When a Man Murders…

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“That’s just it,” she declared, trying to keep her voice steady. “We’re not actually married.”

My brows went up. Many a time, seated there at my desk in Nero Wolfe’s office, I have put the eye on a female visitor to estimate how many sound reasons she might offer why a wedding ring would be a good buy, but usually I don’t bother with those who are already hitched, so my survey of this specimen had been purely professional, especially since her husband was along. Now, however, I changed focus. She would unquestionably grade high, after allowing for the crease in her forehead, the redness around her eyes, and the tension of her jaw muscles, tightening her lips. Making such allowances was nothing new for me, since most of the callers at that office are in trouble, seldom trivial.

Wolfe, who had just come down from the plant rooms in the roof and got his impressive bulk settled in his oversized chair behind his desk, glared at her. “But you told Mr. Goodwin—” he began, stopped, and turned to me. “Archie?”

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