“Not the receptionist,” he said grimly. “I spoke to her myself about it. Miss Abrams has been with us twenty years, and there’s no question about her.” He was getting some satisfaction from the assurance that there was one around he could trust.
“Then…?” I asked meaningly.
He nodded, more to himself than to me. “I suppose so,” he muttered. He put the report on his desk, just so, nice and square, and gazed down at it, with his palms pressed together, the fingers out straight, rubbing slowly back and forth.
“I suppose so,” he repeated gloomily but not despairingly. His face jerked to me. “I’ll give that some consideration. Disregard it. What about this young woman Moore was hoping to marry-what’s her name?” He fingered to the last page of my report. “Hester Livsey. Did she furnish any-uh, information?” “Nothing to speak of, no. I’ll try her again-that is, if I’m to go on. Do you want me to come back tomorrow?” “Certainly. Why not?” “I just thought, since Naylor’s on to me, and probably by tomorrow noon everybody else will be too-” “That doesn’t matter. Come by all means. I have no more time now, but ring me in the horning around ten. We’ve started this and we’re going through with it.” He reached for a fancy phone thing, a kind I hadn’t seen before, and told it he was ready for a Mr. Whosis, a name I didn’t catch.
I bowed out.
Quitting time at Naylor-Kerr was five o’clock. It was four-fifty-six as I went back down the corridor of the executive offices. On the elevator I said, “Thirty-four,” not on account of any scruple about chiseling the company to the tune of four minutes’ time, but because my hat and coat were in my room.
There was no sign that any visitors had called during my brief absence. Closing the door, I opened the drawer of the cabinet to give things a look, and found that the particles of tobacco were all present and accounted for. I stood by the window a while, going over the developments in my mind, including the talk with Pine, and considered the desirability of phoning Wolfe to suggest that it might be a good plan for me to intrude on Mrs. Jasper Pine before her husband got home from work. I probably would have done that if it hadn’t been for the coolness previously mentioned. Under the circumstances I voted no.
Outside my door I stopped short and surveyed the scene. It was a real shock. The place looked absolutely empty, in spite of all the hundreds of desks and chairs and miscellaneous objects. The girls were gone, and what a difference it made! I stood and gazed around, making one or two quick changes in my philosophy. I decided that until you single one out and she gets personal to you, a hundred girls, or a thousand girls, are just a girl. So it wasn’t accurate to look at that empty room and say to yourself, the girls have gone, the way to say it was, the girl has gone. Nursing a strong suspicion that I had hit on something that was profound enough for three magazine articles or even a book, I made my way to the elevators and down to the street. A taxi in that part of town at that time of day wasn’t to be thought of, so I went to the corner and turned right on Wall Street, headed for the west side subway.
Since I have been in the detective business for over ten years and have done a lot of leg work, naturally I have both tailed and been tailed many times, and when I’m on a case and on the move outdoors it is almost as automatic with me to keep aware of my rear as!t is for everybody to glance in the traffic direction before stepping down from a curb. It rarely happens that I have a tail without knowing it, but it did that time. She must have been in ambush in the downstairs lobby with an eye on the elevators, and followed me crosstown. I am not a loiterer, so she had probably had to trot to keep up. The first I knew of it, there in the home-going throng on the sidewalk, I felt a contact that was not merely a bump or a jostle; it was a firm and deliberate grip on my arm.
I stopped and looked down at her. She was at least nine inches below me. She kept the arm.
“You brute,” I said. “You’re hurting me.” She looked good enough to eat.
CHAPTER Twelve
“You don’t know me, Mr. Truett,” she said. “You didn’t notice me today.” “I’m noticing you now,” I told her. “Let go my arm. People will think I’m the father of your children or I owe you alimony.” That may have been a mistake. It set the tone for my association with her, or at least the beginning of it, and the good view I was having of her made it my responsibility. With her black eyes saying plainly that they ad never concealed anything and didn’t intend to, her lips confirming it and approving of it, and all of her making the comment on geometry that a straight line is the shortest distance between two points but you can’t prove it by me, she was obviously the kind of female that gets nicknamed. In Spain or Italy it would be something like The Rose Petal, and where I live it would be something like The Curves, but the basic idea is the same. That kind is often found in the neighborhood of trouble, or vice versa, and perhaps I should have given that a thought before setting the tone.
Passers-by glancing at us meant nothing to her. The only passer-by she would have been interested in was one she didn’t intend to let pass.
“I want to talk to you,” she stated. She had dimples, so tiny that the angle of light had to be just right to see them.
“Not here,” I said. “Come on.” We moved together. “Did you ever ride on the subway?” “Only twice a day. Where are we going?” “How do I know? I didn’t know we were going anywhere until you just told me.
Maybe ladies’ night at one of my clubs.” I came to a sudden halt. “Wait here a minute. I have to make a phone call.” I stepped into a cigar store, waited a minute or two for a phone booth to be vacated, slid in, and dialed the number I knew best. I knew it wouldn’t be answered by Wolfe himself, since four to six in the afternoon was always reserved for his visit with the orchids up in the plant rooms. It wasn’t.
“Fritz? Archie. Tell Mr. Wolfe I won’t be home to dinner because I’m detained at the office.” “Detained-what?” “At the office. Tell him just like that, he’ll understand.” I went back to the sidewalk and asked The Curves, “About how long a talk do you think we ought to have?” “As long as you’ll listen, Mr. Truett. I have a lot to tell you.” “Good. Dinner? If we eat together I’ll see that it gets paid for.” “All right, that would be nice, but it’s early.” I waved that aside and we aimed for the subway.
I took her to Rusterman’s. For one thing, it was the best grub in New York outside of Wolfe’s own dining-room. For another, the booths along the left wall upstairs at Rusterman’s were so well partitioned that they were practically private rooms. For another, Rusterman’s was owned and bossed by Wolfe’s old friend, Marko Vukcic, and I could sign the check there, whereas if I took her where I must part with cash Wolfe would have been capable of refusing to okay it as expense on the ground that I should have taken her home to eat at his table.
By the time we were seated in the booth I had collected bits of preliminary information, such as that her name was Rosa Bendini and she was assistant chief filer in the Machinery and Parts Section. I had also reached certain conclusions, among them being that she was twenty-four years old, that she had never been at a loss in any environment or circumstances, and that she was eligible as evidence in support of Rerr Naylor’s remark about virgins.