The Missing Chapter

“He is Swiss, and, not incidentally, he also happens to be the finest chef in the world, no contest,” I snapped back. I know Wolfe has said more than once that a guest is a jewel resting on a cushion of hospitality; but this particular jewel, glittering as she was, had flaws to the degree where I didn’t feel much like playing the role of the hospitality cushion — or doormat.

“I will be gone no more than two minutes; time me on that beautiful watch of yours,” I told her, stepping into the hall and closing the door behind me. If Fritz ever learned that she had called him a Frenchman, it would be all over between them. I vowed to keep silent.

Instead of using the soundproofed connecting door, I walked the eight paces along the hall to the office, where Wolfe was getting settled behind his desk. “Good morning, Archie. Did you sleep well?” he asked as he arranged his seventh of a ton and rang for beer. It was nice to see that even in time of crisis, he held to certain social niceties.

“I slept the sleep of the innocent,” I assured him. “But enough about my somnolence. At this moment, a person who may be a key figure in our current investigation awaits in the front room. I feel it is important that you see this individual.”

He bristled. “Who is she?”

“I don’t recall using a gender-specific pronoun,” I said, trying to look hurt.

“Archie, you are as transparent as the crystal in a Czechoslovakian chandelier. I repeat my question.”

“As we speak, Debra Mitchell cools her very attractive heels next door. She is eager, very eager, to find out how we — make that you — are progressing in the search for the murderer of her fiancé.”

Wolfe scowled. “She is not a client,” he murmured. “Talk to her; tell her we owe her no information and no explanations.”

“Sorry, but I decline. If I did that, we would be turning our backs on a potential resource. As somebody once said, ‘Waste not, want not.’ ”

“That somebody was named Rowland Howard, and he also penned such memorable phrases as ‘Practice what you preach,’ and ‘You never miss the water till the well runs dry,’ “ Wolfe said, his facial expression making it clear what he thought about the wisdom of Mr. Howard.

“Those phrases make sense to me. Shall I bring Miss Mitchell in?”

He made a growling noise but said nothing, a tacit admission of surrender. I went to that soundproofed door connecting the office with the front room, opening it. “Miss Mitchell, Mr. Wolfe will see you now,” I told her over the sudden banging of the elevator crew and a metallic screech overhead I preferred not to contemplate.

The additional minutes spent waiting hadn’t brightened her disposition any. Debra Mitchell marched into the office with smoke coming out of her pretty ears. I motioned her to the red leather chair and made the introductions before sliding in behind my desk. This figured to be interesting.

She wasted no time on preliminaries. Leaning forward, hands cupping one knee, she said: “Mr. Wolfe, last Thursday — six days ago now — Mr. Goodwin came to see me. He told me that you were investigating Charles’s death. I want to know if you’ve made any progress at all.” She kept the tone even, but it was obvious that anger simmered just beneath the surface.

Wolfe considered her through lidded eyes. “You look more intelligent than that.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that I am not to be dragooned,” he said, flipping a palm. “I have a client, and when I have something to report, that individual will be the sole recipient of the information.”

“I am aware of who your client is — Horace Vinson,” Mitchell fired back. “Why do I know that? Because he told me he was coming to you. I know Horace, and I am just as interested as he is — probably more interested — in seeing Charles’s murderer caught.”

“Just so. But I owe you nothing.”

“I had been told you were arrogant, and that it was to be expected because you’re a genius. Well, if you’re so damn brilliant, why, after all this time, do you still fail to see the obvious?”

“Which is?”

“That Patricia Royce murdered him,” she pronounced venomously. “It hardly takes a genius to figure that out. It is entirely possible that Horace is throwing his money away.”

Wolfe eyed her without enthusiasm. “You sing a different tune from the one you warbled to Mr. Goodwin when he visited you last week,” he said after he had drained the beer in his glass. “At that time, you stopped short of accusing Miss Royce of murder. Something to do with the laws of libel and slander, I believe.”

She leaned back and folded her arms, a sour smile creasing her photogenic face. “That was last week, and in that time apparently not the slightest progress has been made, so I’ll chance it now. Besides, what’s the penalty for libeling somebody who’s a cold-blooded murderer? To hell with worrying about it.”

“I know you told Mr. Goodwin why you think Patricia Royce killed your fiancé,” Wolfe said. “But indulge me, please, madam, by repeating that litany.”