Joseph G. had advanced a step and then stiffened. Sybil had left the cushions to sit up straight.
“Such facts,” Wolfe went on, “would of course never properly get to a jury trying a man for the murder of Miss Lauer, but they would be of valid concern to the unofficial explorers of probabilities, and the public would like to know about them. They would like to know whether Miss Florence Hefferan still feels any discomfort from the severe choking she got, and whether the marks have entirely disappeared from her throat. They would want to see pictures of her in newspapers, the more the better. They would—”
“You filthy fat louse!” Sybil cried.
Wolfe shook his head at her. “Not I, Miss Pitcairn. This is the inexorable miasma of murder.”
“By God,” Pitcairn said harshly. He was shaking with fury and trying not to. “I wish I had shot you there today. I wish I had.”
“But you didn’t,” Wolfe said curtly, “and here I am. You will have no secrets left, none of you. If Miss Hefferan has run through the money you paid her and needs more, there will be generous bidders for the story of her life in installments. You see the possibilities. There will even be interest in such details as your daughter’s incorrigible talent for picking quarrels, and your son’s nomadic collegiate career. Did he leave Yale and Williams and Cornell because the curriculum didn’t suit him, or because—”
Without the slightest warning Donald abruptly changed moods. After bouncing up to offer to get Wolfe a drink he had returned to his chair and seemed to be put, but now he came out of it fast and made for Wolfe. I had to step some to head him off. He came against me, recoiled, and started a right for the neighborhood of my jaw. The quicker it was settled the better, so instead of trying anything fancy I knocked his fist down with my left, and with my right slammed the gun fiat against his kidney good and hard. He wobbled, then bent, and doubled up to sit on the floor. I disregarded him to face the others, not at all sure of their limitations.
“Stop!” a voice came from somewhere. “Stop it!”
Their eyes left the casualty to turn to the voice. A woman had come from behind some drapes at the side of a wide arch at the far end of the room, and was approaching with slow careful steps. Sybil let out a cry and rushed to her. Joseph G. went too. They got to the newcomer and each took an arm, both talking at once, one scolding and the other remonstrating. They wanted to know how she got downstairs. They wanted to turn her around, but nothing doing. She kept coming, them with her, until she was only a step away from her son, who was still sitting on the floor. She looked down at him and then turned to me.
“How much did you hurt him?”
“Not much,” I told her. “He’ll be a little sore for a day or two.”
Donald lifted his face to speak. “I’m all right, Mom. But did you hear what—”
“Yes, I heard everything.”
“You come back upstairs,” Joseph G. commanded her.
She paid no attention to him. She was no great treat to look at — short and fairly plump, with a plain round face, standing with her shoulders pulled back, probably on account of her injured back — but there was something to her, especially to her voice, which seemed to come from deeper than her throat.
“I’ve been standing too long,” she said.
Sybil started to guide her to the divan, but she said no, she preferred a chair, and let herself be helped to one and to sit, after it had been moved so that she would be facing Wolfe.
Donald, who had managed to get himself back on his feet, went and patted her on the shoulder and told her, I’m all right, Mom.”
She paid no attention to him either. She was gazing straight at Wolfe.
“You’re Nero Wolfe,” she told him.
“Yes,” he acknowledged. “And you’re Mrs. Pitcairn?”
“Yes. Of course I’ve heard of you, Mr. Wolfe, since you are extremely famous. Under different circumstances I would be quite excited about meeting you. I was behind those curtains, listening, and heard all that you said. I quite agree with you, though certainly you know a great deal more about murder investigations than I do. I can see what we have ahead of us, all of us, if a ruthless and thorough inquiry is started, and naturally I’d like to prevent it if I possibly can. I have money of my own, aside from my husband’s fortune, and I think we should have someone to protect us from the sort of thing you described, and certainly no one is better qualified than you. I would like to pay you fifty thousand dollars to do that for us. Half would be paid—”
“Belle, I warn you—” Joseph G. blurted, and stopped.
“Well?” she asked him calmly, and when she had waited for him a moment and he was silent, she went on to Wolfe.
“Certainly it would be foolish to pretend that it wouldn’t be well worth it to us. As you say, everyone has a past, and it is our misfortune that this terrible crime in our house has made us, again as you say, legitimate objects of inquiry. Half of the fifty thousand will be paid immediately, and the other half when — well, that can be agreed upon.”
This, I thought, is more like it. We now have our pick of going to jail or taking fifty grand.
Wolfe was frowning at her. “But,” he objected, “I thought you said that you heard all I said.”
“I did.”
“Then you missed the point. The only reason I’m here is that I’m convinced that Mr. Krasicki did not kill Miss Lauer, and how the devil can I protect him and you people too? No; I’m sorry, madam; it’s true that I came here to blackmail you, but not for money. I’ve stated my price: permission to remain here, with Mr. Goodwin, and so make my inquiry privately instead of returning to my office and starting the hullabaloo you heard me describe. For as brief a period as possible; I don’t want to stay away from home longer than I have to. I shall expect nothing unreasonable of any of you, but I can’t very well inquire unless I am to get answers — as I say, within reason.”
“A dirty incorruptible blackmailer,” Sybil said bitterly.
“You said a brief period,” Donald told Wolfe. “Until tomorrow noon.”
“No.” Wolfe was firm. “I can’t set an hour. But I don’t want to prolong it any more than you do.”
“If necessary,” Mrs. Pitcairn persisted, “I think I could make it more than I said. Much more. I can say definitely that it will be double that.” She was as stubborn as a woman, and she sure was willing to dig into her capital.
“No, madam. I told Mr. Goodwin this evening that my mind was dominated by a single purpose, and it is. I did not go home to dinner. I fought my way through a snowstorm, at night, over strange and difficult terrain. I entered by force, supported by Mr. Goodwin’s gun. Now I’m going to stay until I’m through, or — you know the alternative.”
Mrs. Pitcairn looked at her husband and son and daughter. “I tried,” she said quietly.
Joseph G. sat down for the first time and fastened his eyes on Wolfe’s face.
“Inquire,” he said harshly.
“Good.” Wolfe heaved a deep sigh. “Please get Mr. and Mrs. Imbrie. I’ll need all of you.”
IX
For the last several minutes, since it had become evident that we were going to be invited to spend the night, I had had a new worry. The plan was that as soon as possible after we had got the halter on them Wolfe would get them all into the kitchen, to show him where Mrs. Imbrie had kept her box of morphine pills, and it seemed to me that the appearance of Mrs. Pitcairn had turned that from a chore into a real problem. How could he expect a woman with a bum back to get up from a chair and go to the kitchen with him just to point to a spot on a shelf, when three other people were available, all perfectly capable of pointing?