Death of A Doxy Read Free Page A

with my eyes closed, trying to decide which one I would rather have, Willie Mays or Sandy Koufax, on my team. The poet, a long-faced specimen with whiskers, who didn’t look hungry, but of course had recently had a good meal, was still going strong, but I had stopped hearing him an hour back. It was just a background noise. At a poke on my shoulder I opened my eyes, and Mimi, the maid, was there. She moved her lips to say “Telephone” without saying it. I pulled myself up and to my feet, went to a door at the corner of the room and on through, crossed to the desk where Lily makes out checks for causes which may be worthy, picked up the phone, and told it, “This is Archie Goodwin.”
    Wolfe’s voice said, “I presume you read about the murder of a woman named Isabel Kerr.”
    I said yes.
    “So did I. Mr. Parker is here. He received a telephone call from Orrie Cather, asking him to come to the police station on Twentieth Street, and he went. Orrie is in custody as a material witness. He gave Mr. Parker some information, not much, and told him to consult you. Why?”
    “Because. Parker’s still there?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
    I hung up, went to the kitchen and told Mimi to tell Lily, went to the foyer for my coat and hat, let myself out, and summoned the elevator. The car was around the corner on Madison Avenue. When I was in it and going, turning to head west, I told my mind it might as well go right on with Willie Mays and Sandy Koufax. There was absolutely nothing else for it to do, and wouldn’t be until I had heard Parker. As I turned into the garage I decided definitely for Willie Mays. Koufax’s arm was too much of a gamble. So I felt I had accomplished something as I walked to the old brownstone, mounted the stoop, let myself in, ditched my coat and hat, and went to the office.
    Nathaniel Parker, the lawyer Wolfe uses when he has to, was in the red leather chair with a bottle of scotch, one of soda, a bowl of ice, and a glass on the stand at his elbow. Wolfe was at his desk, with beer. Since he skips his afternoon session in the plant rooms on Sundays, that is his biggest beer day. I hadn’t seen Parker for a couple of months, and he rose to shake hands. I told Wolfe, “This is going to be worse than listening to poetry,” went to my desk, whirled my chair around, sat, and told Parker, “If you’re going to spring him I’d rather wait till I see him.”
    “It would be a long wait,” Parker said. “I think they’ll keep him. The way they look and talk.”
    “A murder charge?”
    “Not yet, but I think it soon will be. Perhaps tomorrow.”
    Wolfe growled at me, “Did he kill that woman'Was that your personal errand yesterday?”
    “Let’s keep it cool,” I suggested. “If he said to consult me, I have to know exactly how he said it.” To Parker: “If you don’t mind?”
    “Certainly.” The lawyer took a sip and put the glass down. “He didn’t say much. He had refused to answer any questions, any at all, until he saw me. Of course he knows the rules. But also he wouldn’t open up with me. He wouldn’t even tell me if he had known the woman or had any connection with her. He told me just three things. One, he hadn’t killed her and hadn’t been near her or her apartment at any time yesterday. Two, where he had been yesterday. Three, I should see you, and you should decide what to tell me. When I left, it was understood that he would tell them of his whereabouts and movements yesterday and stand mute on everything else, and that I would see him tomorrow, after I had talked with you.”
    “You’re acting for him?”
    “I agreed to, yes. Provisionally until I had seen you.”
    “It’s up to me?”
    “Yes. He said to tell you that he wants you to decide how to handle it.”
    “That’s just dandy. To be trusted like that, I do appreciate it. Excuse me while I rub my nose.” I rubbed it with a fingertip, my eyes focused on the big globe over by the