Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 18

by Curtains for Three

  Cramer growled like a tiger in a cage having a chair poked at him.

  “I don’t understand,” Wolfe declared, “why the devil I bother with you. Mr. Skinner would jump at it.”

  Cramer’s growl became words. “When would it be—tonight?”

  “I said you’d get details after I get your promise, but you may have that much. It would be early tomorrow morning, contingent upon delivery of a package I’m expecting—by the way, Archie, you didn’t put the car in the garage?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. You’ll have to go later, probably around midnight, to meet an airplane. It depends on the airplane, Mr. Cramer. If it arrives tomorrow instead of tonight, we’d have to postpone it until Saturday morning.”

  “Where? Here in your office?”

  Wolfe shook his head. “That’s one of the details you’ll get. Confound it, do I mean what I say?”

  “Search me. I never know. You say you’ll take my word. Why not take my word that I’ll either do it or forget I ever heard it?”

  “No. Archie, get Mr. Skinner.”

  Cramer uttered a word that was for men only. “You and your goddam charades,” he said bitterly. “Why do you bother with me? You know damn well I’m not going to let you slip it to the D.A.’s office, because you may really have it. You have before. Okay. On your terms.”

  Wolfe nodded. The gleam in his eye came and went so fast that it nearly escaped even me.

  “Your notebook, Archie. This is rather elaborate, and I doubt if we can finish before dinner.”

  XIV

  “I’ll explain gladly,” I told Officer Hefferan, “if you’ll descend from that horse and get level with me. That’s the democratic way to do it. Do you want me to get a stiff neck, slanting up at you?”

  I yawned wide without covering it, since there was nothing there but nature and a mounted cop. Being up and dressed and breakfasted and outdoors working at seven in the morning was not an all-time record for me, but it was unusual, and I had been up late three nights in a row: Tuesday the congregation of clients, Wednesday the festivities with Lily Rowan, and Thursday the drive to La Guardia to meet the airplane, which had been on schedule.

  Hefferan came off his high horse and was even with me. We were posted on top of the little knoll in Central Park to which he had led me the day I had made his acquaintance. It promised to be another warm October day. A little breeze was having fun with the leaves on the trees and bushes, and birds were darting and hopping around, discussing their plans for the morning.

  “All I’m doing,” Hefferan said to make it plain, “is obeying orders. I was told to meet you here and listen to you.”

  I nodded. “And you don’t care for it. Neither do I, you stiff-backed Cossack, but I’ve got orders too. The setup is like this. As you know, down there behind that forest”—I pointed—”is a tool shed. Outside the shed Keyes’ chestnut horse, saddled and bridled, is being held by one of your colleagues. Inside the shed there are two women named Keyes and Rooney, and four men named Pohl, Talbott, Safford, and Broadyke. Also Inspector Cramer is there with a detachment from his squad. One of the six civilians, chosen by secret ballot, is at this moment changing his or her clothes, putting on bright yellow breeches and a blue jacket, just like the outfit Keyes wore. Between you and me and your horse, the choosing was a put-up job, handled by Inspector Cramer. Dressed like Keyes, the chosen one is going to mount Keyes’ horse and ride along that stretch of the bridle path, with shoulders hunched and stirrups too long, catch sight of you, and lift his or her crop to you in greeting. Your part is to be an honest man. Pretend it’s not me telling you this, but someone you dearly love like the Police Commissioner. You are asked to remember that what you were interested in seeing was the horse, not the rider, and to put the question to yourself, did you actually recognize Keyes that morning, or just the horse and the getup?”

  I appealed to him earnestly. “And for God’s sake don’t say a word to me. You wouldn’t admit anything whatever to me, so keep your trap shut and save it for later, for your superiors. A lot depends on you, which may be regrettable, but it can’t be helped now.

  “If it won’t offend you for me to explain the theory of it, it’s this: The murderer, dressed like Keyes but covered with a topcoat, was waiting in the park uptown behind that thicket at half-past six, when Keyes first rode into the park and got onto the bridle path. If he had shot Keyes out of the saddle from a distance, even a short one, the horse would have bolted, so he stepped out and stopped Keyes, and got hold of the bridle before he pulled the trigger. One bullet for one. Then he dragged the body behind the thicket so it couldn’t be seen from the bridle path, since another early-morning rider might come along, took off his top-coat—or maybe a thin raincoat—and stuffed it under his jacket, mounted the horse, and went for a ride through the park. He took his time so as to keep to Keyes’ customary schedule. Thirty minutes later, approaching that spot”—I pointed to where the bridle path emerged from behind the trees—”he either saw you up here or waited until he did see you up here, and then he rode on along that stretch, giving you the usual salute by lifting his crop. But the second he got out of sight at the other end of the stretch he acted fast. He got off the horse and just left it there, knowing it would make its way back to its own exit from the park, and he beat it in a hurry, either to a Fifth Avenue bus or the subway, depending on where he was headed for. The idea was to turn the alibi on as soon as possible, since he couldn’t be sure how soon the horse would be seen and the search for Keyes would be started. But at the worst he had established Keyes as still alive at ten minutes past seven, down here on the stretch, and the body would be found way uptown.”

  “I believe,” Hefferan said stiffly, “I am on record as saying I saw Keyes.”

  “Scratch it,” I urged him. “Blot it out. Make your mind a blank, which shouldn’t—” I bit if off, deciding it would be undiplomatic, and glanced at my wrist. “It’s nine minutes past seven. Where were you that morning, on your horse or off?”

  “On.”

  “Then you’d better mount, to have it the same. Let’s be particular—jump on! There he comes!”

  I admit the Cossack knew how to get on top of a horse. He was erect in the saddle quicker than I would have had a foot in a stirrup, and had his gaze directed at the end of the stretch on the bridle path where it came out of the trees. I also admit the chestnut horse looked fine from up there. It was rangy but not gangly, with a proud curve to its neck, and, as Hefferan had said, it had a good set of springs. I strained my eyes to take in the details of the rider’s face, but at that distance it couldn’t be done. The blue of the jacket, yes, and the yellow of the breeches, and the hunched shoulders, but not the face.

  No sound came from Hefferan. As the rider on the bridle path neared the end of the open stretch I strained my eyes again, hoping something would happen, knowing as I did what he would find confronting him when he rounded the sharp bend at the finish of the stretch—namely, four mounted cops abreast.

  Something happened all right, fast, and not on my list of expectations. The chestnut was out of sight around the bend not more than half a second, and then here he came back, on the jump, the curve gone out of his neck. But he or his rider had had enough of the bridle path. Ten strides this side of the bend the horse swerved sharp and darted off to the left, off onto the grass in one beautiful leap, and then dead ahead, due east toward Fifth Avenue, showing us his tail. Simultaneously here came the quartet of mounted cops, like a cavalry charge. When they saw what the chestnut had done their horses’ legs suddenly went stiff, slid ten feet in the loose dirt, and then sashayed for the bound onto the grass, to follow.

  Yells were coming from a small mob that had run out of the forest which hid the tool shed. And Hefferan left me. His horse’s ham jostled my shoulder as it sprang into action, and divots of turf flew through the air as it bounded down the slope to join the chase. The sound of gunshots came from the east, and that finished me. I wo
uld have given a year’s pay, anything up to a kingdom, for a horse, but, having none, I lit out anyway.

  Down the slope to the bridle path I broke records, but on the other side it was upgrade, and also I had to dodge trees and bushes and jump railings. I was making no detours to find crossings, but heading on a bee-line for the noises coming from the east, including another round of shots. One funny thing, even busy as I was trying to cover ground, I was hoping they wouldn’t hit that chestnut horse. Finally the border of the park was in sight, but I could see nothing moving, though the noises seemed to be louder and closer. Straight ahead was the stone wall enclosing the park, and, unsure which way to turn for the nearest entrance, I made for the wall, climbed it, stood panting, and surveyed.

  I was at Sixty-fifth and Fifth Avenue. One block up, outside a park entrance, the avenue was so cluttered that it was blocked. Cars, mostly taxis, were collecting at both fringes of the intersection, and the pedestrians who hadn’t already arrived were on their way, from all directions. A bus had stopped and passengers were piling out. The tallest things there were the horses. I got the impression that there were a hell of a lot of horses, but probably it wasn’t more than six or seven. They were all bays but one, the chestnut, and I was glad to see that it looked healthy as I cantered up the pavement toward the throng. The chestnut’s saddle was empty.

  I was pushing my way through to the center when one in uniform grabbed my arm, and I’ll be damned if Officer Hefferan didn’t sing out, “Let him come, that’s Nero Wolfe’s man Goodwin!” I would have been glad to thank him cordially, but didn’t have enough breath yet to speak. So I merely pushed on and, using only my eyes, got my curiosity satisfied.

  Victor Talbott, in blue jacket and yellow breeches, apparently as unhurt as the chestnut, was standing there with a city employee hanging onto each arm. His face was dirty and he looked very tired.

  XV

  “You will be glad to know,” I told Wolfe late that afternoon, “that none of these bills we are sending to our clients will have to be addressed care of the county jail. That would be embarrassing.”

  It was a little after six, and he was down from the plant rooms and had beer in front of him. I was at my typewriter, making out the bills.

  “Broadyke,” I went on, “claims that he merely bought designs that were offered him, not knowing where they came from, and he can probably make it stick. Dorothy has agreed on a settlement with Pohl and will press no charge. As for Dorothy, it’s hers now anyway, as you said, so what the hell. And Safford and Audrey can’t be prosecuted just for going to ride in the park, even if they omitted it in their statements just to avoid complications. By the way, if you wonder why they allocated fifteen per cent of our fee to a stable hand, he is not a stable hand. He owns that riding academy, by gum, so Audrey hasn’t sold out cheap at all—anything but. They’ll probably be married on horseback.”

  Wolfe grunted. “That won’t improve their chances any.”

  “You’re prejudiced about marriage,” I reproached him. “I may try it myself someday. Look at Saul, staked down like a tent but absolutely happy. Speaking of Saul, why did you waste money having him and Orrie phoning and calling on New York tailors?”

  “It wasn’t wasted,” Wolfe snapped. He can’t stand being accused of wasting money. “There was a slim chance that Mr. Talbott had been ass enough to have his costume made right here. The better chance, of course, was one of the cities he had recently visited, and the best of all was the one farthest away. So I telephoned Los Angeles first, and the Southwest Agency put five men on it. Also Saul and Orrie did other things. Saul learned, for instance, that Mr. Talbott’s room at the hotel was so situated that, by using stairs and a side entrance, he could easily have left and returned at that time of day without being recognized.” Wolfe snorted. “I doubt if Mr. Cramer even considered that. Why should he? He had taken that policeman’s word that he had seen Mr. Keyes on a horse, alive and well, at ten minutes past seven.”

  “Good here,” I agreed. “But, assuming that it might have been the murderer, not Keyes, the cop had seen alive on a horse, why did you immediately pick Talbott for it?”

  “I didn’t. The facts did. The masquerade, if there was one, could have helped no one but Mr. Talbott, since an alibi for that moment at that spot would have been useless for any of the others. Also the greeting exchanged at a distance with the policeman was an essential of the plan, and only Mr. Talbott, who often rode with Mr. Keyes, could have known there would be an opportunity for it.”

  “Okay,” I conceded. “And you phoned Pohl to find out where Talbott had been recently. My God, Pohl actually helped on it! By the way, the Southwest Agency put an airmail stamp on the envelope containing their bill, so I guess they want a check. Their part of the charge is reasonable enough, but that tailor wants three hundred bucks for making a blue jacket and a pair of yellow breeches.”

  “Which our clients will pay,” Wolfe said placidly. “It isn’t exorbitant. It was five o’clock in the afternoon there when they found him, and he had to be persuaded to spend the night at it, duplicating the previous order.”

  “Okay,” I conceded again. “I admit it had to be a real duplicate, label and all, to panic that baby. He had nerve. He gets his six-o’clock call at his hotel, says to wake him again at seven-thirty, beats it to the street without being seen, puts on his act, and gets back to his room in time to take the seven-thirty call. And don’t forget he was committed right from the beginning, at half-past six, when he shot Keyes. From there on he had to make his schedule. Some nerve.”

  I got up and handed the bills, including copies of the itemized expense account, across to Wolfe for his inspection.

  “You know,” I remarked, sitting down again, “that was close to the top for a shock to the nervous system, up there this morning. When he got picked to double for Keyes that must have unsettled him a little to begin with. Then he gets ushered into the other room to change, and is handed a box that has on it ‘Cleever of Hollywood.’ He opens it, and there is an outfit exactly like the one he had had made, and had got well rid of somehow along with the gun, and there again is a label in the jacket, ‘Cleever of Hollywood.’ I’m surprised he was able to get it on and buttoned up, and walk out to the horse and climb into the saddle. He did have nerve. I suppose he intended just to keep on going, but as he rounded the bend there were the four mounted cops and flup went his nerves, and I don’t blame him. I admit I hadn’t the faintest idea, when I was phoning you that list of towns Pohl had given me—hey! Good God!”

  Wolfe looked up. “What’s the matter?”

  “Give me back that expense list! I left out the ninety-five cents for Pohl’s sandwiches!”

  Disguise

  for Murder

  I

  What I felt like doing was go out for a walk, but I wasn’t quite desperate enough for that, so I merely beat it down to the office, shutting the door from the hall behind me, went and sat at my desk with my feet up, leaned back and closed my eyes, and took some deep breaths.

  I had made two mistakes. When Bill McNab, garden editor of the Gazette, had suggested to Nero Wolfe that the members of the Manhattan Flower Club be invited to drop in some afternoon to look at the orchids, I should have fought it. And when the date had been set and the invitations sent, and Wolfe had arranged that Fritz and Saul should do the receiving at the front door and I should stay up in the plant rooms with him and Theodore, mingling with the guests, if I had had an ounce of brains I would have put my foot down. But I hadn’t, and as a result I had been up there a good hour and a half, grinning around and acting pleased and happy. “No, sir, that’s not a brasso, it’s a laelio.” “No, madam, I doubt if you could grow that miltonia in a living room—so sorry.” “Quite all right, madam—your sleeve happened to hook it—it’ll bloom again next year.”

  It wouldn’t have been so bad if there had been something for the eyes. It was understood that the Manhattan Flower Club was choosy about who it took in, but obv
iously its standards were totally different from mine. The men were just men, okay as men go, but the women! It was a darned good thing they had picked on flowers to love, because flowers don’t have to love back. I didn’t object to their being alive and well, since after all I’ve got a mother too, and three aunts, and I fully appreciate them, but it would have been a relief to spot just one who could have made my grin start farther down than the front of my teeth.

  There had in fact been one—just one. I had got a glimpse of her at the other end of the crowded aisle as I went through the door from the cool room into the moderate room, after showing a couple of guys what a bale of osmundine looked like in the potting room. From ten paces off she looked absolutely promising, and when I had maneuvered close enough to make her an offer to answer questions if she had any, there was simply no doubt about it, and the first quick slanting glance she gave me said plainly that she could tell the difference between a flower and a man, but she just smiled and shook her head and moved on by with her companions, an older female and two males. Later I had made another try and got another brushoff, and still later, too long later, feeling that the damn grin might freeze on me for good if I didn’t take a recess, I had gone AWOL by worming my way through to the far end of the warm room and sidling on out.

  All the way down the three flights of stairs new guests were coming up, though it was then four o’clock. Nero Wolfe’s old brownstone house on West Thirty-fifth Street had seen no such throng as that within my memory, which is long and good. One flight down I stopped off at my bedroom for a pack of cigarettes, and another flight down I detoured to make sure the door of Wolfe’s bedroom was locked. In the main hall downstairs I halted a moment to watch Fritz Brenner, busy at the door with both departures and arrivals, and to see Paul Panzer emerge from the front room, which was being used as a cloakroom, with someone’s hat and top-coat. Then, as aforesaid, I entered the office, shutting the door from the hall behind me, went and sat at my desk with my feet up, leaned back and closed my eyes, and took some deep breaths.