“Miss Julie Alving?”
“Yes, I’m Miss Alving.”
When Marko had told us about Floyd Whitten’s former love whom he had ditched when he married the boss, I had made a casual mental comment that there was something droll about a man living in sin with a toy buyer, but one look at Julie Alving showed me that such casual comments can be silly. She was forty and looked it, and she was not an eyestopper in any obvious way, but everything about her, the way she walked, the way she stood, her eyes and mouth and whole face, seemed to be saying, without trying or intending to, that if you had happened to be hers, and she yours, life would be full of pleasant and interesting surprises. It wasn’t anything personal, it was just her. I was so impressed, in spite of her age, that I was smiling at her before I knew it.
I spoke. “My name’s Archie Goodwin, Miss Alving, and I work for Nero Wolfe. You may have heard of him? The detective?”
“Yes, I’ve heard of him.” Her voice was a little thin.
“He would like to see you. He would appreciate it very much if you can get away for an hour and come to his office with me. He has something to say to you on behalf of Mrs. Floyd Whitten.”
I thought for a second she was going to topple. The way her head jerked up and then came down again as all her muscles sagged, it was as if I had landed an uppercut. My hand even started to reach, to be there if the muscles really quit, but she stayed upright.
“Mrs. — Mrs. Whitten?” she stammered.
I nodded. “You used to know her husband. Here, sit down.”
She ignored that. “What does she want?”