“Very well.” Wolfe regarded her. “You realize, madam, that everything you say will be received skeptically. You are a competent liar. Your offhand denial of acquaintance with Mr. Meegan last night was better than competent. Now. When did Mr. Chaffee tell you that your husband was in town looking for you?”
“I didn’t say Mr. Chaffee told me.”
“Someone did. Who and when?”
She was hanging on. “How do you know someone did?”
He wiggled a finger at her. “I beg you, Miss Jones, to realize the pickle you’re in. It is not credible that Mr. Chaffee couldn’t remember the name of the model for that figure in his picture. The police don’t believe it, and they haven’t the advantage of knowing, as I do, that it was you and that you lived in that house for a year, and that you still see Mr. Chaffee occasionally. When your husband came and asked Mr. Chaffee for the name, and Mr. Chaffee pleaded a faulty memory, and your husband rented an apartment there and made it plain that he intended to persevere, it is preposterous to suppose that Mr. Chaffee didn’t tell you. I don’t envy you your tussles with the police after they learn about you.”
“They don’t have to learn about me, do they?”
“Pfui. I’m surprised they haven’t got to you already, though it’s been only eighteen hours. They soon will, even if not through me. I know this is no frolic for you, here with me, but they will almost make it seem so.”
She was thinking. Her brow was wrinkled and her eyes straight at Wolfe. “Do you know,” she asked, “what I think would be the best thing? I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. You’re a detective, you’re an expert at helping people in trouble, and I’m certainly in trouble. I’ll pay you to help me. I could pay you a little now.”
“Not now or ever, Miss Jones.” Wolfe was blunt. “When did Mr. Chaffee tell you that your husband was here looking for you?”
“You won’t even listen to me,” she complained.