April second?”
She nodded.
“Yes, April second.
That's why. That's the date Mr. McNair's wife died.”
“Indeed.
And his daughter born?”
She nodded again.
“He…he always closes up.”
“And visits the cemetery?”
“Oh, no.
His wife died in Europe, in Paris.
Mr. McNair is a Scotsman.
He only came to this country about twelve years ago, a little after mother and I came.”
“Then you spent part of your childhood in Europe?”
“Most of it.
The first eight years. I was born in Paris, but my father and mother were both Americans.” She tilted up her chin. “I'm an American girl.”
“You look it.”
Fritz brought more beer, and Wolfe poured some.
“And after twenty years Mr. McNair still shuts up shop on April second in memory of his wife.
A steadfast man.
Of course, he lost his daughter also-when she was two, I believe you said-which completed his loss. Still he goes on dressing women…well. Then you won't be there tomorrow.”
“No, but I'll be with Mr. McNair. I…do that for him.
He asked it a long time ago, and mother let me, and I always do it.
I'm almost exactly the same age his daughter was.
Of course I don't remember her, I was too young.”
“So you spend that day with him as a vicar for his daughter.”
Wolfe shivered. “His mourning day.
Ghoulish.
And he puts diamonds on you.
However…you are aware, of course, that your cousin, Mr. Llewellyn Frost, wants you to quit your job. Aren't you?”
“Perhaps I am.
But that isn't even any of my business, is it?
It's his.”
“Certainly. Hence mine, since he is my client.
Do you forget that he hired me?”
“I do not.” She sounded scornful. “But I can assure you that I am not going to discuss my cousin Lew with you.
He means well.
I know that.”
“But you don't like the fuss.” Wolfe sighed.
The foam had gone from his beer, and he tipped a little more in the glass, lifted it, and drank.
I sat and tapped with my pencil on my notebook and looked at Miss Frost's ankles and the hint of shapeliness ascending therefrom.
I wasn't exactly bored, but I was beginning to get anxious, wondering if the relapse germ was still working on Wolfe's nerve centers.
Not only was he not getting anywhere with this hard-working heiress, it didn't sound to me as if he was half trying.
Remembering the exhibitions I had seen him put on with others-for instance, Nyura Pronn in the Diplomacy Club business-, I was beginning to harbor a suspicion that he was only killing time.
At anything like his top form, he should have had this poor little rich girl herded into a corner long ago. But here he was…
I was diverted by the doorbell buzz and the sound of Fritz's footsteps in the hall going to answer it.
The idea popped into my head that Mr. Dudley Frost, not liking the way I had hung up on him, might be dropping around to get his nose straightened, and in a sort of negligent way I got solider in my chair, because I knew Wolfe was in no mood to be wafted away again by that verbal cyclone, and I damn well wasn't going to pass out any more of the Old Corcoran.
But it wasn't the cyclone, it was only the breeze, his son.
Our client. Fritz came in and announced him, and at Wolfe's nod went back and brought him in.
He wasn't alone. He ushered in ahead of him a plump little duck about his own age, with a round pink face and quick smart eyes.