Over My Dead Body

"She was when I left. It was said she was going to Paris to see old Prince Peter and then to America."

"You're lying."

She looked straight at him. "Sometimes it is necessary to lie. There are some things I can't tell."

"Ha, over your dead body. The curlicues of some old bandit's trade mark engraved on your heart, and what do you get out of it? When do you expect to finish this political errand you're working on?"

She looked at him, at Carla, back at him, and said nothing. "Come, come," he insisted impatiently. "I merely ask when. Is the end in sight?"

"I think so," she admitted. "I think it will be… tomorrow."

"It's past midnight. Do you mean this day?"

"Yes. But I must have that paper. You have no right to keep it. When that imbecile, that Driscoll, made the trouble about his diamonds being stolen, I thought the police might come and search everything, even my room where I live. I thought of you, the American who had adopted me when I was a baby. I had brought the record of adoption with me when I left Zagreb; Mrs Campbell had given it to me before she died. So Carla and I decided the paper would be safer with you than anywhere else, and we decided how to do it so she could easily get it again. Then you refused to help me and she had to return and let you know who I am." She stopped and smiled at him, but she was so anxious that the effort was a little cock-eyed. "I must have that paper now! I must!"

"We'll see. You admit you stole it. So you expect to accomplish your mission this day."

"Yes."

"You realize, of course, that the police won't let you leave New York until they're satisfied their murder case is solved."

"But I… you said yourself my alibi-"

"That doesn't solve the case. Don't you do anything silly. If you do complete your errand, don't try sneaking aboard a ship disguised as a Nereid. Who is Madame Zorka?"

They both stared at him in surprise.

"Well?" Wolfe demanded. "You know her, don't you?"

Carla laughed. It sounded quite natural, as though something really had struck her as funny. Neya said:

"Why… she's nobody. She's a dressmaker."

"So I understand. Where did she get that name-the name of the daughter of King Nikita of Montenegro."

"But Queen Zorka has been dead-"

"I know that. Where did this dressmaker get the name?"

Carla laughed again. "She must have found it in a book."

"Who is she?"

Neya shrugged and upturned her palms. "We know nothing about her."