Death of A Doxy by Rex Stout

said, “I suppose Miss Corcoran told you what I said on the phone. Actually it’s a friend of mine who wants to get an Irish wolfhound. She has a place up in Westchester. I live in town, and I guess a city apartment is no place for an Irish wolfhound.”
    “It certainly isn’t.”
    “Somebody told her she should get one from Ireland.”
    “Who told her that?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Whoever it was, he’s a fool. Commercial breeders in Ireland have very inferior stock. The best wolfhound breeder in the world is Florence Nagle in England, but she’s not commercial, and she’s very particular whom she sells to. All good breeders are. Of course I’m not commercial either, I sell only as a very special favor. I love wolfhounds and they love me. When I’m there, eight of them sleep in my bedroom.”
    I smiled nicely. “Does your husband like that?”
    “I doubt if he even knows it. He wouldn’t know a wolfhound from an ostrich. What’s your friend’s name?”
    “Lily Rowan. Her place is near Katonah.”
    “Why does she want a wolfhound?”
    “Well, partly for protection. There are no close neighbors.”
    “That reason’s not good enough. You have to love them. You have to like it when a tail knocks over a vase or a lamp. Does she know that a good male weighs up to a hundred and thirty pounds, and when he rears up he’s six feet six'Does she know that when he leaps at you because he loves you, you go down'Does she know that he has to run three miles a day and you have to tailgate him behind a station wagon'Tell her to get just a dog, a Great Dane or a Doberman.”
    I shook my head. “I don’t think that’s very smart, Mrs. Ballou.”
    “I do. Why not?”
    “Because you ought to realize that Miss Rowan is all set to love an Irish wolfhound. Look at the trouble she’s taking. She finds out about kennels, but that doesn’t satisfy her, and she hears that the person who knows most about it is you, and she gets me to try to see you, because she thinks a man would stand a better chance with you than another woman. I told her she could do it herself by seeing your husband, but she didn’t know if he was interested in wolfhounds. Apparently he isn’t.”
    She closed her eyes and opened them again. “My husband is interested in absolutely nothing but finance and what he calls the structure of economics. What’s the name of that Englishwoman who writes books about it?”
    “Barbara Ward.”
    She nodded. “She might interest him, but no other woman would. What’s your friend’s name?”
    “Lily Rowan.”
    “Yes. I’m tired. You seem to have some sense. Do you think a wolfhound would be happy with her?”
    “I do, or I wouldn’t be here.”
    “Does she want a male or a bitch?”
    “I was told to ask you. Which would you advise?”
    “It depends. I would have to know& she lives in the country?”
    “Not in the winter. She has an apartment in town.” I didn’t add that her penthouse was about four hundred yards from where I was sitting.
    “I would have to see her.” She turned her head. “Celia, have you got that name'Lucy Rowan?”
    Miss Corcoran, at the desk, said yes, she had it, and Mrs. Ballou returned to me. “Tell her to call Miss Corcoran. That’s what she should have done instead of bothering you. I didn’t get your name& it doesn’t matter.” She shut her eyes.
    I arose and stood, thinking it would be better manners to thank her with her eyes open, but they didn’t open, so I said thank you, and she said with her eyes shut, “I thought you had gone.” If I had been an Irish wolfhound I would have wagged my tail as I left the room and knocked something over. Miss Corcoran, who accompanied me to the elevator to see that I entered it, told me that between ten and eleven in the morning would be the best time for Miss Rowan to phone.
    I hadn’t had a decent walk since Saturday, it wasn’t five-thirty yet, and I might as well save taxi fare. But first there was a phone call to