Champagne for One

I sat down. "That’s about the only thing I left out. For a reason. From the beginning they were on my neck about my thinking it was murder, and if I had told them about her refusing to dance with you they would have thought I was also trying to pick the murderer, and they already had certain feelings about me on account of former collisions. And if you denied it when they asked you about it, they might think I was playing hopscotch. I could always remember it and report it later, if developments called for it."

Wolfe was frowning. "You didn’t report this to me."

"No, sir. Why should I? You weren’t interested."

"I am now. But now, conveniently, her refusal is already explained." He turned to the client. "Did you know Miss Usher would be there before you went?"

"No," Laidlaw said. "If I had I wouldn’t have gone."

"Did she know you would be there?"

"I don’t know, but I doubt it. I think that goes for her too; if she had she wouldn’t have gone."

"Then it was a remarkable coincidence. In a world that operates largely at random, coincidences are to be expected, but any one of them must always be mistrusted. Had you attended any of those affairs previously? Those annual dinners?"

"No. It was on account of Faith Usher that I accepted the invitation. Not to see her-as I said, I wouldn’t have gone if I had known she would be there-just some feeling about what had happened. I suppose a psychiatrist would call it a feeling of guilt."

"Who invited you?"

"Mrs Robilotti."

"Were you a frequent guest at her house?"

"Not frequent, no, just occasional. I have known Cecil, her son, since prep school, but we have never been close. Her nephew, Austin Byne, was in my class at Harvard. What are you doing, investigating me?"

Wolfe didn’t reply. He glanced up at the wall clock: ten minutes past one. He took in a couple of bushels of air through his nose, and let it out through his mouth. He looked at the client, not with enthusiasm.