When he missed with a right swing and had to dance back a step to recover I told him, “Three hours with her…seems like three minutes…huh?” When I sneaked in a swift short punch and had the other one coming up and he had to clinch, I muttered, “In a month or so I’ll be through with her anyway.” At one point, just after he had jolted me good with a solid one over the heart, I thought he was doing some conversing himself. I distinctly heard a voice say, “You might as well pay me now. He shouldn’t try to talk. You can’t talk and fight both.” Then I realized at the edge of my mind that it wasn’t him. The taxi drivers were leaning against the fender of the cab I had paid for, enjoying a free show. I resented that, and, knowing I was in no position to resent anything, shoved it out of the way. The husband apparently had oversize lungs. With no gong to announce intermissions I was beginning to wish I had learned to breathe through my ears, but he didn’t even his mouth open. He just kept coming. I told him, “Even if you put me to sleep…I’ll wake up again…and so will she…not three hours…three days and nights…and it’ll be worth it…” With his right he started a haymaker for my head, practically putting his left in his pocket. He had done that once before, and I had been a tenth of a second too slow. My best punch is a right to the body, the kidney spot, turning my whole weight behind it exactly as if I meant to spin clear on around. When the timing and distance are just right it’s as good as I’ve got. That one clicked.
He didn’t go down, but it softened the springs in his legs, and for an instant his arms were paralyzed. I was on him, in close, sawing with both elbows, my face not six inches from his, and when I saw he was really on the way and perfectly safe for two full seconds, I backed out a little and let him have two more kidney punches. The second one was a little high because he had started down.
I stood over him with my fists still tight and became aware that I was trembling from head to foot and there was nothing I could do about it. I heard the voice of one of the taxi drivers: “Boy, Oh boy. Pretty as a picture! I felt them last two myself.” I looked around. That block was never much populated, and at that time of day was deserted. We hadn’t done any yelping or bellowing. Not a soul was in sight except the two drivers.
“Where’s the lady?” I asked.
“She beat it like a streak when he slammed you up against my car.” He aimed a thumb west. “That way. And I don’t want no argument with you. What the hell, Mac, you’re good enough for the Garden!” I was still trying to catch up on my breathing. The husband rose to an elbow and was evidently on his way up. I spoke to him.
“You goddam married wife-chaser, the second you’re on your feet you get more of the same, or even on one foot. Do you know who lives in this house? Nero Wolfe.
I was taking her to see him on business. Now she’s gone, and damned if I’m going in with nothing, so I’ll take you. Besides, you ought to get brushed off and drink a cup of tea.” He was sitting up, looking the way I felt. “Is that straight?” he demanded. “You were bringing her here to see Nero Wolfe?” “Yes.” Then I’m sorry. I apologize.” He scrambled to his feet. “When it comes to her I don’t stop to think. I could use a drink and I don’t mean tea, and I’d like to take a look in a mirror.” “Then up that stoop. I know where there’s a mirror. Your hat’s there in the gutter.” One of the drivers handed it to him. I followed him up the seven steps and let us in with my key. We hung our things in the hall, and I steered him on to the office. Wolfe was there behind his desk. He took the husband in with a swift glance, then transferred it to me and demanded: “What the devil are you up to now? Is this the young woman who dined with you?” “No, sir,” I said. I was feeling battered but self-satisfied, and I had my breath back. “This is her husband, Mr. Harold Anthony from the financial district, a college man. He tailed her from her office, and tailed her and me clear here, and he thought I was bringing her as a plaything for you. Evidently he knows your reputation. He aimed for my face and missed, on the sidewalk out in front. He has taken lessons and it took me ten minutes or more to nail him, which I did with three kidney punches. He was down flat. Is that correct, Mr.
Anthony?” “Yes,” he said.
“Okay. Scotch, rye, or bourbon?” “Plenty of bourbon.” “We have it. Mr. Wolfe will ask Fritz to bring it. The bathroom is this way.
Come along.” Wolfe’s voice came behind us, “Confound it, where is Mrs. Anthony?” “No soap,” I told him from the bathroom door. “You’ll have to stifle your desires for tonight. She went for a walk. Her husband is substituting for her.”
CHAPTER Thirteen
A few feet from the end of Wolfe’s desk is a roomy and comfortable red leather chair, and next to it on one side is a solid little table made of massaranduba, the primary function of which is as a resting place for checkbooks while clients write in them, Harold Anthony sat in the chair, with a bottle of bourbon at his elbow on the little table, while Wolfe kept at him for over an hour.
Mr. Anthony had a conviction: the stock department of Naylor-Kerr was a hotbed of lust and lechery where the primitive appetites germinated like sweet potato sprouts.
Mr. Anthony had a record: since he had got out of the Army in November he had bopped four assorted men whom he had detected in the act of escorting his wife somewhere, and one of them had gone to a hospital with a broken jaw. He did not know if one of them had been named either Wally or Moore.
Mr. Anthony had an alibi: the evening of December 4 had been spent by him in a bowling alley, with friends. They had quit around eleven-thirty and he had gone home. When Wolfe observed that that would have left him plenty of time to get over to Thirty-ninth Street and run a car over Moore, he agreed without hesitation but added that he couldn’t have had the car, since it had been stolen before eleven-twenty, at which time the owner, coming from the theater, had arrived where he had parked the car and found it gone.
“You appear,” Wolfe commented, “to have followed the accounts of Mr. Moore’s death with interest and assiduity. In newspapers?” “Yes.” “Why were you interested?” “Because the papers had pictures of Moore, and I recognized him as the man I had seen with my wife a few days before.” “Where?” “Getting into a taxi on Broadway, downtown.” “Had you spoken with him?” “Yes, I said something to him, and then I cooled him off.” “Cooled? By what process?” “I knocked him halfway across Broadway and took my wife.” “You did?” Wolfe scowled at him. “What’s the matter with your brain? Does it leak? You said you didn’t know whether one of your wife’s escorts, the ones you bombarded, was named Moore.” “Sure I did.” The husband was not disturbed. “What the hell, I didn’t know then you were going into it.” He was really two different persons. Sitting there with a couple of men, drinking good bourbon, he had poise and he knew the score. I would hardly have recognized him as the wild-eyed infuriated male moose who had lost all self-control at the sight of me helping an assistant chief filer from a taxicab, if it hadn’t been for a band-aid covering a gash on his face. The gash was the result of my having neglected to remember, for a brief moment, that cheekbones are hard on knuckles.
At the beginning, after he and I had finished in the bathroom and returned to the office, he had been suspicious and cagey, even with bourbon in him, until he was satisfied that I really had been bringing Rosa there on business. Then, when he learned that the business was an inquiry into the death of Waldo Wilmot Moore, it took him only a minute to decide that his best line was full and frank co-operation if he wanted any help from us in keeping his wife out of it as far as possible. At least that was the way it looked to me, and by the time we got to his alibi for December 4 I was almost ready to regard him as a fellow being.