don’t know my husband. I knew he was trying to find me so he could kill me.”
“You’ve said that twice. Has he ever killed anybody?”
“I didn’t say anybody; I said me. I seem to have an effect on men.” She gestured for understanding. “They just go for me. And Dick— Well, I know him, that’s all. I left him a year and a half ago, and he’s still looking for me, and that’s what he’s like. When Ross told me he was here I was scared stiff. I quit working at the club because he might happen to go there and see me, and I didn’t hardly leave my apartment until last night.”
Wolfe nodded. “To meet Mr. Talento. What for?”
“I told you.”
“Yes, but then you were merely Miss Jones. Now you are also Mrs. Meegan. What for?”
“That doesn’t change it any. I had heard on the radio about Phil being killed, and I wanted to know about it. I rang Ross Chaffee and I rang Jerry Aland, but neither of them answered, so I rang Vic Talento. He wouldn’t tell me anything on the phone, but he said he would meet me.”
“Did Mr. Aland and Mr. Talento know you had sat for that picture?”
“Sure they did.”
“And that Mr. Meegan had seen it and recognized you, and was here looking for you?”
“Yes, they knew all about it. Ross had to tell them, because he thought Dick might ask them if they knew who had modeled for the picture, and he had to warn them not to tell. They said they wouldn’t, and they didn’t. They’re all good friends of mine.”
She stopped to do something. She opened her black leather bag on her lap, took out a purse, and fingered its contents, peering into it. She raised her eyes to Wolfe. “I can pay you forty dollars now, to start. I’m not just in trouble, I’m in danger of my life, really I am. I don’t see how you can refuse— You’re not listening!”
Apparently he wasn�
�t. With his lips pursed, he was watching the tip of his forefinger make little circles on his desk blotter. Her reproach didn’t stop him, but after a moment he moved his eyes to me and said abruptly, “Get Mr. Chaffee.”
“No!” she cried. “I don’t want him to know—”
“Nonsense,” he snapped at her. “Everybody will have to know everything, and why drag it out? Get him, Archie. I’ll speak to him.”
I got at the phone and dialed. I doubted if he would be back from his session with the DA, but he was. His “hello” was enough to recognize his voice by. I pitched mine low so he wouldn’t know it, not caring to start a debate as to whether I had or had not impersonated an officer, and merely told him that Nero Wolfe wished to speak to him.
Wolfe took it at his desk. “Mr. Chaffee? This is Nero Wolfe…. I’ve assumed an interest in the murder of Philip Kampf and have done some investigating…. Just one moment, please, don’t ring off…. Sitting here in my office is Mrs. Richard Meegan, alias Miss Jewel Jones…. Please let me finish…. I shall of course have to detain her and communicate with the police, since they will want her as a material witness in a murder case, but before I do that I would like to discuss the matter with you and the others who live in that house. Will you undertake to bring them here as soon as possible? … No, I’ll say nothing further on the phone, I want you here, all of you. If Mr. Meegan is balky, you might as well tell him his wife is here. I’ll expect—”
She was across to him in a leap that any young mare might have envied, grabbing for the phone and shrieking at it, “Don’t tell him, Ross! Don’t bring him! Don’t—”
My own leap and dash around the end of the desk was fairly good too. Getting her shoulders, I yanked her back, with enough enthusiasm so that I landed in the red leather chair with her on my lap, and since she was by no means through I wrapped my arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides, whereupon she started kicking my shins with her heels. She kept on kicking until Wolfe finished with Chaffee. When he hung up she suddenly relaxed and was limp, and I realized how warm she felt tight against me.
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