by Rex Stout
That erased the grin. “Jessup’s not your lawyer,” he said.
“He’s a lawyer. I have a paper in my pocket signed by him. I’m willing to change my request. Demand. I want to telephone a lawyer.”
“I’ll tell the sheriff when I see him. A-R-C-H-I-E?”
“Just put an X. You probably don’t know what ‘stand mute’ means, but I do. Also you may think that a man can’t stand mute while he’s sitting down, but he can. It’s a trick. I answer no questions about anything until I see Mr Jessup, not even important ones. Ask me which I prefer for breakfast, ham or bacon, and I’ll stand mute. But you haven’t asked me, so I’ll just mention that the best way is to bring me both and I’ll take my pick. Or even better, to prevent waste���”
I was prattling on because he was trying to think, and with me talking it might be not merely difficult for him but impossible. Of course his problem wasn’t me, really; it was a man whose name he could spell without asking, Thomas R. Jessup. He would probably have liked to consult Haight, but the sheriff was reachable only on Woody’s phone if at all. When he finally got it thought through, and picked up a phone and pushed a button, I expected him to dial Woody’s number, but he didn’t touch the dial. In a minute he spoke:
“Mort? Ed Welch. I’ve got one for you here in the sheriff’s office. Come and get him��� No, he can walk��� What the hell do you care? Come and get him.” He hung up and started writing on the pad.
I looked at the gate in the railing and considered ways and means. There weren’t any. Lily was certainly trying to get Dawson, and Wolfe was probably trying to get Jessup, but all I could do about that was to wish them more luck than they were likely to have. It was more than likely, it was next to certain, that I would not only have neither ham nor bacon for Sunday breakfast; I wouldn’t even get them Monday. The question was, could I do anything about anything? Could I, for instance, say something to Welch that might have some effect on how he spent the rest of the weekend? I had got nowhere with it when the door opened and Mort appeared. He was a wiry little guy with a long red scar on his left cheek, in gray uniform pants with a permanent crease, and a dirty gray shirt, and a gun in his belt. Welch looked at him and demanded, “Where’s your jacket?”
“It’s hot in there,” Mort said. “Just overlook it.”
“I ought to report it.” Welch rose, got his key ring from a pocket and selected one, and came and unlocked the cuffs and took them. “Stand up,” he said, “and empty your pockets. Everything.”
As I rose I said, “I’ll keep the paper signed by Thomas R. Jessup.”
“You’ll keep nothing. Unload.”
I obeyed. I made a pile on the desk, glad that there was nothing strictly private like a copy of the letter I had written Wolfe. When I had finished, Welch went over me and did a good job, not too rough, and then he handed me a surprise. When he picked up my wallet and took the bills out I supposed he was going to count it and have me sign a slip, but he didn’t even flip the edges. He held them out and said, “You can keep this,” and when I took it he picked up the chickenfeed and handed me that too. That had never happened to me before in any of the coops I had been checked in at, and it was an interesting new item for my file of Montana folkways. Of course it could be only local; there could be someone inside, an inmate or one of the help, who had fast fingers and split his take with the front office. It isn’t reasonable to expect the people who run a jail to average up any better than those who run things on the outside.
Welch told Mort, “Put him in five and don’t get in front of him. Is Greve still in twelve?”
Mort nodded. “You know he is.”
“All right, put this one in five. Evers can get his prints later. It looks like he’s a killer and you may have him a long time. I can’t give you his name on the record because he’s not talking, not even his name. Call him whatever-”
“I know his name. Goodman.” Mort put his hand on his gun. “On out, Goodman. Turn right.”
I obeyed.
Chapter 11
At ten minutes past five Sunday afternoon a turnkey inserted a key in the lock of my cell door and turned it, opened the door, and said, “Someone for you.”
I did not respond with enthusiasm. It couldn’t possibly be Wblfe or Lily. Conceivably it was Luther Dawson, since Lily could be extremely energetic when she wanted to, but if so it would be only a courtesy call. One of the bets I had made with myself during the day was 20 to 1 that no judge would be available on an August Sunday for setting bail. It might be Sheriff Haight, but that would be no treat. He would merely try to get me to talk and I would merely try to think of bright remarks about standing mute. So I wasn’t bothering to guess as I crossed to the door, which took two and a half steps.
It was Ed Welch, and I raised a brow when I saw he had handcuffs. That must mean a trip, and to where? He snapped them on, jerked his head to the right, and said, “Take a walk,” and I headed down the corridor. Passing the door with the figure 12 on it I hoped Harvey wouldn’t look out and see me, since I couldn’t stop and explain how I got there. Welch used a key on a big barred door at the end of the corridor, and another one at the far side of the square room, and we were at the end of the side hall of the courthouse. So it would be the sheriffs office, and probably the sheriff. But it wasn’t. We went on by to the big lobby, across to the main stairs, and on up. I began to think I might have been wrong about judges, Lily and Dawson might have scared one up, but at the top of the stairs Welch steered me to the right and on to a door I had entered before. It was standing open, and a man appeared on the sill as we approached-the man whose name was on the door, County Attorney Thomas R. Jessup. We were still four paces away when he spoke.
“Why the handcuffs, Welch?”
“Why not?” Welch asked.
“Take them off.”
“If that’s an order, it’s your responsibility. He resisted arrest.”
“It’s an order. Take them off and take them with you. I’ll ring you when-”
“I’m not leaving. I have orders to stay with him.”
Jessup took a step into the hall. “Take off those handcuffs or give me the key. If you don’t know what the boundaries of authority are, Sheriff Haight does and I do. Don’t enter my office. I’ll ring you when to come for him. Give me the key.”
Welch had to do some more thinking. But it took him only a few seconds to decide he needed help on it, and the nearest help was downstairs. He got his key ring out, removed one of the keys, handed it to Jessup, and turned and marched off. It was a good performance. Better men than him, including me, have had trouble getting a key off of a ring, and he had done it, smooth and fast, under pressure.
Jessup motioned me in, followed, and shut the door. He was about as slim and trim as usual from the neck down, but his eyes were red and the lids puffed and he hadn’t shaved. There were a desk and a table in that room, but no one was at them, and there was no one in the inner room he ushered me to. There was good light from the three windows, and he looked at me and said, “I don’t see any marks.”
“None anywhere,” I said, “except maybe my shoulder where Welch kicked me. I resisted arrest by ducking when he swung a wide one.” I put my hands out, and as he used the key on the handcuffs and slipped them off he asked, “How much have you talked?”
“Not at all, except telling Welch what ‘stand mute’ means and saying I wanted to phone a lawyer named Jessup. That was around three o’clock this morning. Since then there has been no one to talk to.”
“Haight?”
“No sign of him.”
“Well, you’ll do some talking now, but first-” He pointed to a carton with cord around it on a chair. “That’s from Miss Rowan. A snack, she said. Do you want to eat first or talk first?”
I said I would rather get the talking done and take my time with the eating, and he went to his chair behind his desk. As I took one across from him he got an envelope from his breast pocket. “This explains its
elf,” he said, and offered it, and I reached to take it. It wasn’t sealed, and it held a single sheet of paper, Lily’s Bar JR letterhead, and the writing on it, in a hand I knew, said:
AG: I have spoken at length with Mr Jessup and have reserved nothing relevant to the inquiry we are engaged on. Therefore neither will you. We are committed with him irrevocably, and I think he is with us. August 11, 1968 NW
I folded it and put it in the envelope and stretched across to hand it back to Jessup. “I’d like to have it later,” I said, “as a souvenir, but Welch will frisk me again when he gets me back. Okay, I talk, but first a couple of questions. Where is Mr Wolfe?”
“At Miss Rowan’s cabin. I have certified in writing that he is under arrest, that his movements are under my control, and that he is not to be molested without reference to me. The legal force of that document is questionable, but it will probably serve. Your other question?”
“What dented Sam Peacock’s skull?”
“A rock not much bigger than your fist. He was hit with it four or five times. It was found there on the ground about twenty feet from the car. Dr Hutchins is sending it to the laboratory at Helena, but from his own examination he is certain it is the weapon. He says its surface is too rough for finger-prints. It could have been picked up anywhere. As you know, that’s rocky ground.”
“Has anybody got any ideas? Any you’ve heard about?”
“No. Except about you, of course. You were there, and you know how that is. In that note Wolfe says that you are irrevocably committed with me, and he thinks I am with you, and he’s right. I’m stuck with you, and I hope to God I don’t spend the rest of my life regretting it. After my talk with Wolfe I am completely satisfied that you didn’t kill Sam Peacock, but that doesn’t help much. It doesn’t help at all with the squeeze I’m in. Wolfe thinks the two murders are connected, Brodell and Peacock, and I suppose you do.”
“Certainly. Any odds you name, you’ve got a bet.”
“Why?”
“I’ll get to that.” I leaned back and crossed my legs. The chair was a big improvement on the stool in my cell. “Naturally you want to compare what I say with what Mr Wolfe said. Starting where?”
“The day he came. If it’s more than I want, I’ll tell you.”
I talked. It required no special effort, since I was to reserve nothing relevant. The only point that needed consideration, as I went along, was whether this or that detail belonged in, and I gave most of them the benefit of the doubt and included them. One that I omitted was the phone calls to Saul Panzer; he was two thousand miles from Jessup’s jurisdiction. For the conversations, I gave him summaries of all of them except Wolfe’s with Sam Peacock Friday evening; I reported that verbatim. He was a good listener and interrupted with questions only twice, and he took no notes at all. I ended with the last two relevant conversations, mine with Peggy Truett on the dance floor and mine with Wolfe in the Museum.
“Then,” I said, “we went out to the car and opened the door, and there it was. I doubt if you need or want what happened next, since it’s relevant to me but not to the inquiry. I’m getting hoarse because my throat’s dry. The room service downstairs is none too good. Is there water handy?”
“I’m sorry. I apologize. I should have-” He was out of his chair. “Scotch or rye?”
I said just water would do but scotch would be welcome if it wanted in, and he went to a copper-coloured refrigerator in a corner and took things out. A woman would have found only one flaw: he didn’t use a tray. I found none. When he returned to his chair there was on the desk in front of me a man-sized glass containing two ice cubes immersed in whisky, and a pitcher of water, and he had a glass too. I filled mine to the top, put the pitcher in his reach, took a healthy sip, and cleared my throat.
“That helps,” I said, and took another sip. “Now connecting the two murders. Of course the first point is that Mr Wolfe and I want them to be connected, but there are other points. There at Farnham’s Friday evening Mr Wolfe let them all hear him concentrate on Sam Peacock, and he made it obvious that he was by no means through with him. It could be that one of them knew that Sam had seen or heard something that Mr Wolfe must not know about, but it doesn’t have to be. All of Farnham’s crowd were there last night, and one of them may have told somebody how Nero Wolfe had concentrated on Sam.” I took a swallow and put the glass down. “The shortest way to say what I’m saying is to repeat what Mr Wolfe once told a man: ‘In a world of cause and effect, all coincidences are suspect.’ There were more than two hundred people there last night, maybe three hundred, and one of them was murdered, and which one was it? It was the man who had been alone with Brodell the two days before he was murdered and who was going to be worked on by an expert. I not only suspect that coincidence, I reject it.”
Jessup nodded. “So does Wolfe.”
“Sure. He thinks things through like me. Did my report match his fairly well?”
“Not fairly. Perfectly.”
“He has a good memory. This drink has reminded me that I’m hungry. When I smelled the Sunday dinner downstairs I decided to fast. Mr Wolfe never talks business during a meal, but I do.” I rose. “May I open that carton?”
He said certainly, and I went and got it and put it on the desk. The knot looked complicated, and I borrowed his knife to cut the cord, opened the flaps, and unpacked. When I finished there was an imposing spread lined up on the desk:
1 can pineapple
1 can purple plums
10 (or more) large paper napkins
8 paper plates
1 jar caviar
1 quart milk
8 slices Mrs Barnes’s bread
6 bananas
1 plastic container potato salad
4 deviled eggs
2 chicken second joints
1 slab Wisconsin cheese
1 jar p��t�� de foie gras truffe
1 huckleberry pie
6 paper cups
2 knives
2 forks
4 spoons
1 opener combo
1 salt shaker
I said I hoped he was hungry too, and he said he had told Miss Rowan that he would also have me brought on Monday, if circumstances permitted.
“Of course,” he said, “there will be people coming and going tomorrow and it would be a little complicated. Miss Rowan tried all morning to get Luther Dawson but couldn’t reach him. He’s not accessible weekends. He may not get to his office before noon tomorrow but Miss Rowan has his home telephone number, and it’s about a three-hour drive here from Helena. But there will be a judge available tomorrow at any hour. You realize that my position is a little-well, difficult. In a court proceeding in this county I represent the people of the State of Montana, and Haight will insist that I ask for high bail. He may even want me to ask that you be held without bail, but of course I won’t. I have explained the situation to Wolfe and Miss Rowan.”
My mouth was busy with deviled egg. I had the caviar jar open and was working on the p��t��. I swallowed. “It’s not the being in that hurts,” I said, “it’s the not being out. After being completely useless for two weeks, I could now do some detective work with a real chance of ringing the bell if I wasn’t locked up.” I slid some of the items toward him. “Help yourself to something. Everything.”
“Thanks.” He reached for a slice of bread and the caviar. “What would you do if you were out?”
“What Haight should be doing but probably isn’t-and Welch too, instead of chaperoning me. Do you want me to describe it?”
“Yes.”
I spread caviar on bread. “I have it all in order after the hours I’ve spent looking at it. How did they get out there back of Vawter’s-Peacock and X? They arranged to meet there. In advance? No. After Peacock arrived, at nine minutes to eleven. They spoke, there on the dance floor, and arranged to meet outside. They left separately, not together, and-”
“That’s merely assumptions.”
“Certainly. That’s all you ever have to start, assumptions. You assume the probables and file the possibles for later if they’re needed. So three things happened there on the dance floor: Peacock and X spoke, and X left, and Peacock left. People saw those three things happen. Find those people. That’s what I would be doing if I were loose. It’s a kindergarten chore, but most detective work is. I said it’s what Haight should be doing, but actually, if he keeps his eyes open when he’s on duty, he shouldn’t have to. If he stayed where he was when I went in to Mr Wolfe at a quarter past eleven, and that’s another probable, he was right there, not ten steps away from the door they left by. The reason I assume they left separately, I certainly assume that when X left he did not intend that Peacock would be coming back. He had probably already been out there behind Vawter’s for a look, and he may have had the rock in his hand when Peacock came. But those are just details to help pass the time when you’re sitting on a stool in a cell. The question is, who was seen talking with Peacock on the dance floor? And who left the dance floor between eleven-fifteen and midnight?” I knifed a gob of p��t�� onto a piece of bread and, having finished the whisky, poured milk.
Jessup was forking a second joint to a paper plate. “But,” he objected, “many people leave, don’t they?”
“I wouldn’t say many. Sure, some go out and most of them come back in, but that doesn’t queer it, it merely complicates it. May I have a sheet of paper and a pen or pencil? Anything-that scratch pad.”
He handed me the pad and a pen from his pocket. I chewed bread and p��t�� and drank milk, which was warm, while deciding how to put it, and then wrote:
NW: I am talking to and with Jessup, as instructed. I’m glad you’re under house arrest because this jail is old and they use too much disinfectant. I suggest that you have Miss Rowan or someone at the ranch find and bring a girl named Peggy Truett. She was a friend of Peacock’s and she probably knows things. She may even know who Peacock went out to meet. I hope Haight doesn’t get to her before you get her to you. I also hope I won’t have to go to St. Louis because now you have stirred him and we should get him right here. AG 8/11/69
