Death of a Doxy (Crime Line)

You probably have no strong desire to spend another couple of hours with either Julie Jaquette or Miss Jackson, and I have already reported on the ten names I got from her, so I'll skip it and give you the pleasure of meeting Minna Ballou. The setting and supporting cast were fully up to expectations: the butler who let me in, with keen, careful eyes that sized me up in two seconds; the mat that protected the first six feet of the rug in the reception hall, bigger than the 14-by-26 Keraghan in Wolfe's office; the uniformed maid who turned her nose up as she took my hat and coat; the wide marble stairs; the elevator with red lacquered panels; the middle-aged gray-haired gray-eyed Miss Corcoran, who was there when I stepped out on the fourth floor; the room she took me to, with a desk and typewriter and cabinets to the left, and a couch and soft chairs and a coffee table to the right. Pictures of dogs and horses were spotted around, but my glance caught no picture of Avery Ballou. His wife was stretched out on the couch, on her back, with what I would call a faded red bathrobe reaching down nearly to her ankles. As we entered she turned her head and said, "I hoped you wouldn't come. I'm tired." She pointed to a chair near the foot of the couch. "Sit there."

I obeyed the order and was facing her. She had thin lips and a thin nose, and a twist of her dyed brown hair straggled down her forehead. She was barefooted and her toes bulged. I smiled at her cordially.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" she demanded.

"If you're not too tired," I said, "I suppose Miss Corcoran told you what I said on the phone. Actually it's a friend of mine who wants to get an Irish wolfhound. She has a place up in Westchester. I live in town, and I guess a city apartment is no place for an Irish wolfhound."

"It certainly isn't."

"Somebody told her she should get one from Ireland."

"Who told her that?"

"I don't know."

"Whoever it was, he's a fool. Commercial breeders in Ireland have very inferior stock. The best wolfhound breeder in the world is Florence Nagle in England, but she's not commercial, and she's very particular whom she sells to. All good breeders are. Of course I'm not commercial either, I sell only as a very special favor. I love wolfhounds and they love me. When I'm there, eight of them sleep in my bedroom."

I smiled nicely. "Does your husband like that?"

"I doubt if he even knows it. He wouldn't know a wolfhound from an ostrich. What's your friend's name?"