“No, I’m not.” Her eyes were shining but not soft. “All right, I am, but not objectionably. I am Mrs. Damon Fromm. My husband left me a large fortune, including a great deal of New York real estate. I have position and responsibilities. If you report this to the police I would arrange to see the Commissioner, and I don’t think I would be abused, but I would much rather not. If you’ll come to my home at noon tomorrow, I’ll know what—”
“I don’t go to people’s homes.”
“Oh yes, you don’t.” She frowned, but only for an instant. “Then I’ll come here.”
“At noon tomorrow?”
“No, if it’s here, eleven-thirty would be better because I have a one-o’clock appointment. Until then you will not report my coming today. I want to — I must see someone. I must try to find out something. Tomorrow I will tell you all about it — no, I won’t say that. I’ll say this: if I don’t tell you all about it tomorrow you will inform the police if you decide you have to. If I do tell you I will need your advice and I will probably need your help. That’s what the retainer is for.”
Wolfe grunted. His head turned. “Archie. Is she Mrs. Damon Fromm?”
“I would say yes, but I won’t sign it.”
He went to her. “Madam, you tried one imposture and abandoned it only under pressure; this could be another. Mr. Goodwin will go to a newspaper office and look at pictures of Mrs. Damon Fromm, and phone me from there. Half an hour should do it. You will stay here with me.”
She smiled again. “This is ridiculous.”
“No doubt. But under the circumstances, not unreasonable. Do you refuse?”