The Final Deduction

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“Your name, please?”

I asked her only as a matter of form. Having seen her picture in newspapers and magazines at least a dozen times, and having seen her in person at the Flamingo and other spots around town, I had of course recognized her through the one-way glass in the door as I went down the hall to answer the doorbell, though she wasn’t prinked up for show. There was nothing dowdy about her brown tailored suit or fur stole or the hundred-dollar pancake on her head, but her round white face, too white there in daylight, which could be quite passable in a restaurant or theater lobby, could have stood some attention. It was actually flabby, and the rims of her eyes were red and swollen. She spoke.

“I don’t think...” She let it hang a moment, then said, “But you’re Archie Goodwin.”

I nodded. “And you’re Althea Vail. Since you have no appointment, I’ll have to tell Mr. Wolfe what you want to see him about.”

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