The Missing Chapter

Wolfe had not stipulated the order in which I was to conduct my interviews after I had seen Debra Mitchell, so, in light of La Mitchell’s comments, I opted to call next on Patricia Royce, which meant a trip back downtown. First, though, I stopped for lunch at a little diner on Seventh Avenue near Forty-eighth that I’ve patronized off and on for years. It’s had the same counterman, a gravel-voiced guy named Bennie who’s almost as heavy as Wolfe, since the days when you could ride the Staten Island Ferry for a nickel. The Reuben sandwich was as good as ever, and so was the mince pie, which I chased with a glass of ice-cold milk.

Vinson had given me Patricia Royce’s address, on one of the east-west streets in the East Village between Second and Third Avenues. My watch read twelve-forty-five when the cab dropped me in front of a four-story brick building, which suffered by comparison to recently rehabbed neighbors on either side.

I climbed the seven steps to the dingy foyer and pressed the buzzer next to ROYCE 2-B. After a few seconds, I got a muffled “Yes?”

“My name is Archie Goodwin,” I said into the speaker. “I am here to talk about Charles Childress.” There was a pause, followed by something that might have been “I’ll be down.” The entrance buzzer didn’t sound, so I had no option but to stand in the foyer. While I waited, I tried to slip the key I’d found in Childress’s apartment into the lock, but it didn’t fit. After what probably was two minutes but seemed like ten, a very pale woman with dark blue eyes, sandy hair parted in the center and wearing jeans and a Boston College sweatshirt appeared at the inner door. She could have been anywhere from twenty-five to forty. “What do you want?” she asked through the glass.

“Are you Patricia Royce?”

She nodded, but made no move to open the door.

“I’m investigating Charles Childress’s death,” I said, talking more loudly than I needed to. “May I come in?”

“Are you with the police? I’ve already had one of their Homicide people come to see me.”

“No, I’m a private detective working for Nero Wolfe.” I pulled my laminated P.I.’s license out of my billfold and held it up to the glass.

Patricia Royce shrugged. Then she pulled the door open with a sigh. “I’ve heard of Nero Wolfe, and I guess I might have heard of you, too,” she said. “I don’t know what there is to investigate, but all right. Come on up.” Her tone was hardly enthusiastic, although I didn’t give her a chance to change her mind.

I massaged a slightly bruised ego and followed her up one flight and into a tiny living room furnished in some kind of modern — maybe Danish. We sat, me in a stainless-steel-and-leather chair that didn’t look comfortable and wasn’t, and she on a sofa built for people whose bodies bent only at right angles.

“I appreciate your seeing me,” I told her. “The last few days must have been hard on you.”

“They have,” Patricia Royce said softly, looking at the worn toes of her running shoes. “Do you and your Mr. Wolfe represent some insurance company?”

“No. Our client is an individual, someone who feels Mr. Childress may have been murdered.”

“Really? Why in the world would one think that?” Her face lacked both makeup and animation, although its parts were nicely arranged. There were pale freckles sprinkled across an upturned nose. I’ve always been a sucker for freckles.

“I’m not entirely sure. I understand you found his body.”

She leaned forward and kneaded slender, pale hands between her legs, then looked idly around the room, but never at me. “Am I keeping you from something?” I asked after fifteen seconds, trying to mask the irritation I felt.

“Hmm? Oh — no, no,” she said, acting as though she’d just been awakened. “Yes, I found... Charles. As I told the man from Homicide, and also the one newspaper reporter who called, I had gone to Charles’s apartment — it’s only a few blocks from here — to use his word processor, his PC, you know. I did that fairly often if he was going to be out. I have one of my own, but it hasn’t been working.”

She shook her head several times and looked at the wall above my head. I thought I was losing her again, but she tuned back in. “Last... Tuesday, it was, I had called Charles that morning to find out if I might be able to use his PC; mine has been acting up a lot lately, as I said. He was always very generous about it, and he said he’d be away all afternoon, and all evening, too, until late. I went to his apartment about three, and, well... I, I found him.”

“Where?”

“Is this really necessary?” she pleaded in a broken voice. “Are you aware that I gave the police a long statement?”

“Ms. Royce, I realize this isn’t pleasant, but I’d like to hear it from you.”

She glanced around the room before nodding. “Um, all right. Would you like some coffee?”