I had done fine, no question about that. I had set out at nine o'clock Tuesday morning to dig up a client, and by midnight, in only fifteen hours, we had a beaut, not only the president of a big corporation but the corporation itself. To collect a five-figure fee all we had to do was earn it. So first we…
We what? Our big advantage was that we knew Yeager had been killed in that room, and probably no one else knew it but the Perez family and the murderer. We also knew that Yeager had expected female company Sunday evening, since he had ordered caviar and pheasant for midnight delivery. But granting that she had come, it didn't have to be that she had killed him; she might have found him dead on arrival. Taking it from that angle, the way to start would be to get a complete list of the women who had keys. That might be done in a year or so, and the next step would be to find out which one had - Nuts.
Of the three angles to a murder problem - means, opportunity, and motive - you pick the one that seems most likely to open a crack. I crossed off opportunity. Everyone who had keys had opportunity. Then means - namely, a gun capable of sending a bullet through a skull. It had not been found, so the way to go about it was to get a complete list of the people who had keys and also had access to a gun, and then - I crossed off means. Then motive. Having no personal experience of the methods and procedures in a bower of carnality, I wasn't qualified as an expert, but surely they might have aroused strong feelings in any or all of Yeager's guests. Say there had been ten different guests in the last couple of years. Allow them three apiece of husbands, brothers, fathers, and what Wolfe called paramours, and that made forty likely prospects with first-rate motives. I crossed off motive. With means, opportunity, and motive hopeless, all you can do is go fishing. Catch somebody in a lie. Find two pieces that are supposed to fit but don't. Find someone who saw or heard something - for example, someone in that house or that block who had noticed people entering or leaving the basement entrance of Number 156 who didn't appear to belong to the neighborhood. That program might get results if you have four or five good operatives and didn't care how long it took. But since Homicide might uncover a lead to that house any minute, and if they did they would find Fred Durkin there, and the fur would fly, and we would no longer have a client because what he wanted to buy couldn't be had, it wouldn't do. We needed either a genius or a lucky break.
Of course we had a genius, Nero Wolfe, but apparently he hadn't turned his switch on. When he came down from the plant rooms at eleven o'clock he put the day's orchid selection, Calanthe veitchi sandhurstiana, in the vase on his desk, circled to his chair and sat, glanced at his desk calendar, and looked through the morning crop of mail, which was mostly circulars and requests for contributions. He looked at me.
"What's this note on my calendar? Fourteen million, six hundred eighty-two thousand, two hundred thirty-five dollars and fifty-seven cents."
"Yes, sir. I got it from the bank. That's the cash reserve of Continental Plastic Products as shown on their statement dated January thirty-first. I thought you might like to know, and I had nothing else to do. I like to be busy at something."
"Pfui."
"Yes, sir. I agree."
"Have you considered the situation?"
"I have. It's a hell of a note. Yesterday, temporarily, we had too many clients. Two. Today we have one, and it's still too many because we can't possibly fill his order. If you're going to ask me for suggestions, don't bother. The only contribution I can make is worthless."
"What is it?"
"Julia McGee is a liar. You've heard that room described, but you haven't seen it. The man that fixed that room up, namely Yeager, did not have his secretary come there to take dictation. Any odds you want. Not even if she was a lump - he might have wanted to try an experiment - and she isn't. She has some very good points and possibilities, speaking as a satyr. So she lies, but that gets us nowhere. However she spent her evenings with him there, she could have done what she did do, squeal on him, either because the pictures bored her or because she wanted to get solid with the president. As far as the murder is concerned, it's a point in her favor. Having squealed on him, why should she shoot him? Do you want to ask her?"
"No." He took in air, all his barrel would hold, and let it out again. "I was a witling to take the job. All we can do is flounder around in the slush. As evidence of our extremity, it may be that we should find the man who got us into this pickle, despite our conclusion that he didn't know Yeager was dead. How long would it take you?"
"Something between a day and a year."
He made a face. "Or we could try a coup. We confront Mr. and Mrs. Perez with our conviction that they killed Yeager because he had defiled their daughter. We tell them that if the police learn of that room and Yeager's use of it they are probably doomed, as they are. Certainly they can't hope to stay there indefinitely. We offer them a large sum, twenty thousand, fifty thousand - no matter, it will come from that cash reserve - to go to some far corner of the earth, provided they will sign a confession that they killed Yeager because their daughter told them that he had made improper advances to her. They need not admit that the advances were successful; it can even be implied that they were never made, that their daughter had invented them. The confession will be left with us, and we'll get it to the police anonymously after they are safely out of reach. It will not mention that room. Of course the police will find it, but there will be nothing in it to connect it with Yeager. They will assume that it was his, but they can't establish it, and they do not publish assumptions that besmirch a prominent citizen."
"Wonderful," I said with enthusiasm. "It only has two minor flaws. First, since Yeager owned the house, it will be an item in his estate. Second, they didn't kill him. But what the hell, hanging a murder on - "
"That's your opinion."
"With damn good legs under it. I'll concede that you're being gallant, making Maria an inventor instead of a floozy, but it would be even better - "
I was interrupted by the doorbell. Going to the hall, I saw on the stoop what I have in mind, more or less, when I apply the word "lump" to a female. Not a hag, not a fright, just a woman, this one middle-aged or more, who would have to be completely retooled and reassembled before she could be used for show purposes. With her you would have some spare parts left when you finished, for instance the extra chin. Her well-made dark suit and her platinum mink stole were no real help. I went and opened the door and told her good morning.
"Nero Wolfe?" she asked.
I nodded. "His house."
"I want to see him. I'm Ellen Yeager. Mrs. Thomas G. Yeager."
When a caller comes without an appointment, I am supposed to leave him on the stoop until I consult Wolfe, and I do, but this was a crisis. Not only were we up a stump; there was even a chance that Wolfe would be pigheaded enough to try that cockeyed stunt with the Perez family if he wasn't sidetracked. So I invited her to enter, led her to the office and on in, and said, "Mr. Wolfe, Mrs. Yeager. Mrs. Thomas G. Yeager."