She raised her head to meet my eyes straight. “My boy Pete told me to see Mr. Nero Wolfe,” she said, “and I’ll just wait here till I can see him.” She propped herself against the railing of the stoop.
I backed up and shut the door. Stebbins was at my heels as I entered the office and spoke to Wolfe. “Mrs. Anthea Drossos wants to see you. She says her boy Pete told her to. I won’t do. She’ll camp on the stoop all night if she has to. She might start crying in your presence. What do I do, take a mattress out to her?”
That opened his eyes all right. “Confound it. What can I do for the woman?”
“Nothing. Me too. But she won’t take it from me.”
“Then why the devil — pfui! Bring her in. That performance of yours yesterday — bring her in.”
I went and got her. When I ushered her in Purley was planted back in his chair. With my hand on her elbow because she didn’t seem any too sure of her footing, I steered her to the red leather number, which would have held three of her. She perched on the edge, with her black eyes — blacker, I suppose, because of the contrast with the inflamed lids — aimed at Wolfe.
Her voice was low and a little quavery, but determined. “Are you Mr. Nero Wolfe?”
He admitted it. She shifted the eyes to me, then to Stebbins, and back to Wolfe. “These gentlemen?” she asked.
“Mr. Goodwin, my assistant, and Mr. Stebbins, a policeman who is investigating the death of your son.”
She nodded. “I thought he looked like a cop. My boy Pete wouldn’t want me to tell this to a cop.”