Rex Stout_Nero Wolfe 07 by Over My Dead Body Page A

there. It’s gone. There isnothing else gone. I was in favor long ago of having a lock put on—”
    “But my dear.” Miltan looked defensive. “There is no sensible reason that could possibly exist why anyone would want to take that
col de mort
. It was a nice curiosity, but of no particular value.”
    “What’s a
col de mort
?” I asked.
    “Oh, just a little thing.”
    “What kind of a little thing?”
    “Oh, a little thing—look.” He put an arm through the open door of the cabinet and placed a finger upon the point of an épée which was displayed there. “See? It’s blunt.”
    “I see it is.”
    “Well, once in Paris, years ago, a man wanted to kill another man, and he made a little thing with a sharp point, very cleverly, which he could fit over the end of the épée.” He took the weapon from the shelf and dangled it in his hand. “Then, with the thing fitted on, he made a thrust in quarte—”
    He made a lunge at an imaginary victim in my neighborhood, so unexpected and incredibly swift that I side-stepped and nearly tripped myself up, and was perfectly willing to concede him the championship. Just as swiftly he was back to normal position.
    “So.” He smiled, and returned the weapon to its place. “A thrust in quarte gets the heart, theoretically, but that time it was not theory. A member of the police who was a friend of mine gave me the little thing as a curiosity. The newspapers called it
col de mort
. Neck—no, not neck. Collar. Collar of death. Because it fitted the end of the épée like a collar. It was amusing to have it.”
    “It’s gone,” said his wife shortly.
    “I hope not gone.” Miltan frowned. “There is noreason for it to be gone. There has been enough talk of stealing around here. We will find out. We will ask people.”
    “I hope you find it,” I told him. “It sounds cute. Speaking of asking people, I was about to ask you if it would be okay for me to have a little chat with whoever it is that cleans up the fencing rooms.”
    “Why … what for?”
    “Oh, just a little chat. Who does the cleaning?”
    “The porter. But I can’t imagine why you should want—”
    His wife interrupted him, with her eyes on me. “He wants to find out if cigarette stubs and ashes were found in the room where Miss Tormic and Mr. Ludlow were fencing yesterday,” she said calmly.
    I grinned at her. “If you will pardon a personal remark, Mrs. Miltan, I might have known from your eyes that you had that in you.”
    She merely continued to look at me.
    “For my part,” Miltan declared, “I don’t see why you should want to know about cigarette stubs and I don’t see how my wife knew you wanted to. I am slow-witted.”
    “Well, you have to be slow at something, to even up for your speed with that sticker. May I see the porter?”
    “No,” Jeanne Miltan said bluntly.
    “Why not?”
    “It isn’t necessary. I don’t know what is in your mind, but I saw you looking at Miss Tormic, you who were supposed to be here as her friend. If you want to know whether she and Mr. Ludlow were smoking cigarettes, ask her.”
    “I will. I intend to. But how could I do her any harm by discussing the matter with the porter?”
    “I don’t know. You may mean no harm. But this affair of yesterday and today is ended. It was bad. It could have turned out very badly for our business. It is a very delicate matter, the tone of a place like this. A breath may destroy it. Even if you mean no harm to Miss Tormic or to us, I shall tell the porter not to answer your questions if you do see him. I am plain-spoken. Nor may you go to the salle d’armes and inspect the pads to see if the strap of one is broken.”
    “What makes you think I wanted to?”
    “Because I don’t take you for a fool. If you were curious about the smoking, naturally you would also be curious about the broken strap.”
    I shrugged. “Okay. Anyhow, you used the right word. I was just curious. As you know, I’m a detective, and I