Death of a Doxy (Crime Line)

I was inclined to agree, but it was just as well that Wolfe couldn't read my mind by short-wave because he thinks I understand women. She turned and drummed on his chest with her fists and squeaked, "I don't want him to go," and then calmly, no hurry, started to shed her coat. When he had it she told me, "Come on inside," perfectly polite, and headed through an archway. When he had the closet door shut he motioned me on, and I moved.

She had turned on lights and gone to a couch and sat and was biting her lip. I hadn't really seen her, too busy, and as I crossed to a nearby chair I noted that she resembled her sister not at all, with her brown hair and brown eyes and round filled-out face. As I approached she demanded, "Why did you say that?"

"To jar you." I sat. "I had to. Either that or -"

"I mean why do you lie like that about my sister?"

I shook my head. "That line is wasted with me, Mrs. Fleming. We both know it's not a lie, so skip it. It's not important, not to me. I only said it to -"

"Did you know my sister?"

"No. I had never heard of her until yesterday."

"Then how could you know…"

I gave her three seconds, but she let it hang. I flipped a hand. "It's obvious. A showgirl leaves -"

"She was an actress."

"Okay. An actress leaves the theater, takes a three-hundred-dollar apartment, has no job, eats well, dresses well, has a car, uses thirty-dollar perfume. Who wouldn't know? Who doesn't know? That's not important, not now. What's -"

"It is to me. It's the most important thing in the world."

"Now, dear," Fleming said. He was beside her on the couch.

"Well," I said, "if it's that important to you, that's what you want to talk about. Go ahead."

"She was twenty-eight years old. I'm thirty-one. She was only twenty-five when she… stopped work. She was six and I was nine when our mother died, and she was twelve and I was fifteen when our father died. That's why it's so important."

I nodded. "Certainly."

"You're not a newspaper reporter. William told me your name, but I don't remember."

"William's the elevator man," Fleming said.

To him: "Thank you." To her: "My name is Archie Goodwin. I'm a private detective, I work for Nero Wolfe, and I came -"

"You're a detective."

"Yes."