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“I don’t believe it,” I said.
“Nevertheless,” said Marlowe, “we live in a time in which anything is impossible.”
“I want to see Sol(l)ness.” I told the receptionist at the Trade Winds Foundation, an Oriental dwarf with the face of a depraved cherub.
“Whom shall I say is calling?” she said, winking at me.
“Use your imagination,” I said.
On electronic signal, the smoked glass doors behind her swung open into a simulated Mexican adobe hut. The whirr of tape recorders — six to naked eye going at once — like insects in the air.
Attractive brunette with pleasant smile in peasant blouse, past first bloom and blush, introduced herself with slight trace of East European accent as Madame Sol(l)ness.
“I am looking for a Harvard Sol(l)ness,” I said, taking quick sharp glance at surrounding environs. The detective must see with the eye of the poet.
“Do you mean my husband?”
“If you’re his wife, he’s who I mean.”
“My husband is at present in Mexico collecting new tapes.
Perhaps I can help you. Harvard and I work hand in glove.” She sat down crosslegged on what I assumed was a Mexican rug — the design on it like a treasure map or an algebraic equation — indicating with her head that she wanted me to sit next to her. “In Mexico, my friend, you do as the Mexicans.”
I squatted down next to her. “When did your husband leave Mrs. Sol(l)ness?”
“Call me Katerinka. Please.”
“I’m here on business, Madame Sol(l)ness. Three people are already dead because of something somebody wants. I think the key to it may be in this room.”
She pulled on her skirt, calling attention to her long legs.
“Three isn’t much. Do you think three is an especially large number? Perhaps they were accidents.”
“Does the name Mellisa Markey mean anything to you, Madame Sol(l)ness?”
“The name means nothing to me.”
“She worked for your husband.”
“Oh that Mellisa Markey. You ought to be more specific, Sam.”
I got up and walked behind Madame Sol(l)ness. “Mellisa Markey is dead,” I said dramatically.
She shook her head, denying the undeniable. “Her Spanish wasn’t very good. She had no sense of the conditional.”
“It won’t get any better,” I said. “What kind of work did Mellisa do for your husband, Madame Sol(l)ness?”
“Call me Katerinka. Odds and ends. Interviewing, translating, typing, window dressing. She laughed at his jokes.” The phone rang and Madame Sol(l)ness got up from the rug to answer it. “We live quite simply, my husband and I, as you can see. We admire simplicity. The simple life in our opinion is the good life.” She spoke Spanish on the phone in a high musical voice.
I was impatient. Three people were dead, one of whom I cared about, cared a lot about, and I didn’t know any more about the murderer’s identity than when I had started. “Bad news?” I asked. She was trembling.
“Sansho Dayu is dead,” she said and collapsed. I grabbed her before she hit the floor. “Was your husband responsible?” “We are all in our own way responsible,” she said in a soft familiar voice.
“Tell me what you know,” I said. She smiled slyly, stuck out her tongue. “All right, Madame Sol(l)ness… Katerinka, I’ll tell you. You found out — this was some time ago — that your husband was having a thing with Mellisa so you got him to fire her. Am I right so far?”
“A thing? What means, a thing?”
“He was having his way with her,” I said. “Go on,” she said coldly.
I was guessing wildly. “He fired her, but he didn’t stop seeing her, didn’t stop giving her tapes to translate. You knew because you had them followed or followed them yourself. It wasn’t the sex business that bothered you — you and your husband had an understanding about such matters — it was the tapes and the confidences. It didn’t matter to you that your husband preferred intimacy with other women, but what you wouldn’t put up with was his trusting another woman’s judgment above yours. That was the unforgivable sin, am I right?” Katerinka cleared her throat. “Especially a woman like Mellisa who was in your opinion no more than an ignorant girl.”
“Very interesting,” she said, “your story.”
“Should I continue?”
“How does one stop you?”
“There was a time, several months of time in point of fact, when Mellisa refused to see your husband and you had him, Katerinka, in a manner of speaking, all to yourself. You were happy then.”
“Was I? I don’t remember.”
“But your husband was a persuasive man, Madame S…
Katerinka. Who knew that better than you? He persuaded Mellisa to see him again. You found out about it through one of your spies and the discovery of Sol(l)ness’s infidelity threw you into a fit of rage. Hell has no fury. Am I making sense?” Her eyes were closed and I had to shake her to get an answer.
“Yes no. I don’t think she knew more than one position.”
“Comparisons are invidious,” I said.
She batted her big brown eyes, moistened her lips with a snaky tongue. “Do you think I’m less attractive than that Markey person?”
The next thing I knew I was kissing her, into something beyond the invention of language, my position compromised. “So,” I continued, resisting distraction, “you wanted revenge.” “Yes,” “My first idea was that you followed your husband to Mellisa’s apartment, but then I realized that wasn’t the way you worked.” “Oh yes.” “What you wanted, Katerinka, was both of them out of the way. You knew enough of the operation to write Sol(l)ness’s books without him. And with the business came what was at the end of everybody’s rainbow, the black bird.” “Yes.” “So you turned him over to Stockholm.” “Yes, yes.” “And now comes the really beautiful part.” “Yes.” “You knew your husband’s style so well, inside and out, hand in glove as you say, you could imitate him if.” “Yes.” “Could actually impersonate him if.” “Yes.” “So disguised as Sol(l)ness it was you that took Mellisa out to dinner.” “Yes.” “It was you disguised as Sol(l)ness.” “Yes.” “Who went into her room with her.” “Yes.” “That fateful night.” “Oh yes,” “In her bed the masquerade could no longer.” “Yes.” “Persist.” “Oh yes yes yes yes.” “You.” “Yes.” “Strangled Mellisa until she.” “Yessssssssssssss.” We arrived at the same conclusion.
“Do you love me, Sam?” she asked.
I nodded my head. She was nibbling on an ear, whispering Mexican-Spanish endearments. “I’ll teach you all the Spanish I know,” she said, “We’ll do his books together. I’ll be good to you, Sam. Oh how good I’ll be.”
“No deal,” I said.
“You don’t love me, Sam.”
“If I let you go, Katerinka, every halfway good-looking woman around will take me for a sucker. That’s if I live that long. What’s to stop you from turning me over to Stockholm any time the whim goes through that pretty head of yours?”
She kissed me. Katerinka a persuasive woman with a kiss, turning my head. “You’re kidding, aren’t you Sam?”
“Get your clothes on, Katerinka. I’m turning you over.” “What’s it got you, your precious incorruptibility? You’re a failure, Sam. Look at your clothes. No one dresses that way anymore.”
She didn’t understand. There were things you did and things you didn’t do and if you did the things you didn’t do or didn’t do the things you did, you might as well be led by the nose by whatever Katerinka there was around to lead you. I picked up the phone and asked the operator to get me the police.
“Which police do you want, sir?”