If that sounds as if I like myself beyond reason, not so. I am quite aware that I bat close to a thousand on invitations to damsels only because I don’t issue one unless the circumstances strongly indicate that it will be accepted. But that has got me accustomed to hearing yes, and therefore it was a rude shock to listen to her unqualified no. Besides, I had taken the trouble to go upstairs and change to a Pillater shirt and a tropical worsted made by Corley, and there I was, all dressed up.
I concocted three schemes and rejected them, concocted a fourth and bought it, reached for the phone, and dialed the number again. Clara’s voice answered, as it had before. As soon as she learned who it was she got impatient.
“I told you I had a cocktail date! Please don’t—”
“Hold it,” I told her bluntly. “I made a mistake. I was being kind. I wanted to get you out into the nice open air before I told you the bad news. I—”
“What bad news?”
“A woman just told Mr. Wolfe and me that there are five people besides her, and maybe more, who know that you had a key to Alberto Mion’s studio door.”
Silence. Sometimes silences irritate me, but I didn’t mind this one. Finally her voice came, totally different. “It’s a silly lie. Who told you?”
“I forget. And I’m not discussing it on the phone. Two things and two only. First, if this gets around, what about your banging on the door for ten minutes, trying to get in, while he was in there dead? When you had a key? It would make even a cop skeptical. Second, meet me at the Churchill bar at five sharp and we’ll talk it over. Yes or no.”
“But this is so — you’re so—”
“Hold it. No good. Yes or no.”