Free Death Times Three SSC by Rex Stout Page B

until six O'clock. "Let's go in and talk it over."

    I suppose I was careless but what he did was so unexpected that he had me before I knew it. Not only did he get his long, bony fingers around my throat, but the strength of his grip indicated that they weren't all bone. I grabbed his wrists, but that was no good; he had the leverage. I ducked and twisted, and broke his hold, but he pressed on in, clutching at me, scratching me on the cheek. I don't like to plug a guy who never learned what fists are for, but I don't like to be scratched, either, so I pushed him back with my left and hooked with my right. He staggered, but the wall kept him from going down.

    "Cut it out," I said curtly. "I don't want to --"

    He hauled off and kicked me! What with my throat hurting when I talked, and the scratch on my cheek, and now this, I hit him harder, the second time, than I intended to. He didn't topple over, he folded up. As if he had melted. Then he didn't move.

    I stooped over for a look at him, and then slid past for an inspection of the premises. The only way I could account for his violent lack of hospitality before he ever knew what I came for was that there was someone else there who wasn't supposed to be. But the place was empty. All there was of it was a bedroom and kitchen and bath. I gave them a glimpse, including the closet and under the bed, and went back to the tenant. He was still out.

    In view of his disinclination even to let me state my intentions, it didn't seem likely that I would get any kind of co-operation from him in my desire to escort him to Wolfe's house, so I decided to wrap him up. He was too big to do anything with in the narrow little hall, and I dragged him into the kitchen. With a length of old clothesline from a kitchen drawer and a roll of adhesive tape from the bathroom cabinet, I soon had him arranged so that he would at least listen to me without kicking and scratching. I was putting the third strip of tape crosswise on his mouth when a bell rang right behind me.

    I jerked up. The bell rang again.

    So that was it. Not that someone was there, but someone was expected. I found the button on the wall that released the door latch downstairs, pushed it several times, took a swift look at the job I had just completed, stepped out and closed the kitchen door, and opened the door to the public hall.

    I heard faint and hesitating footsteps from below on the un-carpeted stairs. Before a head appeared above the landing I had decided it was a woman; and it was. When she got to my level she stopped again, glanced the other way, and then saw me. She was a new one on me. Fifty or maybe a little more, slim and slick, in a mink coat.

    I said politely, "Good evening."

    She asked, with a sort of gasp, "Are you--Philip Tingley?"

    I nodded. "Don't you recognize me?"

    That seemed to hit some mark. "How would I recognize you?" she demanded sharply.

    "I don't know. From my statue in the park, maybe."

    I stood aside from her passage to the door. "Come in."

    She hesitated a second; then pulled her shoulders up as if bracing herself against peril and swept by me. I followed her in and motioned her to the living-bedroom and shut the door. All was dark before me, figuratively speaking, but anyway I could try some fancy groping and stumbling.

    I went up to her. "Let me take your coat. This isn't the sort of chair you're used to, but it'll have to do."

    She shuddered away from me and glanced nervously around. When she sat she let just enough of her come in contact with the shabby, soiled upholstery to call it sitting. Then she looked at me. I have never regarded myself as a feast for the eye, my attractions run more to the spiritual, but on the other hand I am not a toad, and I resented her expression.

    "It seems," I ventured, "that something about me falls short of expectations."

    She made a contemptuous noise. "I told you on the phone that there can be nothing sentimental about me and never has