If I didn’t know about Wolfe’s obsession with meal schedules, I would have sworn he hadn’t moved since I left. He was in the same position with the same book and the tray with two beer bottles and a glass in the same place on the desk. It even seemed like the beer in the glass was at the same level. “Anybody call?” I asked, dropping into my chair. “Saul? Fred? The mayor? The president?”
“Nobody,” Wolfe said. “Was your meal good?”
I told him it was adequate, and he nodded. After Marko Vukcic’s death, Wolfe had been trustee of Rusterman’s for many years and had paid close attention to the cuisine and the operation. He also had made it a practice to dine there regularly, though he would have preferred being at home. Since the end of his role as trustee, he felt — and I agreed — that the quality of the food had dropped off, although for my money it was still the best spot in town for dinner if you didn’t count an old brownstone on West Thirty-fifth.
“We had flounder tonight,” Wolfe said, keeping his eyes on the book. “It was superb.” He was getting back for my needling in the afternoon.
“Happy to hear it,” I said. “They call fish brain food, don’t they? Any results yet? At the rate we’re moving, Milner will be doing life before we decide whether to take Saul and Fred off the job of interviewing filles de joie.”
Wolfe set his book down and looked at me. “Where did you learn that idiom? I salute your literacy, if not your pronunciation.”
“Let me translate for you,” I said. “It means—”
“I’m aware of what it means,” Wolfe said with a scowl. “As to the translation...” The sentence trailed off and he leaned back slowly in his chair, closing his eyes. I started to say something but checked myself. He sat that way without moving for quite a while, about five minutes, while I watched him, waiting.
Then it happened. At first, it was just a twitch, but soon the rhythm started. His lips began pushing out and in, out and in. I stayed still, but even if I’d said something, he wouldn’t have heard it. When he’s like this, no one and nothing short of a nuclear explosion can reach him. Because I’ve got a thing for timing, I looked at my watch when it started, then went to the liquor cabinet, poured a brandy, and settled in at my desk.
Forty-three minutes and two brandies later, Wolfe opened his eyes, taking several deep breaths. “Bah, I’ve been wearing blinders,” he announced. “The truth has been screaming like a banshee from the housetops, but I’ve kept my ears plugged and my mind closed. The road has been littered with signs, and I’ve ignored them all. Get Saul. Get Fred. Call them off. This has been needlessly prolonged.”
Perhaps by now you’ve figured it out too, but I hadn’t. When Lily first read this, she said she realized what had happened about the same time Wolfe did, but I told her — as I have in the past — that when you’re in the middle of things, the truth isn’t as easy to spot as when you’re paging through a manuscript. And besides, by the time Lily read this, she already knew how the story ended.
I asked Wolfe for some answers, and just as I did, the phone rang; it was Saul. “Archie, I’ve got her,” he said. “She’s right outside the phone booth and scared silly. Does Mr. Wolfe want to see her?”
“Saul,” I told Wolfe, cupping the phone. “Good things seem to be coming in bunches. He says he has the lady you’re looking for, and he wants to know if he should bring her over.”
Wolfe nodded grimly. “Yes, Saul, come ahead,” I told him. “Have you heard from Fred?... Well, if you happen to see him, call him in.” I hung up and swiveled to Wolfe. “Okay, I think I’m beginning to get a glimmer now. Let me tell you where I am, and you can plug the holes.”
For the next twenty minutes, Wolfe did fill some holes, although by then I was starting to add a few things up myself. When the doorbell rang, I went to the hall and could see that she was a redhead, all right, and not very happy. When I swung the door open, Saul introduced her simply as Mindy, and after I took both their coats, they trooped into the office.
Through the years, Wolfe has reluctantly questioned a lot of women, but this was the capper. Mindy was wearing a tight maroon sweater, beige miniskirt, and knee-high white spike-heeled boots, not to mention the long red hair that tumbled down over her shoulders. I put her in the red leather chair, and Saul took one of the yellow chairs.
“I ran into her on Fifth near Sixty-seventh,” Saul told Wolfe. “She didn’t seem interested in talking about anything except business at first. Then when I asked about whether she ever worked up in the Seventies, she started to walk away, swearing at me. I grabbed her, though, and told her I wasn’t with the police, but that I knew a lot of them and might turn her in if she didn’t help. Right, Mindy?”
She cursed and turned to me. “What’s the bit, anyway? Who’s the fat guy? I haven’t given anybody a hassle. To hell with this.” She rose to go, but Saul put a firm hand on her shoulder, and she sat back down. He looked at Wolfe and went on: “Anyway, I got her to tell me that she was up there Wednesday night. With Hubbard. I said that if she didn’t talk to me, it would be worse with the police.”
Wolfe considered Mindy. “Madam, I can’t guarantee you protection, that’s true; but it’s safe to say your chances are better if you come forth voluntarily.”
“But you’re not a cop, right?” Mindy said, uncrossing her legs and sitting up straight in the chair.
“Correct,” Wolfe said. “However, you’re in a spot. We know who you are, and if we report you to the police, it will be far worse than if you admit you spent a portion of last Wednesday night with Mr. Thomas Hubbard.” Wolfe was playing a weak hand; we didn’t in fact have her name — none of us had seen any identification yet. But she was jumpy and knew she couldn’t get out of the house easily. She licked her lips and looked at me with what she thought must have been an appealing expression, but all she got in return was a noncommittal smile.
She turned back to Wolfe and Saul again; the game was over. I poured a brandy and handed it to her, and she took a sip before Wolfe started in. This time, she opened up. Her name was Mindy Ross, from Pennsylvania, and she was twenty-three. She said she’d been in what she called her “current line of work” for eighteen months, all of it in New York. She answered each of Wolfe’s questions about Wednesday night, and her description of what had happened was just as Wolfe had been telling me when Saul called.
If he was feeling smug, Wolfe didn’t show it, though he had every right to be. “Archie, Miss Ross will be staying with us tonight. Show her to the South Room and explain our alarm system to her.”
“Wait a damn minute,” Mindy spat. “Nobody said anything about stayin’ overnight. I’ve got to be out—”
“You don’t have to be anywhere,” Wolfe snapped. “You will stay at least through tomorrow. And you will probably have to make do with men’s pajamas, but if you wish, some fresh clothing can be purchased for you in the morning.”
I was standing next to Mindy now. She looked up at me and then at Wolfe and back at me again. She swore softly and stood, letting me direct her up the stairs to the room on the third floor behind mine where Milner had been the most recent guest. “This is the place,” I said. “We weren’t expecting a guest, but I think you’ll find things in order. Mr. Brenner is the closest to you in size in the house, so I’ll get a pair of pajamas and a robe from him. I’ll also see that you get breakfast in your room, say, at eight-thirty.
“Now, as to what Mr. Wolfe mentioned: When I go to bed, I hit a switch that turns on alarms in this house. One of them is just outside your door, so that if you try to step out into the hall...” I gestured with both hands to show the futility of such a move. “And even if you got out of your room, you wouldn’t know how to open the front door — it’s got a special lock. Any questions?”