“This drugstore is at the corner of Arbor Street and Bailey Street. She went in the vestibule at Forty-two Arbor Street and pushed a button, and waited half a minute, and opened the door and entered. That was eight minutes ago. I can’t see the entrance from the booth, so if you want-”
“Did you say Forty-two?”
“Yes.”
“Hold it.” I turned to Wolfe. “Amy Wynn lives at Forty-two Arbor Street.”
“Indeed. This is Nero Wolfe, Miss Bonner. Can you see the entrance from where your car is parked?”
“Yes.”
“Then go to your car. If she comes out, follow her. Mr Goodwin will join you if you’re still there when he arrives. Satisfactory?”
We hung up. We looked at each other. “Nonsense,” Wolfe growled.
“Close to it,” I agreed. “But it’s possible. You told them Wednesday that it could be that one of them was it. If I had voted, Amy Wynn wouldn’t have been my choice, but it’s possible. Simon Jacobs was no athlete. If she had him in a car she could have sunk a knife in him. Certainly Jane Ogilvy would have been no problem. And for Alice Porter she has a double motive-not only to keep her from blabbing the Ellen Sturdevant operation but also to settle the claim Alice Porter has made against
“Pfui.”
“Cramer won’t think it’s phooey if Alice Porter is number three, another homicide in his jurisdiction, and he learns that you had Dol Bonner there in a car with her eye on the door. Your crack about closing your office permanently may turn out-”
The phone rang, and I got it. It was Reuben Imhof. He asked for Wolfe, and Wolfe got on.
