Free Death of A Doxy by Rex Stout

I agree with you on jobs like divorce evidence, they’re too grubby. Any job is apt to be if the main point is who has been, or is, or will be, sleeping with whom. But while it’s true that Ballou was probably not paying her rent so he could read poetry to her, that presumably sex was a factor, that’s not the main point and you can ignore it. You can pretend that he might have killed her because she snickered when he pronounced a word wrong.”
    His lips were tight. He breathed three times before he said, “Very well. Bring him.”
    I nodded. “Okay, but I don’t know when or how. I looked him up a little last night. He is not only president of the Federal Holding Corporation, he’s also a director of nine other big outfits. He has a house on Sixty-seventh Street, one at Rhinebeck, and one at Palm Beach. He’s fifty-six years old. He has one married son and two married daughters. I would have to call the bank to learn the size of his stack, and we don’t want to advertise that you have any curiosity about him, but it -“
    “I said bring him.”
    “I heard you. I am explaining that it wouldn’t be advisable to tell the receptionist at his office, and the underling she would pass me to, that a private detective named Nero Wolfe wants to consult him about a matter that is too confidential for any ears but his. Phoning would be even worse. Therefore I must arrange something, and Julie Jaquette will have to be postponed.”
    He grunted. “Any word from Saul?”
    “He phoned at nine o’clock. Fred was with him and they were proceeding. He’ll call around one.”
    “Pfui. A prodigy on a treadmill. Take him off. Give him Miss Jaquette. He will get names from her, and Fred will help with them.” He reached for the mail. “Your notebook. This letter from that ass in Paris will have to be answered.”

Nero Wolfe 42 - Death of A Doxy
    Chapter 7
    At four o’clock that afternoon I stood in the marble lobby of a forty-story financial castle in Wall Street, across from the row of elevators that were marked “32-40.” I was equipped. In my head was a picture of Avery Ballou, acquired from a back number of Fortune magazine at the New York Public Library, and in my pocket was a card. It was like the card I had given William the elevator man ' my name in the middle and Nero Wolfe’s name and address and phone number in smaller type at the bottom ' but I had added something. Typewritten below my name was the information: “There was a diary in the pink bedroom and the police have it.” It filled the space neatly.
    I may have been overdoing it. It was conceivable that not only Ballou’s wife and family, but also some of his friends, and even some of the Federal Holding Corporation personnel, knew how he had spent some of his evenings. But it was likely that they didn’t. Some of the adjectives about him in Fortune were “astute,” “aloof,” “conventional,” and “scrupulous.” I don’t swallow printed adjectives whole, but if that batch was only half right it was going to be ticklish.
    So I spent a hundred minutes down in the lobby instead of going up to the thirty-fourth floor. Anyhow it was better than the upstairs hall at 2938 Humboldt Avenue, especially from five o’clock on, when every elevator unloaded a flock of wrens, a pleasing sight. I know that the wrens who lay eggs don’t flock, but if they used elevators instead of wings they would have to.
    I had looked at my watch at 5:38, and it was two minutes later that Avery Ballou showed. Of those who had been with him in the elevator, one man stayed with him as they went down the lobby, talking. I followed, six steps back, hoping they would separate, and they did, out on the sidewalk. The man went toward Broadway, and Ballou just stood there. I approached, faced him, offered the card, and said, “This will interest you, Mr. Ballou. Is there enough light?”
    For a second I thought he was going to snub it, and so did he, but he looked at my face, the