I stood across the street from the Hazen house, on 37th Street between Park and Lexington, for a look. It was brick, painted gray with green trim, four stories, narrower than Wolfe’s brownstone, with the entrance three steps down from the sidewalk. I noted those details just for the record, but they weren’t important. What was important was that there was a tiny sliver of light at the lower part of the right edge of one of the three windows on the third floor — a sliver that you might leave if you weren’t quite thorough enough when you arranged a drape.
I didn’t know where Hazen’s room was; that could be it. It could be a Homicide man looking things over, but it wasn’t probable; they had had ten hours. It could be the maid who slept in, but why, at 9:30 at night? Her room certainly wasn’t third floor front. Whoever it was and whatever he was doing, I decided not to interrupt him by ringing. I crossed over, descended the three steps, used the key, opened the door with care, entered, closed it with more care, and stood and listened while my eyes adjusted to the dark. For half a minute there was no sound from any direction; then there was something like a bump from up above, followed by a voice, male, very faint. Unless he was talking to himself there was more than one. Thinking there might be occasion for activity, I took off my overcoat and put it on the floor, and my hat, and then tiptoed along the hall, feeling my way, found the stairs, and started up.
Halfway up I stopped. Had there been another voice, a soprano? There had. There was. Then the baritone again. I went on up, with more care now and slower, keeping to the end of the steps next the wall. In the hall on the second floor there was a little light coming from above, enough to catch outlines. Up the second flight I went even slower, since each step might bring me within range. The voices had stopped, but there were tapping sounds. On the fourth step I could get my eyes to the level of the floor by stretching. The hall was the same as the floor below, and the light was coming from a half-open door at its front end. All I could see inside was a chair and part of a bed and drapes over a window, and the back of a woman’s head over the back of the chair, silvery hair under a black pancake hat.
I might have stayed put until the voices came again, and now I could get words, but a staircase is not a good tactical position, the light was on them, not me, and at the top I would be nearly out of range through the opening. I moved. As I put my weight on the next to last step the tapping stopped and the baritone came. “There’s no sense in this.” I made the landing and across to the wall. The soprano came. “There certainly isn’t, Mr. Khoury.” I started along the wall toward the door. Another female voice came, pitched lower. “I don’t think it’s here. It could be in Lucy’s room, that would be like him.” Then another man’s voice, a deeper one. “All right, we’ll try it,” and the door swung wide and the man was there, on the move.
I’m not proud of the next two seconds. I was alerted and he wasn’t, and I think I am fairly fast. My excuse is that I was in the middle of a careful step, putting my toe down, but anyway he was at me before I was set, and he damn near toppled me. When you’re thrown off balance by impact you only make it worse if you try to get purchase on your way down, so I let myself go, brought my knees up to my chin as I hit the floor, rolled to get my feet at his middle, and let him have it. He was plenty heavy, but it tore him loose and sent him bouncing off the wall. As I sprang to my feet another man was through the door and coming. I sidestepped and ducked, jerking my right back, and hooked him in the kidney. He doubled up and hugged himself, and I kept going to the corner, whirled, had the Marley in my hand, and showed it.
“Come right ahead,” I said, “if you want your skull cracked.”
The first man, the heavy one, was propped against the wall, panting. The smaller one was trying to straighten up. There was a woman in the doorway, the one who had been in the chair, and another one behind her.
“Also,” I said, “this thing is loaded, so don’t try reaching for a cigarette. Inside, everybody, and take it easy. I would prefer to get you in the shoulder or leg, but I’m not a very good shot.”
The heavy man said, “Who are you?”
“Billy the Kid. Come on, into the room, and no gymnastics. Go to the far side and face the wall.”
They moved. As they approached the door the women backed off, and they entered and I followed. The woman with silvery hair started to chatter at me, but I wiggled the gun and told her to go to the wall. When they were there I went over the men from behind, felt no weapons, told them to stay put, and sidestepped to the bed. There were coats and hats on it, and the women’s bags. I had the men tagged; the husky one was Ambrose Perdis, the shipping magnate, whose picture I had seen here and there, and I had heard the other one called Khoury; but I needed introductions to the women. As I opened one of the bags and dumped its contents on the bed Perdis turned around and I spoke. “Hold it. I’m giving you a break. Shall I come and slap you with the gun? Turn around.”
He turned. A leather case from the bag was stuffed with credentials — driver’s license, credit cards, others. Some of them said Anne Talbot and others Mrs. Henry Lewis Talbot. That was the young woman, whose attractions, both from the front and the rear, were so obvious that they had caught my eye even though my eyes were busy. There was a leather keyfold and I snapped it open to inspect the keys, and compared one of them with the key to the house which I had in my pocket. It didn’t match. I returned the items to the bag one by one and picked up the other bag and dumped it. The woman with silvery hair was Mrs. Victor Oliver. There was no key in her bag like the one I had, and nothing of interest. I examined the pockets of the coats, all four of them, and found no key.
As I stepped around the end of the bed I allowed myself a grin at a detail I had observed; they all had gloves on — not rubber ones secured for the occasion, just gloves. “Now that I know your names,” I said, “It’s only fair that you should know mine. Archie Goodwin. I work for a man you may have heard of, Nero Wolfe, the private detective. He has been hired by Mrs. Barry Hazen, and I have her key to the house and her written authority to enter. I need to know which one of you has a key and I’m going to find out. You may turn around, but stay where you are. You will take off your clothes and pile them on the floor, including your shoes and socks or stockings, but I think not your underwear. I’ll see.”
They were facing me at four paces. Anne Talbot said, “I won’t. It’s outrageous.” She was extremely easy to look at.
“Pooh,” I said. “Pretend you’re at the beach or a pool. Do you want me to peel you? Don’t think I wouldn’t.”
“We have no key,” Mrs. Oliver said. She was easy to look away from, with her flabby jowl and little yellow eyes set deep. “The maid let us in. She has gone out, but when she comes back you can ask her.”
“She’ll deny it,” Jules Khoury said. He was the baritone, a wiry swarthy specimen with no hips.
“Look,” I said, “you’re four to one. If you make me do it the hard way it will be rough. I’ll give you two minutes to get your clothes off.” I raised my wrist to see my watch without dropping my eyes. “Start with the gloves. I want them too.”
“Is this necessary?” Perdis demanded. “Is it so important how we got in?”
“Yes. There were no keys in Hazen’s pockets. Twenty seconds gone.”
I am enough of a gentleman to turn my back or at least avert my eyes when a lady is undressing, but one of those ladies might possibly have had a gun on her leg, so I forgot my manners. It took the men twice as long as the women. I decided to let Anne Talbot keep her bra and panties; she would have had no reason to bury the key as deep as that. Mrs. Oliver’s girdle was so tight she couldn’t have slipped a key inside even if she had tried. Khoury had jockeys, no undershirt. Perdis had a baby blue silk altogether, to the knees. I had them turn around, and then used a foot to rake Perdis’ pile across the rug, out of range of a kick.