Free Too Many Clients by Rex Stout

you'So you could tell my mother'Excuse me, I shut the door.”
    She did, and I didn’t block it. A nice long talk with her would be desirable, but it would have to wait. I went to the elevator and used the other key, stepped in, and was lifted.
    You have expectations even when you’re not aware of them. I suppose I was expecting to find a scared or indignant female sitting on a couch or chair and Fred near at hand with an eye on her. It wasn’t like that. Fred was standing in the center of the room holding up his pants, with two red streaks down his cheek. For a second I thought she wasn’t there; then I saw her head sticking out of the bundle on the floor. It was the yellow silk coverlet from the bed, and she was wrapped in it, with Fred’s belt strapped around the middle. I went and looked down at her, and she glared up at me.
    “She’s not hurt any,” Fred said. “I wish she was. Look at me.”
    The red of the streaks on his cheek was blood. He lifted a hand with a handkerchief and dabbed at it. “You said I wouldn’t have to touch her unless she started it. She started it all right. Then when I went for the phone she went for the elevator, and when I went to head her off she went for the phone. So I had to wrap her up.”
    “Have you told her who you are?”
    “No. I wouldn’t do her that favor. That’s her bag there.” He pointed to a chair. “I haven’t looked in it.”
    A voice came from the bundle on the floor. “Who are you?” it demanded.
    I ignored her and went and got the bag and opened it. With the other usual items, it contained four that were helpful: credit cards from three stores and a driver’s license. The name was Julia McGee, with an address on Arbor Street in the Village. She was twenty-nine years old, five feet five inches, white, brown hair and brown eyes. I put the stuff back in the bag and the bag on the chair, and went to her.
    “I’ll unwrap you in a minute, Miss McGee,” I said. “His name is Fred Durkin and mine is Archie Goodwin. You may have heard of Nero Wolfe, the private detective. We work for him. Mr. Durkin is camped here because Mr. Wolfe wants to have a talk with anyone who comes to this room. I’ll be glad to take you to him. I ask no questions because I’d only have to tell him what you said, and it will be simpler to let him ask them.”
    “Let me up!” she demanded.
    “In a minute. Now that I know who you are and where to find you the situation is a little different. If you grab your bag and head for the elevator I won’t try to stop you, but I advise you to count ten first. There are keys in your bag to the door downstairs and the elevator. If and when the police get to this room they will of course be interested in anyone who had keys and could have been here Sunday night. So it might be a mistake to decline my invitation. Think it over while I’m unwrapping you.”
    I squatted to unbuckle the belt and pull it from under her, and Fred came and took it. I couldn’t stand her up to unwrap her because her feet were inside too. “The easiest way,” I told her, “is to roll out while I hold the end.” She rolled. That thing was ten feet square, and I never have asked Fred how he managed it. When she was out she bounced up and was on her feet. She was quite attractive, perhaps more than normally with her face flushed and her hair tousled. She shook herself, yanked her coat around into place, went and got her bag, and said, “I’m going to phone.”
    “Not here,” I told her. “If you’re leaving alone, there’s a booth at the corner. If you’re going with me, there’s a phone in Mr. Wolfe’s office.”
    She looked more mad than scared, but that’s always a guess with a strange face. “Do you know whose room this is?” she demanded. “I know whose it was. Thomas G. Yeager’s.” “What are you doing here?”
    “Skip it. I not only won’t ask questions, I won’t answer them.”
    “You have no right . . .” She let that go. “I am