by Rex Stout
“To keep you from entering. There is no one inside. The keys are in Mr Goodwin’s pocket. We preferred not to let you invade Miss Rowan’s house in her absence. I have important information for you, Mr Haight, about Wade Worthy, but I’ll supply it only in proper sequence without interruptions. If you won’t take it that way you won’t get it.”
“The information I want, I want to know where he is.”
“I’ll get to that. But I’ll start at the beginning. Nineteen days ago, in the morning of Thursday, July twenty-fifth, Philip Brodell went-”
“To hell with Philip Brodell! I want-”
“Shut up.”
You would have to hear that particular tone of Wolfe’s to appreciate it. I don’t know how he does it. It wasn’t anything like as loud as Haight’s bark, but it cut through and stopped him.
“You’ll hear this as I choose to tell it,” Wolfe said, “or not at all. That Thursday morning Philip Brodell went for a walk, alone, for a look at Berry Creek-as he told Sam Peacock. Reaching the creek, he continued downstream as far as this cabin-or, alternatively, Wade Worthy had gone upstream from the cabin. Which, isn’t essential; the essential point is that Brodell saw Worthy and recognized him as Carl Yaeger, and Worthy knew it. They may have exchanged words, but that isn’t essential either. Brodell returned from his walk, had lunch, and took a nap. The question, why didn’t he telephone someone in St. Louis immediately to tell of his seeing Carl Yaeger, is one of many questions that will never be answered, since both Brodell and Peacock are dead. At three o’clock, encountering Sam Peacock as he left to go to Blue Grouse Ridge to pick huckleberries, Brodell told him that he had that morning seen a murderer. Precisely what he-”
“You can’t prove any of this,” Haight said. He had switched to Wyatt Earp. “Peacock’s dead. I don’t believe a word of it, and nobody else will.”
Wolfe cocked his head at him. “Mr Haight, you are the kind of man who has to be heard to be believed. If you had any gumption at all you would realize that I am prepared to show all my cards, and you would withhold comment until you see them. Precisely what Brodell told Peacock that Thursday afternoon is conjectural, as are many other collateral details-for instance, how Worthy contrived to see Brodell leave that afternoon, and trail him to Blue Grouse Ridge, without being seen by Peacock. But the requisites are established. It is established that Brodell told Peacock enough to cause him to suspect, when he found Brodell’s body with two bullet holes in it, that Wade Worthy had fired the shots. For confirmation of that, that it’s established, I refer you to Mr Jessup, the county attorney. Information about it has been acquired from a young woman whom he is holding in protective custody. I shall give-”
“Holding her where? What’s her name?”
“Ask Mr Jessup. I’ll give you no particulars about her; ask him. I’ll tell you this: one point that is not established is the use that Sam Peacock was trying to make of his information-or suspicion. The easy and obvious assumption is blackmail, but the young woman denies it. There are other possibilities. If he had only a suspicion, he may have been harebrained enough to try to confirm it himself before divulging it. Or he may have had a strong animus for Mr Greve and was reluctant to succor him. As for animus, should you ask if I have any for you, I have indeed. A barely competent inquiry into the death of Philip Brodell would have included rigorous and repeated questioning of Sam Peacock, and if it had it is highly probable that Mr Goodwin would have left long ago and I would never have come.”
He turned a palm up. “But it didn’t. As for Peacock, whatever his objective was, he didn’t reach it. He arranged, or agreed, to meet with Worthy, Saturday evening, and he died. Incidentally, it is likely that Worthy suggested that they meet at or in that car. He had arrived in it, and he knew it was secluded there, and dark.”
Schwartz spoke. “You’re saying that he killed two men.”
Wolfe nodded. “And of course that isn’t good news for you. It isn’t likely that Montana will let Missouri have him.”
“Provided Montana has him or gets him. You say he’s not here. But you saw him four hours ago?”
“Yes. I ate breakfast with him. I had a personal problem. I knew that you were coming, that you would go to the sheriff, and that he would bring you here. For six days I had been sharing Miss Rowan’s hospitality with Mr Worthy, and Mr Goodwin had been here with him much longer. To cause her to suffer the indignity of having one of her guests arrested on a charge of murder in her house, taken across her threshold in manacles, was of course unthinkable. For we were responsible; Mr Goodwin and I had exposed him. It was necessary to use subterfuge, and I did. At the breakfast table, with him there, I announced that a photograph of a man now in Montana-I didn’t name him-had been identified as one Carl Yaeger, who was wanted in St. Louis as a murder suspect, and that a policeman was coming for him. I then suggested to Miss Rowan that she and her other guest, and her maid, go fishing, and they did. It was desirable for her to be absent when you came.”
All three of them were staring at him. It was Haight who demanded, “And where’s Worthy?”
“I don’t know. Mr Goodwin and I came outside for a talk, and when we went back in a little later he was gone. Presumably he left by the back door and crossed the creek and-”
“Why, you goddam fat-You’ll go in handcuffs! And Goodwin!”
“No, Mr Haight. I have a suggestion. Mr Goodwin will unlock the door, and you’ll go in and telephone Mr Jessup’s office. He let me do it this way because he appreciated the contribution Mr Goodwin and I have made. At his request, members of the state police were stationed at certain spots at nine o’clock this morning-I don’t know how many, but certainly enough to make sure that Carl Yaeger, alias Wade Worthy, wouldn’t get far. He is undoubtedly in custody now, probably at a police barracks, if they have them in Montana. Or Mr Jessup may have him at his office. I suggest that you telephone.”
Chapter 15
A report should end with a flourish, but this one can’t. The groan has nothing to do with murder or trout; the state cops delivered Yaeger-Worthy to Jessup’s office safe and sound, and the fisherwomen came back a little after three o’clock with five cutthroats, two browns, four Dolly Vardens, and seven rainbows. For five of us, even though one was Nero Wolfe, that was ample.
The gloomy item left to report is the job I had to tackle, telling Lily that she would have to start all over again on the book. Find another writer and then start him from scratch. Awful. But since looking forward to a tough job is even worse than doing it, I didn’t put it off. When the trout had been admired and turned over to Wolfe, and they had scattered to go and change, I went to my room and through the little hall, tapped on the door of Lily’s room, was invited to enter, and did so. She was in a chair by a window running a comb through her hair.
“I have news,” I said, “but you’ll have to take the bad with the good. In one way it’s-”
Nuts. Why should I annoy you with it? Let’s have a flourish. Harvey Greve was turned loose in time to come and see Wolfe and me off for Helena in the morning.
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