An Invitation to a Shooting Party | Chapter 1
“It’s not a divorce! You can’t get a divorce if you’re not married!”
Henrietta Winterbourne was probably the richest, and oldest, and most irascible woman I’d ever met. She didn’t give an inch to anyone. But then, neither did Nero Wolfe.
“Your logic is impeccable, Mrs. Winterbourne,” he said, “but the purpose of language is to clarify, not obfuscate. Your great-grand daughter was married to Henry Cavendish before three thousand people in St. Paul’s cathedral in London more than two years ago. They are married before the eyes of God and man. I specifically informed your secretary that I did not do divorce work and he assured me that the matter did not involve divorce.”
“And it doesn’t!”
“Then permit me to redefine my terms. I do not overturn marriages, whether real or imagined. If you undertook an arduous journey as a result of my imprecision, I apologize.”
Hetty started to say something, something irascible, I suspect, but thought better of it and relaxed back in the big red chair in front of Wolfe’s desk. She clutched her purse and turned her sharp gray eyes on me.
“Well, if you won’t do it, what about this young fellow? He’s just sitting there, not doing a thing.”
She had me on that one. I wasn’t doing a thing, and hadn’t been for three months. It was August of 1935. Unemployment was as high as the Chrysler Building and the detective business was flatter than Jimmy Durante’s hat. Even the Yankees were having a bad year. And now Wolfe was telling the richest woman in America to get out of his office.
“Mr. Goodwin is fully engaged in his capacity as my assistant,” said Wolfe, sharply. There are many ways to rile Wolfe, and one of the best is to suggest that I should be taking orders from anyone but him.
“You are as pigheaded as people say,” said Hetty.
“I am indeed, madam,” said Wolfe. “I am also disinclined to be lectured to in my own home. I consented to see you and now I have done so. Now I must ask you to leave.”
It’s a good bet that no one in her eighty-seven years had ever used that line on Hetty Winterbourne before. She rose up to her full height, which I’m guessing was about five one, even though she had to lean on her stick to do so, and gave Wolfe one hard look.
“You’ll take me as a client, and you’ll do my bidding,” she said.
“That is most unlikely,” growled Wolfe. “Mr. Goodwin will show you to the door.”
I rose from my chair, not quite certain how I was going to handle it. The gallant thing to do was to take Mrs. Winterbourne by the arm, but suppose she wasn’t interested in leaving? There aren’t many things I wouldn’t do for Wolfe, but wrestling an eighty-seven-year-old woman is definitely one of them.
Fortunately, Hetty made it easy on me. By the time I had gotten from behind my desk, she was already turned around and headed out the door.
“Come, Robert,” she said.
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