Free The Mother Hunt by Rex Stout Page B

the baby’s overalls. And the baby came from her house. It’s a small house, no one lived there but her, except the baby. It was there about three months.”
    “Then she’s the mother!”
    “No. For various good reasons, no. I won’t—”
    “But she knows who the mother is!”
    “Probably she did. At least she knew where she got it and who from. But she won’t tell because she’s dead. She was—”
    “Dead?”
    “I’m telling you. After a short talk with her Fridaymorning I left to get to a phone and send for help, and when I got back to the house her car was gone and so was she. I spent three hours searching the house. I’m reporting only the details that you need to understand the situation. Ellen Tenzer never returned to her house. At six o’clock yesterday morning a cop found a dead woman in a parked car—here in Manhattan, Thirty-eighth Street near Third Avenue. She had been strangled with a piece of cord. It was Ellen Tenzer, and it was her car. You would know about that if you read the papers. So she can’t tell us anything.”
    Her eyes were wide. “You mean … she was murdered?”
    “Right.”
    “But what— That’s terrible.”
    “Yeah. I’m describing the situation. If the police don’t already know that I was there and combed the house, including the cellar, they soon will. They’ll know that right after I talked with her she drove away in her car, and that about fourteen hours later she was murdered. They’ll want to know why I went to see her and what was said. The what was said is no problem, since we were alone and she’s dead, but why I went is harder. They’ll know I went to ask about buttons, but why? Who was curious enough about buttons to hire Nero Wolfe? They’ll want the client’s name, in fact they’ll demand it, and if they get it you will be invited to the District Attorney’s office to answer questions. Then they’ll get theories, and probably one of the theories will be that the baby wasn’t left in your vestibule, that’s just your story to account for having it in your house, and investigating that theory will be a picnic. Your friends will get a big kick out of it. The point is—”
    “No!”
    “No what?”
    “I don’t— You’re going too fast.” She was frowning, concentrating. “That’s not a
story.
The baby
was
left in my vestibule.”
    “Sure, but it’s not a bad theory. I’ve known a lot worse. The point is that if we name the client you’ll be in for a little trouble, even if they don’t happen on that particular theory. And if we refuse—”
    “Wait a minute.” Her frown was deeper.
    I waited more than a minute while she sorted it out. “I guess I’m confused,” she said. “Do you mean that woman was murdered on account of—because you went to see her? What you said or something?”
    I shook my head. “That’s not the way to put it. Put it that she was probably murdered—
very
probably— because someone didn’t want her to tell something or do something about the baby that was left in your vestibule. Or put it that if the inquiry about the baby hadn’t been started and got to her, she wouldn’t have been murdered.”
    “You’re saying that I’m responsible for a murder.”
    “I am not. That’s silly. Whoever put the baby in your vestibule with that note pinned to it must have known you would try to find out where it came from. The responsibility for the murder belongs to him, so don’t try to claim it.”
    “I hate it.” She was gripping the edges of the bench. “I
hate
it. Murder. You said I would be
invited
to the District Attorney’s office. The questions, the talk—”
    “There was an if, Mrs. Valdon. If we name the client. I started to add—”
    “Why don’t you call me Lucy?”
    “Tell me to in writing and I will. You’re very giddy for a girl who doesn’t know how to flirt. I started to add,if we refuse to name the client
we
may be in trouble, but that’s our lookout. We would rather not name you,