“Possibly.” He was peevish. “Ostensibly he intends to do something about Jubé.”
“Where are we?”
He told me. It didn’t take long, since most of the long conversation had been Wolfe’s explanation of our presence. I asked him what the odds were that Danilo was double-crossing the Spirit and actually earning his pay from either Belgrade or the Russians, and he said he didn’t know but that Marko had trusted his nephew without reservation. I said that was jolly, since if Danilo was a louse it would be interesting to see which side he sold us to, and I could hardly wait to find out. Wolfe only growled, whether in Serbo-Croat or English I couldn’t tell.
It was quite a wait. I got up and inspected various articles in the room, asking Wolfe some questions about them, and concluded that if I lived to marry and settle down, which at the moment looked like a bad bet, our apartment would be furnished with domestic products, with possibly a few imports to give it tone, like for instance the tasseled blue scarf that covered a table. I was looking at pictures on the wall when the door opened behind me, and I admit that as I about-faced my hand went automatically to my hip, where I still had the Colt.38. It was only Meta Vukcic. She came in a couple of steps and said something, and Wolfe replied, and after a brief exchange she went out. He reported, without being asked, that she had said that the lamb stew would be ready in about an hour, and meanwhile did we want some goat milk, or vodka with or without water, and he had said no. I protested that I was thirsty, and he said all right, then call her, though he knew damn well I didn’t know how to say “Mrs.”
I asked him. “How do you say ‘Mrs. Vukcic’?” He made a two-syllabled noise without any vowels. I said, “To hell with it,” went to the door at the rear, pulled it open, passed through, saw our hostess arranging things on a table, caught her eye, curved my fingers as if holding a glass, raised the glass to my mouth, and drank. She said something that ended with a question mark, and I nodded. While she got a pitcher from a shelf and poured white liquid from it into a glass, I glanced around, saw a stove with a covered pot on it, a bank of cupboards with flowers painted on the doors, a table set for four, a line of shiny pots and pans hanging, and other items. When she gave me the glass I asked myself if it would be appropriate to kiss her hand, which was well shaped but a little red and rough, decided against it, and returned to the other room.
“I had a little chat with Mrs. Vukcic,” I told Wolfe. “The stew smells good, and the table is set for four, but there are no place cards, so keep your fingers crossed.”
Lily Rowan had once paid a Park Avenue medicine man fifty bucks to tell her that goat milk would be good for her nerves, and while she was giving it a whirl I had sampled it a few times, so the liquid Meta Vukcic had served me was no great shock. By the time I had finished it the room was dark, and I went and turned the switch on a lamp that stood on the tasseled blue table cover, and it worked.
The door opened, and Danilo was back with us, alone. He crossed to the chair facing Wolfe and sat.
“You must excuse me,” he said, “for being away so long, but there was a little difficulty. Now. You said you expect me to help you. What kind of help?”
“That depends,” Wolfe told him, “on the situation. If you can tell me the name of the man who killed Marko, and where he is, that may be all I’ll need from you. Can you?”