In my pocket was a plain white envelope, sealed, on which I had written by hand:
Mrs. Morton Sorell
Personal and Confidential
and inside it was a card, also handwritten:
We were seen that evening in the lunchroom as we sat in the booth. It would be dangerous to phone you or for you to phone me. You can trust the bearer of this card.
No signature. It was twelve minutes to eleven when I handed the envelope to the chargé d’affaires at the lobby desk and asked him to send it up, and it still lacked three minutes of eleven when he motioned me to the elevator. Those nine minutes had been tough. If it hadn’t worked, if word had come down to bounce me, or no word at all, I had no other card ready to play. So as the elevator shot up I was on the rise in more ways than one, and when I stepped out at the thirtieth floor and saw that she herself was standing there in the doorway my face wanted to grin at her but I controlled it.
She had the card in her hand. “You sent this?” she asked.
“I brought it.”
She looked me over, down to my toes and back up. “Haven’t I seen you before? What’s your name?”
“Goodwin. Archie Goodwin. You may have seen my picture in the morning paper.”
“Oh.” She nodded. “Of course.” She lifted the card. “What’s this about? It’s crazy! Where did you get it?”
“I wrote it.” I advanced a step and got a stronger whiff of the perfume of her morning bath — or it could have come from the folds of her yellow robe, which was very informal. “I might as well confess, Mrs. Sorell. It was a trick. I have been at your feet for years. The only pictures in my heart are of you. One smile from you, just for me, would be rapture. I have never tried to meet you because I knew it would be hopeless, but now that you have left your husband I might be able to do something, render some little service, that would earn me a smile. I had to see you and tell you that, and that card was just a trick to get to you. I made it up. I tried to write something that would make you curious enough to see me. Please — please forgive me!”
She smiled the famous smile, just for me. She spoke. “You overwhelm me, Mr. Goodwin, you really do. You said that so nicely. Have you any particular service in mine?”
I had to hand it to her. She knew darned well I was a double-breasted liar. She knew I hadn’t made it up. She knew I was a licensed private detective and had come on business. But she hadn’t batted an eye — or rather, she had. Her long dark lashes, which were home-grown and made a fine contrast with her hair, the color of corn silk just before it starts to turn, also home-grown, had lowered for a second to veil the pleasure I was giving her. She was as good offstage as she was on, and I had to hand it to her.
“If I might come in?” I suggested. “Now that you’ve smiled at me?”
“Of course.” She backed up and I entered. She waited while I removed my hat and coat and put them on a chair and then led me through the foyer to a large living room with windows on the east and south, and across to a divan.
“Not many people ever have a chance like this,” she said, sitting. “An offer of a service from a famous detective. What shall it be?”
“Well.” I sat. “I can sew on buttons.”
“So can I.” She smiled. Seeing that smile, you would never have dreamed that she was a champion bloodsucker. I was about ready to doubt it myself. It was pleasant to be on the receiving end of it.
“I could walk along behind you,” I offered, “and carry your rubbers in case it snows.”
“I don’t walk much. It might be better to carry a gun. You mentioned my husband. I honestly believe he is capable of hiring someone to kill me. You’re handsome — very handsome. Are you brave?”
“It depends. I probably would be if you were looking on. By the way, now that I’m here, and this is a day I’ll never forget, I might as well ask you something. Since you saw my picture in the paper, I suppose you read about what happened in Nero Wolfe’s office yesterday. That woman murdered. Bertha Aaron. Yes?”
“I read part of it.” She made a face. “I don’t like to read about murders.”
“Did you read who she was? Private secretary of Lamont Otis, senior partner of Otis, Edey, Heydecker, and Jett, a law firm?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t notice.”
“I thought you might because they are your husband’s attorneys. You know that, of course.”
“Oh.” Her eyes had widened. “Of course. I didn’t notice.”
“I guess you didn’t read that part. You would have noticed those names, since you know all four of them. What I wanted to ask, did you know Bertha Aaron?”
“No.”
“I thought you might, since she was Otis’s secretary and they have been your husband’s attorneys for years and they handled a case for you once. You never met her?”
“No.” She wasn’t smiling. “You seem to know a good deal about that firm and my husband. You said that so nicely, about being at my feet and my pictures in your heart. So they sent you, or Nero Wolfe did, and he is working for my husband. So?”
“No. He isn’t.”
“He’s working for that law firm, and that’s the same thing.”
“No. He’s working for nobody but himself. He—”
“You’re lying.”
“I only allow myself so many lies a day and I’m careful not to waste them. Mr. Wolfe is upset because that woman was killed in his office, and he intends to get even. He is working for no one, and he won’t be until this is settled. He thought you might have known Bertha Aaron and could tell me something about her that would help.”
“I can’t.”
“That’s too bad. I’m still at your feet.”
“I like you there. You’re very handsome.” She smiled. “I just had an idea. Would Nero Wolfe work for me?”
“He might. He doesn’t like some kinds of jobs. If he did he’d soak you. If he has any pictures in his heart at all, which I doubt, they are not of beautiful women — or even homely ones. What would you want him to do?”
“I would rather tell him.”
She was meeting my eyes, with her long lashes lowered just enough for the best effect, and again I had to hand it to her. You might have thought she hadn’t the faintest idea that I was aware that she was ignoring anything, and that I was ignoring it too. She was so damn good that looking at her, meeting her eyes, I actually considered the possibility that she really thought I had made up that card from nothing.
“For that,” I said, “you would have to make an appointment at his office. He never leaves his house on business.” I got a card from my case and handed it to her. “There’s the address and phone number. Or if you’d like to go now I’d be glad to take you, and he might stretch a point and see you. He’ll be free until one o’clock.”
“I wonder.” She smiled.
“You wonder what?”
“Nothing. I was talking to myself.” She shook her head. “I won’t go now. Perhaps... I’ll think it over.” She stood up. “I’m sorry I can’t help, I’m truly sorry, but I had never met that — what was her name?”
“Bertha Aaron.” I was on my feet.