Homicide Trinity by Rex Stout Page B

know if a gun has been fired recently you smell it automatically, but it doesn’t mean a thing unless it has just been fired, say within thirty minutes, and there has been no opportunity to clean it. I stood with it in my hand, looking at it, and then put it in a drawer of my desk. Her bag was there on the red leather chair, and I opened it and removed the contents. There were all the items you would expect a womanwho wore Bergmann mink to have with her, but nothing more. I got the gun from the drawer, removed the cartridges, and examined them with a glass, to see if one of them, or maybe two, was brighter and newer than the others. They all looked alike. As I was returning the gun to the drawer the sound came from the elevator descending, its thud at the bottom, and the door opening. They entered, Mrs. Hazen in front, and she crossed to the red leather chair, picked up her bag, turned to Wolfe’s desk, and then turned to me.
    “Where’s the gun?” she asked. “I’m taking it.”
    “There has been a development, Mrs. Hazen.” I was facing her at arm’s length. “I turned on the radio for the news, and he said that—I’ll repeat it verbatim. He said, ‘The body of a mail named Barry Hazen was found this morning in an alley between two buildings on Norton Street in lower Manhattan. He had been shot in the back and had been dead for some hours. No further details are available at present. Mr. Hazen was a public-relations counselor.’ That’s what he said.”
    She was gawking at me. “You’re m-m-m-m—” She started over. “You’re making it up.”
    “No. That’s what he said. Your husband has been shot dead.”
    The bag slipped from her hand to the floor and her face went white and stiff. I had seen people turn pale before, but I had never seen blood leave skin so thoroughly and so fast. She backed up an unsteady step, and I took her arm and eased her into the chair. Wolfe, who had stopped in the center of the room, snapped at me, “Get something. Brandy.”
    I moved, but she said, “Not for me. He said that?”
    “Yes.”
    “He’s dead. He’s
dead?”
    “Yes.”
    She rammed her fists against her temples and pounded them. Wolfe said, “I’ll be in the kitchen,” and turned to go. To him a woman overwhelmed, no matter by what, is merely a woman having a fit, and it’s too much for him. But I said, “Hold it, she’ll be all right in aminute,” and he came and looked down at her, let out a growl, went to his chair, and sat.
    “I want to phone somebody,” she said. “I have to
know.
Who can I phone?” Her fists were in her lap.
    “A shot of brandy or whisky wouldn’t hurt,” I told her.
    “I don’t want anything. Who can I phone?”
    “Nobody.” Wolfe was curt. “Not just now.”
    Her head jerked to him. “Why not?”
    “Because he must first consider whether I should phone—phone the police to report what you have told me. I promised to. Archie. Where’s the gun?”
    “In my desk drawer.”
    “Has it been fired recently?”
    “No telling. If so it’s been cleaned. It’s fully loaded and the cartridges all look alike.”
    “Did she shoot him?”
    That was routine: he merely wanted my opinion as a qualified expert on women. His over-all estimate of me and my relations with females is full of contradictions, but that doesn’t bother him. “For a quick guess,” I said, “no. To make it final I would need facts.”
    “So would I. Did you shoot your husband, Mrs. Hazen?”
    She shook her head.
    “I prefer to hear it if you can speak. Did you shoot him?”
    “No.” She had to push it out.
    “Since my promise was to you, you may of course release me from it. Do you wish me to phone the police?”
    “Not now.” The blood was beginning to creep back into her skin. “You don’t have to now. You won’t ever have to. He’s dead, and I didn’t kill him.” She rose to her feet, not very steady, but not staggering. “That’s all over now.”
    “Sit down.” It was a