Champange for One

He lowered the book. “Confound it,” he said, “I wait to see Mrs Usher not merely because her daughter said she hated her. There is also the fact that she has disappeared.”

“Yes, sir. I didn’t say anything.”

“You looked something. I suppose you are reflecting that we have had two faint intimations of the possible identity of the person who sent that communication to the District Attorney.”

“I wasn’t reflecting. That’s your part. What are the two intimations?”

“You know quite well. One, that Austin Byne told Laidlaw that he had seen Faith Usher at Grantham House. He didn’t name her, and Laidlaw did not regard his tone or ma

I nodded.” So we file it. What’s the other one?”

“Miss Grantham. She gave Laidlaw a bizarre reason for refusing to marry him, that he didn’t dance well enough. It is true that women constantly give fantastic reasons without knowing that they are fantastic, but Miss Grantham must have known that that one was. If her real reason was merely that she didn’t care enough for him, surely she would have made a better choice for her avowed one, unless she despises him. Does she despise him?”

“No.”

“Then why insult him? It is an insult to decline a proposal of marriage, a man’s supreme capitulation, with flippancy. She did that six months ago, in September. It is not idle to conjecture that her real reason was that she knew of his experience with Faith Usher. Is she capable of moral revulsion?”

“Probably, if it struck her fancy.”

“I think you should see her. Apparently you do dance well enough. You should be able, without disclosing our engagement with Mr Laidlaw—”

The phone rang, and I turned to get it, hoping it was Saul to say he needed some keys, but no. Saul is not a soprano. However, it was someone who wanted to see me, with no mention of keys. She just wanted me, she said, right away, and I told her to expect me in twenty minutes.

I hung up and swivelled. “The timing,” I told Wolfe, “couldn’t have been better. Satisfactory. I suppose you arranged it with her while I was out getting Laidlaw. That was Celia Grantham. She wants to see me. Urgently. Presumably to tell me why she insulted Laidlaw when he asked her to marry him, though she didn’t say.” I arose. “Marvellous timing.”

“Where?” Wolfe growled.

“At her home.” I was on my way, and turned to correct it. “I mean her mother’s home. You have the number.” I went.

Since there were at least twenty possible reasons, excluding personal ones, why Celia wanted to see me, and she had given no hint which it was, and since I would soon know anyhow, it would have been pointless to try to guess, so on the way uptown in a taxi that’s what I did. When I pushed the button in the vestibule of the Fifth Avenue mansion I had considered only half of them.

I was wondering which I would be for Hackett, the hired detective or the guest, but he didn’t have to face the problem. Celia was there with him and took my coat as I shed it and handed it to him, and then fastened on my elbow and steered me to the door of a room on the right that they called the hall room, and on through it. She shut the door and turned to me.

“Mother wants to see you,” she said.

“Oh?” I raised a brow.” You said you did.”

“I do, but it only occurred to me after Mother got me to decoy for her. The Police Commissioner is here, and they wanted to see you but thought you might not come, so she asked me to phone you, and I realized I wanted to see you too. They’re up in the music room, but first I want to ask you something. What is it about Edwin Laidlaw and that girl? Faith Usher.”

That was turning the tables. Wolfe’s idea had been that I might manage, without showing any cards, to find out if she was on to our client’s secret, and here she was popping it at me and I had to play ignorant.

“Laidlaw?” I shook my head. “Search me. Why?”

“You don’t know about it?”

“No. Am I supposed to?”

“I thought you would, naturally, since it’s you that’s making all the trouble. You see, I may marry him some day. If he gets into a bad jam I’ll marry him now, since you’ve turned out to be a skunk. That’s based on inside information but is not guaranteed. Are you askunk?”

“I’ll think it over and let you know. What about Laidlaw and Faith Usher?”

“That’s what I want to know. They’re asking questions of all of us, whether we have any knowledge that Edwin ever knew her. Of course he didn’t. I think they got an anonymous letter. The reason I think that, they wanted to type something on our typewriters, all four of them—no, five. Hackett has one, and Cece, and I have, and there are two in Mother’s office. Are you thwarting me again? Don’t you really know?”

“I do now, since you’ve told me.” I patted her shoulder. “Any time you’re hard up and need a job, ring me. You have the makings of a lady detective, figuring out why they wanted samples from the typewriters. Did they get them?”

“Yes. You can imagine how Mother liked it, but she let them.”

I patted her shoulder again. “Don’t let it wreck your marriage plans. Undoubtedly they got an anonymous letter, but they’re a dime a dozen. Whatever the letter said about Laidlaw, even if it said he was the father of her baby, that proves nothing. People who send anonymous letters are never—”

“That’s not it,” she said. “If he was the father of her baby, that would show that if I married him we could have a family, and I want one. What I’m worried about is his getting in a jam, and you’re no help.”

Mrs Irwin had certainly sized her up. She had her own way of looking at things. She was going on. “So now suit yourself. If you’d rather duck Mother and the Police Commissioner, you know where your hat and coat are. I don’t like being used for a decoy, and I’ll tell them you got mad and went.”

It was a toss-up. The idea of chatting with Mrs Robilotti had attractions, since she might be stirred up enough by now to say something interesting, but with Police Commissioner Ski

The whole family was there—Cecil standing over by a window, and Mr and Mrs Robilotti and Commissioner Ski

“Mr Goodwin came up on his own,” Celia said. “I warned him you were laying for him, but here he is. Mr Ski

“We’ve met,” the Commissioner said. His tone indicated that it was not one of his treasured memories. He had acquired more grey hairs above his ears and a couple of new wrinkles since I had last seen him, a year or so back.

“I wish to say,” Mrs Robilotti told me, “that I would have preferred never to permit you in my house again.”

Ski

“Also,” Celia cut in, “he would have hated to ask someone to come and see him and then not invite him to sit down.”

“I agree,” Robilotti said.” Be seated, Goodwin.” I didn’t know he had the spunk.