Wolfe rubbed an index finger on the side of his nose. “So we have nothing, other than your supposition, to link Mr. Childress and Miss Royce romantically?”
“All right — so there’s nothing!” Debra snarled through clenched, capped teeth. “But you’re supposed to be the genius. Talk to her. Question her. You can get the truth out of her if anyone can.”
“Madam, what devices would you suggest I utilize? Bullying? Harangue? Intimidation?”
Debra threw up her manicured hands. “You’ve been questioning people for years, for God’s sake. Use whatever works. How much is Horace paying you?”
I hid a smile behind my hand as Wolfe’s eyes grew large. “If you were to reflect upon that question, I believe you would see it as inappropriate,” he parried. This female was clearly pushing her luck.
“I don’t see it as inappropriate at all,” she told him firmly, tilting her head back. “I have some money socked away, a fair amount, actually. As I told Mr. Goodwin when he came to my office, my late uncle was a pioneer in developing a computer chip, and he was generous to me in his will — very generous. Anyway, whatever Horace is paying you, I will top it by a substantial amount. You will find me easy to negotiate with.”
“Your proposal is nonsensical, as you undoubtedly realize,” he declared. “Were I to start changing clients in mid-case, word of such harlequinade would spread, and soon I would be a pariah among those seeking to enlist the aid of a private investigator. Further, what you obviously desire is a resolution in which Miss Royce is found guilty of Mr. Childress’s murder. I do not accept commissions that are contingent upon a specific finding, or that coerce me, however subtly, to reach such a finding. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a prior engagement.” Wolfe rose, dipped his chin in his guest’s direction, and stomped out.
“My God, he’s arrogant,” Debra Mitchell said to me in the wake of Wolfe’s departure.
“He tends toward brevity,” I told her. “Some interpret that as arrogance.”
“Put me down as one of them,” she replied caustically. “Tell me, you did interview Patricia, didn’t you?”
“Yes, not long after I visited you.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “And what did you think of her?”
“She seemed straightforward. Said her relationship with Childress was not a romantic one.”
“Which of course is precisely what she would say. And I’ll bet she also said she was positive he committed suicide, right?”
“Right.”
“Did you find her believable?”
“That’s a tough question,” I responded. “Through the years, I’ve been lied to by experts, and I must admit that a few of them got away with it. But overall, I like to think I’ve got a pretty good batting average when it comes to reading people. On balance, I think she was straight.”
Debra tilted her head back and sent me what I would call a knowing smile. “So she fooled you, too, eh? What did she say about me?”
I gave her my own knowing smile. “I’m not sure you want to hear it.”
“Of course I do, or I wouldn’t have asked.”
“All right. She said she thought Childress was planning to break off his engagement to you.”
Her dark eyes flashed. “That damn, lying — well, I guess I really shouldn’t be surprised.” She was struggling to put a lid on her anger. “What she told you just isn’t true. You can believe that or not.”
I smiled again. “I’ll reserve judgment for now. Anything else?”
“That sounds suspiciously like a dismissal,” she said. “All right, I’ll go quietly. But I appeal to you and your boss to take another look at Patricia Royce.” With that, Debra Mitchell rose, pivoted fluidly, and marched out the door and into the hall. Rarely has anyone departed from the office so gracefully. I only regretted that Wolfe wasn’t there to see it.
Sixteen
The visit from Debra Mitchell on Wednesday was the most exciting event in the brownstone over the next twenty-four hours, unless you count the guy from the elevator construction crew who fell and bruised his arm while getting out of the truck on Thursday morning. He couldn’t have been hurt too badly, though, because after sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee and eating two of Fritz’s freshly baked apple turnovers, he was back on the job.
But things picked up Thursday, in the form of two telephone calls. The first was from LeMaster Gilliam: “Archie, sorry I didn’t get back to you yesterday, but I had to put out a couple of dandy brush fires here, and I didn’t get home until so late that the Letterman show was over. Anyway, that woman you asked about, Clarice Wingfield or Clarice Avery, has not been reported as missing, nor has anyone — living or dead — turned up in the last several weeks who even vaguely resembles the photo you left with me.”
“I guess that’s good news,” I said, thanking him and trying to figure out what to do next. Wolfe’s morale had begun to flag. He didn’t seem overly concerned about our case, and the business with the elevator had gotten his goat. After lunch, he went up to his room instead of heading for the office. Fritz went up twice with beer and reported back to me with some distress that the patient was propped up in bed reading and apparently was going to skip his afternoon session with the orchids. And then a distraught Theodore Horstmann stormed into the office, demanding that I speed up the work on the elevator.
“It’s a pity that you are unhappy,” I told him, “but you’re yapping in the wrong direction; try those fellows working in the shaft. But if I were you, I’d steer clear of the one with the long scar on his left cheek. He looks like he quit smiling permanently the day he learned the truth about Santa Claus. And besides, he banged up his arm this morning when he tripped getting out of the truck.” Theodore didn’t enjoy my stab at humor, but then, I’ve never viewed it as a high priority to keep him amused. He went back up to the plant rooms muttering, and I went back to pondering a strategy.
As I pondered, the phone rang again, and I gave the standard spieclass="underline" “Nero Wolfe’s office, Archie Goodwin speaking.”
“Ah, yes, I was told you would be the one who answered.” It was a raspy but precise male voice. “My name is Pemberton, Claude Pemberton, and I am a member of an organization called PROBE, which stands for—”
“Passionate Roster of Orville Barnstable Enthusiasts,” I put in.
“Ah! I’m so glad that you have heard of us, but I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, our national, dues-paying membership is well over a thousand, and... well, we know from talking to Horace Vinson that Mr. Wolfe is investigating the death of Charles Childress, so doubtless, you and he — Mr. Wolfe, that is — have heard of our existence.”
“That is correct, Mr. Pemberton. What can’we do for you?”
Claude Pemberton cleared his throat. “Well, it actually may be the reverse, which is to say, what we can do for you. Two other members of PROBE and I would like to pay Mr. Wolfe a visit.”
“For what purpose?”
“I would prefer to discuss that with Mr. Wolfe in person, if you and he have no objection, of course.”
“When could you be here?”
“The others are with me now — we all are New Yorkers. We could be there whenever you say, sooner rather than later — preferably this afternoon.”