Death of a Doxy (Crime Line)

When the noon news still had nothing new about murder, I decided it would be silly to sit around all afternoon rassling with the Times, holding my breath for the radio every half-hour, and mounted the two flights to my room. Having already shaved, I had only to change to a clean shirt and one of my four best suits. Downstairs again, I looked in at the kitchen and the office to say I was going. Outside, I headed for the garage on Tenth Avenue where we keep the Heron which Wolfe owns and I drive. On Sundays it is often possible to find a spot to put a car.

At twenty minutes past four I was in a big roomy chair in the living room of Lily Rowan's penthouse on top of a building on 63rd Street, leaning back 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."