Woman

AMontenegrin Woman

When you think of all the detectives in the world, there's little reason to believe you'd rank Ksenija Vukovi among the great. With thick, midnight-black hair, golden hoop earrings, and several bountiful chins, I agree, the woman doesn't make a great first impression.

And if you catch her on the wrong night . . . well, she might not even make a very good impersonation of a human being.

But put her in her proper element, with a crime to be solved, or a murderer to be tracked, and she performs like the true professional she is, defying all logic in her ability to deal with the guilty.

I first met the woman thirty years ago while in Montenegro, which was then under the domination of the Serbs.

My name is Aldwin Withers. I was in Cetinje on government business, and while performing my government's business I got myself into a little bad business of my own.

So, when my office partner at the embassy whispered the name of Ksenija Vukovi in my ear, I immediately sought the woman out.

*****

I found her living in a small house on a street so banal that I don't even want to remember its name. Truth be told, when she answered the door, I found her aspect so appalling, I'd have fled had it not been for my great faith in my countryman's recommendation.

So, doffing my hat, and communicating in a slovenly Slovic dialect, I told her that I was in a bit of a jam and asked her if I could come inside.

She heaved a deep sigh, which made her multiple chins quiver alarmingly, then retreated to open the door.

"My young man," she said, as she ushered me through a short dark hallway to a smelly kitchen at the back of the house. "What can I do for you? What trouble has this handsome, young stranger entangled himself in?"

After entering the kitchen, I stood, twisting my hat in my hands for several seconds while I eyed the room.

It was square, with an old, black cast-iron stove in one corner. Three doorways opened out of the kitchen, one leading down the hall to the front door, the direction from which we'd come. Another door with a window apparently led to the back alley. A third door, filled with strands of beads, offered the third entrance to the room.

What lay behind that doorway I couldn't imagine, but there was an Orthodox icon pinned to the wall above it. Despite the evidence of poverty, the room was clean. Its only objection was that it was filled with the odor of boiled cabbages and cooking sausages.

"Well, actually," I said, seating myself across from her at her narrow, wooden kitchen table, "it's my sister who's really in hot water. You see, we're in the world on our own now. Mom and Dad are dead. But at least they left us well provided for -- financially."

"Ah, money," Ksenija muttered. "It is a two-sided sword. Those who have it must worry about losing it. Those who don't have it must worry about getting some. It's a very old tale, my young friend."

"Yes. Well, you see, that's just it. We've lost it. No, actually, I've still got mine, but Libby, that's my sister, she met a man . . ."

"And now the man has her money," Ksenija concluded, her double chins puffing in and out with each rise and fall of her nodding head. "That, too, is an old story, my young man."

"Well, it's not really Libby's fault. She's awfully young, and I suppose I should have filled her in about men, but it never occurred to me anyone would try to . . . or . . . er. . . ever be able to con her out of anything."

I rubbed my hand through my hair as I spoke. The truth was I felt darned guilty about letting Libby run around without any brotherly oversight.

Then, I almost wondered if Ksenija had second sight as a slow smile spread across her ample face.

"So tell me, my young friend, where did this happen?"

"Here. Right here. Libby came over with me when I got this government assignment."

"Then, your sister has lost nothing at all, assuming you have the man's name and know where to find him," she said with finality, her ample arms crossed across her ample bosom.

My jaw dropped.

I'd hoped this woman would find proof to take to a court of law -- evidence of a crime that could be reversed by a higher authority.

But to be told my sister had lost nothing was to push credulity too far.

"You doubt me, my young friend. Well, you're not the first. Tell me, do you know anything about New York City?"

"I guess so. I live there."

"Ah, then you've heard of that great detective, Nero Wolfe." She sat back in her chair and even in the dark kitchen I could see a strange glimmer in her eyes.

"No. I don't think I've ever heard of him."

The glimmer faded, her face turned rigid, and her ample form shifted restlessly on her chair.

"No matter," she said with a wave of her hand, which set off the clanks of bracelets jangling together. "But when you return to New York City, as one day you will, you must make a point to learn about him. He is the greatest detective alive."

She leaned forward, her face shifting from its iron mask into mildly amused curiosity.

"So, now. You tell me the name of this gigolo, this defiler of your sister's inheritance. We must work quickly before this man flees with his ill-gotten gain, yes?"

So, I filled her in the best I could. When I'd finished, she rang a small brass bell, which had been sitting on the table beside her right hand.

A young man, dark and slender, darted into the room from behind the beaded curtain. She spoke to him rapidly in her native tongue for a moment or two -- so quickly I couldn't catch a word of the exchange. After he'd nodded and departed, she returned to gaze to me.

"Good," she said. "It is all but done. You come back this evening. Your sister's money will be here. Every penny. I guarantee it."

She rose from her chair, her loose cotton top undulating casually across her swaying chest as she heaved herself upright.

I stood up, too, still clutching my hat, and inclined to never believe anything my officemate told me again.

"Well, thank you," I said, pushing forward my right hand.

She dismissed the gesture with a wave of her hand and wordlessly led me back through the home's narrow hallway to the door.

"You come back tonight," she said, after I'd quickly stepped through the doorway, glad to be out of her dark, oppressive home.

"To doubt me is a mistake," she called before breaking out into great peals of laughter. "You shall see."

*****

Since I'd taken a full day off of work and I had to do something with my time, I decided to have lunch and then drop in to Libby's rooms to see how she was bearing up.

I hadn't told her about Ksenija or that I was going to try to get the money back.

I figured if I was about to make a fool of myself -- or worse -- it might be a good idea if Libby knew where I was going that night and with whom I was meeting.

Libby was in sad shape when she finally answered my pounding on her hotel door that day.

Usually, elegant, coolly reserved, my sister came to the door barefoot, with her golden hair rumpled into a lopsided pile on top of her head and puffy, red eyes making a mess of her otherwise quite orderly and, if I may say so, usually lovely face.

"Awe, jeez, Libby, don't take it so hard," I said, proceeding into the hotel suite and flipping my hat onto her red-brocade couch.

"I've told you I'm gonna set this right, and I am." I threw myself into one of the room's overstuffed chairs and tossed my right leg over the chair arm.

"Oh, that's easy for you to say. You're not the one out one-hundred grand." She tromped across the room to the fireplace mantle, grabbed a cigarette, and lighted it with her sterling silver lighter -- the one Mom and Dad had given her for her twenty-first birthday.

"I thought it'd be fun in Montenegro. I thought I'd set heads awhirl, dancing at Embassy balls, trading tete-a-tete's with crowned heads,maybe even meeting and impressing some young nobleman. How'd I know there'd be some sharpster over here out to bilk me out of my inheritance?"

Yeah, I thought, I guess your brother really loused it up by not telling you about the wolves who can sometimes walk into our lives. But then, I hadn't really expected it to happen.

Truth was, I wasn't all that much more savvy about life than Libby, despite our three-year age difference.

"Well, you're just gonna love this one, Libby. I've just gotten back from a meeting with a lady who could easily be taken for a witch -- black hair and all."

"Really," Libby answered, curiosity clearly showing in her eyes. That was one thing about Libby. She was never too difficult to distract.

"Yup. Name's Ksenija. Apparently, she's one of the locals. Says she can get your money back just like that," I said, snapping my fingers.

"Oh, you bloody fool," Libby replied, breaking forth into chest-heaving wails.

*****

Between my morning encounter with Ksenija and my afternoon session with Libby, I was fighting one royal headache as I made my way back to the shabby side of town that night.

The streets were dark and deserted -- apparently, the result of the chilly October weather. The odor of wood smoke drifted about me as I approached the dark dwelling of Ksenija Vukovi.

"Ah, bien, you have returned," she said, opening the door and leading me again through the narrow hallway.

"Have you had any luck," I asked, easing myself into the kitchen chair. The room was lighted only by candles. Their flickering flames cast a yellow glow to the features of the lady seated opposite me. Her dark eyes studied me as a slow smile spread across her features.

"Ksenija doesn't need luck," she answered, drawing a tall bottle of vodka toward her. Filling two glasses, she forwarded one toward me and kept the other for herself.

Personally, when I drink vodka, I'd rather have orange juice or tomato juice with it, but trying to be polite, I downed the liquid and shivered as I watched her refill our emptied glasses.

After they were filled again, she bent to her right side, and when she straightened, she held a small, leather satchel in her hand. It had apparently been stored beneath her seat.

"Open it up, my young man. See how quickly something lost can be returned in Montenegro." She pushed the satchel toward me. "And while you count, my dear friend, I drink to our success."

I tried to tell her that it wasn't necessary that I count the money, but she insisted. And while I counted, she downed the rest of the bottle of vodka. Some time during the session, she'd started humming -- a sad and yet a provocative tune.

"Have I told you how I met your Nero Wolfe," she finally asked. I glanced up quickly and told her that she hadn't.

"He grew up here, you know."

I shook my head, studying this woman who now looked as if she was lost in some alcoholic dream. "No, I didn't know that," I replied to draw her out of her reverie, but it was not to be.

"Baa, he was Montenegrin in origin -- always. There are rumors, you know. Rumors that he was conceived here, the son of Sherlock Holmes and the opera singer Irene Adler.

"But, I say, if he was born of Irene Adler, then it was a Montenegrin, who was his father. Pfui, Sherlock Holmes."

I paused for a moment in the counting of the money and consumed the glass of vodka she had poured for me. I wondered why any of this mattered, but studying her face, I decided it mattered very much indeed.

"So, you knew him . . . Nero Wolfe . . . well, then?"

"Ah," she said, the warmth of a woman's love filling her voice. "We fought together, side by side, for the allies in the last war. Six-thousand men died at the battle of Mojkovac in 1918. But to that fight, I couldn't go. So, I waited in the mountains for Nero's return.

"Oh," she said, amusement filling her dark eyes as she gazed at my face. "I was not then, my young one, what I am today. No. Then, I was little more than a girl, but I knew my mind well enough . . . even then. If I told you, my innocent, that he had his way with me, I'd be leaving out my part in the affair, as well."

"But, he left you?"

"Yes, well, it is not every man who can tie himself to a woman. No. His temperament made it hard for him to face a disorderly life, and love, my little friend, is so very messy.

"Now, as I would expect, he lives a recluse in New York City, cut off from the world's chaos by his routines and his staff."

I guess I've never had a very good poker face, because at that moment, her eyes caught mine, and she leaned forward, her hand brushing my cheek.

"Oh, my poor, dear, boy, don't look so sad. It could have been no other way. I knew that even then. He had to become what he is now, the world's greatest detective. Can you really see him living here?"

"You say he's a great detective, but I wonder. I mean, you've gotten me my cash back. I don't need to finish counting it. I can tell from what I've counted already that it's all there. And you did it within hours of my coming to your doorstep. That's pretty fancy footwork if you ask me."

She threw her head back and issued a rich, melodious laugh.

"Ah, what I do? It's nothing. I have not to contend with courts. I have no policeman looking over my shoulder. I simply send out one of my many, many cousins, find the man, and offer him a choice: the money or his hands."

She leaned forward toward me again.

"You see, my precious one, we have been fighting here for ages. We fought the Turks for five-hundred years. We fought the Huns. We're still in rebellion against the Serbs. We live life on a very elemental footing, my dear. What I did for you, was nothing," she brushed away my compliment with a wave of her fleshy hand.

At that moment, the beaded curtain to my right parted and an ancient man scurried out into the room.

"Ksenija, come. It's time for this gentleman to leave. I'll take him back safely to his hotel. Petre," he called.

Another figure entered the room, and just about then, I started wondering how large a space existed behind that curtain.

"Petre, take her upstairs. See she gets to bed."

The old man turned to me. "You. You come with me. I must see you safely home."

*****

Well, of course, I don't know how real her story was about what had happened between her and Nero Wolfe. Maybe there never was anything to her story beyond a generous bottle of vodka.

I only know she'd set it up swell for me. My sister was happy. I was happy, and, of course, I took a lot better care of my sister after that.

Sometime, later, when the Montenegrin world was again awash in warfare in World War II, I'd find myself thinking about Ksenija, and wondering what she was doing and hoping that she was safe. Then, of course, Montenegro disappeared again. This time swallowed up by Yugoslavia.

Yet, even with all my diplomatic contacts, I couldn't do anything to help her or even trace her. But, for as long as I live, I shall never forget Ksenija or her stories of Nero Wolfe.