“I am not rich myself, Mr. Wolfe. I have some savings. But my brother — if you get her away, if you release him from her — he is truly générlux — excuse me — he is a generous man. He is not stingy.”
“But he isn’t hiring me, and your assumption that she is galling him may be groundless.” Wolfe shook his head. “No. Not a reasonable venture. Unless, of course, your brother himself consults me. If you care to bring him? Or send him?”
“Oh, I couldn’t!” She gestured again. “You must see that isn’t possible! When I asked him about her, I told you, he wouldn’t tell me anything. He was annoyed. He is never abrupt with me, but he was then. I assure you, Mr. Wolfe, she is a villain. You are sagace — excuse me — you are an acute man. You would know it if you saw her, spoke with her.”
“Perhaps.” Wolfe was getting impatient. “Even so, my perception of her villainy wouldn’t avail. No, madam.”
“But you would know I am right.” She opened her bag, fingered in it with both hands, came out with something, left her chair to step to Wolfe’s desk, and put the something on his desk pad in front of him. “There,” she said, “that is one hundred dollars. For you that is nothing, but it shows how I am in earnest. I can’t ask her to come so you can speak with her, she would merely laugh at me, but you can. You can tell her you have been asked in confidence to discuss a matter with her and ask her to come to see you. You will not tell her what it is. She will come, she will be afraid not to, and that alone will show you she has a secret, perhaps many secrets. Then when she comes you will ask her whatever occurs to you. For that you do not need my suggestions. You are an acute man.”
Wolfe grunted. “Everybody has secrets.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “but not secrets that would make them afraid not to come to see Nero Wolfe. When she comes and you have spoken with her, we shall see. That may be all or it may not. We shall see.”
I do not say that the hundred bucks there on his desk in used twenties was no factor in Wolfe’s decision. Even though income tax would reduce it to sixteen dollars, that would buy four days’ supply of beer. Another factor was plain curiosity: would she come or wouldn’t she? Still another was the chance that it might develop into a decent fee. But what really settled it was her saying. “We shall see” instead of “We’ll see” or “We will see.” He will always stretch a point, within reason, for people who use words as he thinks they should be used. So he muttered at her, “Where is she?”
“At my brother’s place. She always is.”
“Give Mr. Goodwin the phone number.”
“I’ll get it. She may be downstairs.” She started a hand for the phone on Wolfe’s desk, but I told her to use mine and left my chair, and she came and sat, lifted the receiver and dialed.
In a moment she spoke. “Doris? Flora. Is Miss Voss around? ... Oh. I thought she might have come down... No, don’t bother, I’ll ring her there.”
She pushed the button down, told us, “She’s up in her office,” waited a moment, released the button, and dialed again. When she spoke it was another voice, as she barely moved her lips and brought it out through her nose: “Miss Bianca Voss? Hold the line, please. Mr. Nero Wolfe wishes to speak with you... Mr. Nero Wolfe, the private detective.”
She looked at Wolfe and he got at his phone. Having my own share of curiosity, I extended a hand for my receiver, and she let me take it and left my chair. As I sat and got it to my ear Wolfe was speaking.
“This is Nero Wolfe. Is this Miss Bianca Voss?”
“Yes.” It was more like “yiss.” “What do you want?” The “wh” and the “w” were off.
“If my name is unknown to you, I should explain—”
“I know your name. What do you want?”
“I want to invite you to call on me at my office. I have been asked to discuss certain matters with you, and—”
“Who asked you?”
“I am not at liberty to say. I shall—”
“What matters?” The “wh” was more off.
“If you will let me finish. The matters are personal and confidential, and concern you closely. That’s all I can say on the telephone. I am sure you—”
A snort stopped him, a snort that might be spelled “Tzchaahh!” followed by: “I know your name, yes! You are scum, I know, in your stinking sewer! Your slimy little ego in your big gob of fat! And you dare to — owulggh!”
That’s the best I can do at spelling it. It was part scream, part groan, and part just noise. It was followed immediately by another noise, a mixture of crash and clatter, then others, faint rustlings, and then nothing. I looked at Wolfe and he looked at me. I spoke to my transmitter. “Hello hello hello. Hello! Hello?”
I cradled it and so did Wolfe. Flora Gallant was asking, “What is it? She hung up?”
We ignored her. Wolfe said, “Archie? You heard.”
“Yes, sir. If you want a guess, something hit her and she dragged the phone along as she went down and it struck the floor. The other noises, not even a guess, except that at the end either she put the receiver back on and cut the connection or someone else did. I don’t — Okay, Miss Gallant. Take it easy.” She had grabbed my arm with both hands and was jabbering, “What is it? What happened?” I put a hand on her shoulder and made it emphatic. “Take a breath and let go. You heard what I told Mr. Wolfe. Apparently something fell on her and then hung up the phone.”
“But it couldn’t! It is not possible!”
“That’s what it sounded like. What’s the number? The one downstairs?”
She just gawked at me. I looked at Wolfe and he gave me a nod, and I jerked my arm loose, sat at my desk, got the Manhattan book, flipped to the Gs and got the number, PL2-0330 and dialed it.
A cultured female voice came. “Alec Gallant Incorporated.”
“This is a friend of Miss Voss,” I told her. “I was just speaking to her on the phone, in her office, and from the sounds I got I think something may have happened to her. Will you send someone up to see? Right away. I’ll hold the wire.”
“Who is this speaking, please?”
“Never mind that. Step on it. She may be hurt.”
I heard her calling to someone, then apparently she covered the transmitter. I sat and waited. Wolfe sat and scowled at me. Flora Gallant stood for a good five minutes at my elbow, staring down at me, then turned and went to the red leather chair and lowered herself onto its edge. I looked at my wristwatch: 11:40. It had said 11:31 when the connection with Bianca Voss had been cut. More waiting, and then a male voice came.
“Hello?”
“Hello.”
“This is Carl Drew. What is your name, please?”
“My name is Watson, John H. Watson. Is Miss Voss all right?”
“May I have your address, Mr. Watson, please?”
“What for? Miss Voss knows my address. Is she all right?”
“I must have your address, Mr. Watson. I must insist. You will understand the necessity when I tell you that Miss Voss is dead. She was assaulted in her office and is dead. Apparently, from what you said, the assault came while she was on the phone with you, and I want your address. I must insist.”
I hung up, gently not to be rude, swiveled, and asked Flora Gallant, “Who is Carl Drew?”
“He’s the business manager. What happened?”
I went to Wolfe. “My guess was close. Miss Voss is dead. In her office. He said she was assaulted, but he didn’t say with what or by whom.”