“I’m dead tired,” she said. “I’m so empty, completely empty. I don’t think I ever-But what is it? Of course it’s something about my husband?”
Either the celebrated lilt of her voice was born in, or she had used it so much and so long that it might as well have been. She looked all in, no doubt of that, but the lilt was there.
“I’ll make it as brief as I can,” Wolfe told her. “Do you know that I have met your husband? That he called on me one day in July?”
“Yes, I know. I know all about it-now.”
“It was to testify about our conversation that day that I was summoned to appear at his trial, by the State. In court this morning, waiting to be called, an idea came to me which I thought merited exploration, and if it was to bring any advantage to your husband the exploration could not wait. So I walked out, with Mr. Goodwin, my assistant, and we have spent the day on that idea.”
“What idea?” Her hands were fists, on the couch for props.
“Later for that. We have made some progress, and we may make more tonight. Whether we do or not, I have information that will be of considerable value to your husband. It may not exculpate him, but at least it should raise sufficient doubt in the minds of the jury to get him acquitted. The problem is to get the information to the jury. It would take intricate and prolonged investigation to get it in the form of admissible evidence, and I have in mind a short cut. To take it I must have a talk with your husband.”
“But he-How can you?”
“I must. I have just called on Mr. Donovan, his attorney, and asked him to arrange it, but I knew he wouldn’t; that was merely to anticipate you. I knew that if I came to you, you would insist on consulting him, and I have already demonstrated the futility of that. I am in contempt of the court, and a warrant has been issued for my arrest. Also I am under subpoena as a witness for the prosecution, and it is improper for the defense counsel even to talk with me, let alone arrange an interview for me with his client. You, as the wife of a man on trial for his life, are under no such prescription. You have wide acquaintance and great personal charm. It would not be too difficult, certainly not impossible, for you to get permission to talk with your husband tomorrow morning before the court convenes; and you can take me with you. Twenty minutes would be ample, and even ten would do. Don’t mention me in getting the permission; that’s important; simply take me with you and we’ll see. If it doesn’t work there’s another possible expedient. Will you do it?”
She was frowning. “I don’t see-You just want to talk with him?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want to tell him?”
“You’ll hear it tomorrow morning when he does. It’s complicated and conjectural. To tell you now might compromise my plan to get it to the jury, and I won’t risk it.”
“But tell me what it’s about. Is it about me?”
Wolfe lifted his shoulders to take in a deep breath, and let them sag again. “You say you’re dead tired, madam. So am I. I would be interested in you only if I thought you were implicated in the murder of Marie Willis, and I don’t. At considerable risk to my reputation, my self-esteem, and possibly even my bodily freedom, I am undertaking a step which should be useful to your husband and am asking your help; but I am not asking you to risk anything. You have nothing to lose, but I have. Of course I have made an assumption that may not be valid: that, whether you are sincerely devoted to your husband or not, you don’t want him convicted of murder. I can’t guarantee that I have the key that will free him, but I’m not a novice in these matters.”
Her jaw was working. “You didn’t have to say that.” The lilt was gone. “Whether I’m devoted to my husband. My husband’s not a fool, but he acted like one. I love him very dearly, and I want-” Her jaw worked. “I love him very much. No, I don’t want him convicted of murder. You’re right, I have nothing to lose, nothing more to lose. But if I do this I’ll have to tell Mr. Donovan.”
“No. You must not. Not only would he forbid it, he would prevent it. This is for you alone.”
She abandoned the prop of her fists and straightened her back. “I thought I was too tired to live,” she said, lilting again, “and I am, but it’s going to be a relief to do something.” She left the couch and was on her feet. “I’m going to do it. As you say, I have a wide acquaintance, and I’ll do it all right. You go on and make some more progress and leave this to me. Where can I reach you?”
Wolfe turned. “Saul’s number, Archie.”
I wrote it on a leaf of my notebook and went and handed it to her. Wolfe arose. “I’ll be there all night, Mrs. Ashe, up to nine in the morning, but I hope it will be before that.”
I doubted if she heard him. Her mind was so glad to have a job that it had left us entirely. She did go with us to the foyer to see us out, but she wasn’t there. I was barely across the threshold when she shut the door.
We went back to the car and headed downtown on Park Avenue. It seemed unlikely that Purley Stebbins had taken it into his head to pay Saul a second call, but a couple of blocks away I stopped to phone, and Saul said no, he was alone. It seemed even more unlikely that Stebbins had posted a man out front, but I stopped twenty yards short of the number and took a good long look. There was a curb space a little further down, and I squeezed the car into it and looked some more before opening the door for Wolfe to climb out. We crossed the street and entered the vestibule, and I pushed the button.
When we left the self-service elevator at the fifth floor Saul was there to greet us. I suppose to some people Saul Panzer is just a little guy with a big nose who always seems to need a shave, but to others, including Wolfe and me, he’s the best free-for-all operative that ever tailed a subject. Wolfe had never been at his place before, but I had, many times over the years, mostly on Saturday nights with three or four others for some friendly and ferocious poker. Inside, Wolfe stood and looked around. It was a big room, lighted with two floor lamps and two table lamps. One wall had windows, another was solid with books, and the other two had pictures and shelves that were cluttered with everything from chunks of minerals to walrus tusks. In the far corner was a grand piano.
“A good room,” Wolfe said. “Satisfactory. I congratulate you.” He crossed to a chair, the nearest thing to his idea of a chair he had seen all day, and sat. “What time is it?”
“Twenty minutes to ten.”
“Have you heard from that woman?”
“No, sir. Will you have some beer?”
“I will indeed. If you please.”
In the next three hours he accounted for seven bottles. He also handled his share of liver pate, herring, sturgeon, pickled mushrooms, Tunisian melon, and three kinds of cheese. Saul was certainly prancing as a host, though he is not a prancer. Naturally, the first time Wolfe ate under his roof, and possibly the last, he wanted to give him good grub, that was okay, but I thought the three kinds of cheese was piling it on a little. He sure would be sick of cheese by Saturday. He wasn’t equipped to be so fancy about sleeping. Since he was the host it was his problem, and his arrangement was Wolfe in the bedroom, me on the couch in the big room, and him on the floor, which seemed reasonable.
However, at a quarter to one in the morning we were still up. Though time hadn’t dragged too heavily, what with talking and eating and drinking and three hot games of checkers between Wolfe and Saul, all draws, we were all yawning. We hadn’t turned in because we hadn’t heard from Helen Weltz, and there was still a dim hope. The other thing was all set. Just after midnight Robina Keane had phoned and told Wolfe she had it fixed. He was to meet her in Room 917 at 100 Centre Street at half-past eight. He asked me if I knew what Room 917 was, and I didn’t. After that came he leaned back in his chair and sat with his eyes closed for a while, then straightened up and told Saul he was ready for the third game of checkers.