Homicide Trinity by Rex Stout Read Free Book Online

ones, and entered the lobby of the Churchill. I walked instead of flagging a taxi for two reasons: because I had had less than five hours’ sleep and needed a lot of oxygen, especially from the neck up, and because eleven o’clock was probably the earliest Mrs. Morton Sorell, born Rita Ramsey, would be accessible. It had taken only a phone call to Lon Cohen at the
Gazette
to learn that she had taken an apartment at the Churchill Towers two months ago, when she had left her husband’s roof.
    In my pocket was a plain white envelope, sealed, on which I had written by hand:
    Mrs. Morton Sorell

Personal and Confidential
    and inside it was a card, also handwritten:
    We were seen that evening in the lunchroom as we sat in the booth. It would be dangerous to phone you or for you to phone me. You can trust the bearer of this card.
    No signature. It was twelve minutes to eleven when I handed the envelope to the chargé d’affaires at the lobby desk and asked him to send it up, and it still lacked three minutes of eleven when he motioned me tothe elevator. Those nine minutes had been tough. If it hadn’t worked, if word had come down to bounce me, or no word at all, I had no other card ready to play. So as the elevator shot up I was on the rise in more ways than one, and when I stepped out at the thirtieth floor and saw that she herself was standing there in the doorway my face wanted to grin at her but I controlled it.
    She had the card in her hand. “You sent this?” she asked.
    “I brought it.”
    She looked me over, down to my toes and back up. “Haven’t I seen you before? What’s your name?”
    “Goodwin. Archie Goodwin. You may have seen my picture in the morning paper.”
    “Oh.” She nodded. “Of course.” She lifted the card. “What’s this about? It’s crazy! Where did you get it?”
    “I wrote it.” I advanced a step and got a stronger whiff of the perfume of her morning bath—or it could have come from the folds of her yellow robe, which was very informal. “I might as well confess, Mrs. Sorell. It was a trick. I have been at your feet for years. The only pictures in my heart are of you. One smile from you, just for me, would be rapture. I have never tried to meet you because I knew it would be hopeless, but now that you have left your husband I might be able to do something, render some little service, that would earn me a smile. I had to see you and tell you that, and that card was just a trick to get to you. I made it up. I tried to write something that would make you curious enough to see me. Please—
please
forgive me!”
    She smiled the famous smile, just for me. She spoke. “You overwhelm me, Mr. Goodwin, you really do. You said that
so
nicely. Have you any particular service in mine?”
    I had to hand it to her. She knew darned well I was a double-breasted liar. She knew I hadn’t made it up. She knew I was a licensed private detective and had come on business. But she hadn’t batted an eye—or rather, she had. Her long dark lashes, which were home-grown and made a fine contrast with her hair, the color of cornsilk just before it starts to turn, also home-grown, had lowered for a second to veil the pleasure I was giving her. She was as good offstage as she was on, and I had to hand it to her.
    “If I might come in?” I suggested. “Now that you’ve smiled at me?”
    “Of course.” She backed up and I entered. She waited while I removed my hat and coat and put them on a chair and then led me through the foyer to a large living room with windows on the east and south, and across to a divan.
    “Not many people ever have a chance like this,” she said, sitting. “An offer of a service from a famous detective. What shall it be?”
    “Well.” I sat. “I can sew on buttons.”
    “So can I.” She smiled. Seeing that smile, you would never have dreamed that she was a champion bloodsucker. I was about ready to doubt it myself. It was pleasant to be on the receiving end of it.
    “I