Rex Stout_Nero Wolfe 07

by Over My Dead Body

  “I was giving a lesson,” she said. “Miltan wanted me to. He doesn’t want any fuss. Nobody does but that fool Driscoll. A liar like that—we would know how to deal with him in my country. Carla tells me that he—that my father has been told about me, and of course you have too. I do not wish anyone else to know. Why didn’t he come?”

  “Nero Wolfe? Bad case of pernicious inertia. He never goes anywhere anytime for anybody.”

  “I am his adopted daughter.”

  “So I understand. And you’ve been here in New York a couple of months and his address is in the phone book.”

  “He abandoned me. I was taught to hate him. I had no wish—”

  “Until you got into trouble. I got the impression that you abandoned him at the age of three. But let’s skip that, I was sent here to keep you out of jail and time’s short. You look intelligent enough to know that I’ve got to have the truth and all of it. What were you doing with Driscoll’s coat?”

  Her chin went up and her eyes withered me. “Nothing. I didn’t touch his coat.”

  “What were you doing in the men’s locker room?”

  “I wasn’t there.”

  “Is there any other girl around that looks like you?”

  “No. Not enough—no.”

  “Not enough for Driscoll to see her and think she was you?”

  “No.”

  “What were you doing yesterday afternoon at the time Driscoll says he saw you with his coat?”

  “I was giving Mr. Ludlow a lesson.”

  “Fencing?”

  “Yes, épée.”

  “In the large room?”

  “No, the small one at the end.”

  “Who is Mr. Ludlow?”

  “He is a man who comes to take lessons with the épée.”

  “Are you sure you were with him at the time Driscoll says he saw you frisking his coat?”

  “Yes. Mr. Driscoll went to Miltan at twenty minutes to five. He said it had taken him about fifteen minutes to dress. I began the lesson with Mr. Ludlow at four o’clock, and we were still there when Miltan sent for me.”

  “And you didn’t leave that room during that time?”

  “No, I did not.”

  Carla Lovchen put in, “But Neya! Do you forget that Belinda Reade says she saw you outside, in the hall, a little before half past four?”

  “She lies,” Neya said calmly.

  “But the man that was with her saw you too!”

  “He also lies.”

  My God, I thought, it’s a good thing Wolfe isn’t here to see his daughter put on an exhibition like this. It looked very much as if the family reunion would take place in jail.

  “How about Ludlow?” I demanded. “Does he lie too?”

  She hesitated, her brow wrinkling, and before she got her answer ready another voice broke in. It was a male voice, and its owner had appeared from around the corner which led to the stairs. He was about my age and size, with a good pair of light-colored eyes, and a gray suit of a distinctive weave hung on him in a way that made it obvious the fît had not been managed by waving a piece of chalk at a stock job.

  “I was looking for you.” He came up to us, with a conventional smile. “Miltan wants you in the office. This ridiculous affair.”

  Carla Lovchen said, “Mr. Ludlow, this is Mr. Goodwin.”

  We shook, and I met his eyes and liked them, not on account of any candor or friendliness, but because they showed sense.

  I inquired, “Ludlow?”

  “Right. Percy Ludlow.”

  “Miss Tormic gave you a fencing lesson yesterday afternoon?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then you’re the man I want to see. Was she with you continuously from four o’clock till half past?”

  His brow went up and he smiled. “Well, really. All I know about you is that your name is Goodwin.”

  “I represent Miss Tormic. She has engaged Nero Wolfe. I’m his assistant.”

  He glanced at her and caught her nod. “Well! Nero Wolfe? That ought to do it. I was told that Miss Tormic said yesterday that she was with me continuously.”

  “Yeah. What do you say?”

  His brow went up again. “I couldn’t very well call Miss Tormic a liar. Could I? Let’s go down to the office. Driscoll isn’t there yet, but he should be, any minute—”

  “Then she was with you? You realize that in that case she can’t possibly be held on Driscoll’s charge?”

  “Oh, yes, I quite realize that. But unfortunately there are those two people who claim to have seen her in the hall.” He pointed. “Right there, not ten feet from the door of the locker room. And of course Driscoll too.”

  He was moving. I obstructed him. “Look here, Mr. Ludlow, if you’ll assure me that you’ll stick to it—”

  “My dear chap! Assure you? This sort of thing must be handled—anyhow, a dozen or more people have been made acquainted with this charge against Miss Tormic, and whatever is said they should hear. To clear it up, you know.”

  They were all moving, for the stairs, and I couldn’t obstruct all of them, so I went with the current. It was so loony that it dazed me. Carla looked worried and Ludlow looked bland. As for Neya, her attitude could have come only from the sublime assurance of innocence or the sublime asininity of a nincompoop, or mix it yourself. Here she had a witness who might have been wheedled into standing fast with a class A alibi and she wasn’t even bothering to toss him a suggestion. As I trailed them downstairs and entered the office with them, I was trying to figure out a method of enticing Driscoll down to 35th Street, for it certainly seemed likely it would come to that.

  The office was the big room at the rear of the ground floor. There was a large red carpet and a couple of desks, and chairs scattered around. The walls were decorated with pictures of people dancing and fencing, or standing holding a sticker, with a large one of Miltan in some kind of a uniform, and with swords and daggers hanging here and there. I knew the picture was Miltan because Carla Lovchen took me across and introduced me to him and his wife. He was small and thin, next door to a runt, but wiry-looking, and had black eyes and hair and a moustache which pointed due east and west. He looked and acted harassed, and as soon as he shook hands with me darted off somewhere. His wife, in spite of her New York clothes and her 1938 hair-do, looked like one of those colored pictures in the National Geographic entitled “Peasant Woman of Wczibrrcy Leading a Bear to Church.” At that, she was handsome if you like the type, and she had shrewd eyes.

  I went and stood by a glass cabinet which displayed an assortment of curios and implements, among them a long thin rapier with no edge and a blunt point which apparently wasn’t a rapier, since a card leaning against it said “This épée was used by Nikola Miltan at Paris in 1931 in winning the International Championship.” I looked around. He was across the room, chinning with a broad-shouldered six-footer maybe thirty years old, with a slightly pushed-in nose and a vacant look to go with it. I looked further. If by chance Wolfe’s long lost daughter hadn’t pinched Driscoll’s diamonds, it was probable that the person who had was among those present. Carla Lovchen’s voice came, beside me:

  “But you … you aren’t doing anything.”

  I shrugged. “Nothing I can do. Not right now. What’s Miltan waiting for?”

  “Mr. Driscoll isn’t here yet.”

  “Did he say he would be here?”

  “Of course he did. He only agreed to wait until now to go to the police.”

  “Who’s that guy Miltan’s talking to?”

  She looked. “His name is Gill. He’s a dancing client. It was he who was with Belinda Reade yesterday when they saw Neya in the hall. They say they did.”

  “Which one’s Belinda Reade?”

  “Over there standing by a chair. The beautiful one, with hair like yellow amber, talking to the young man.”

  “Check. Baby doll with a new silk dress and pipe the earrings. Not to mention the young man. I seem to recognize him from perhaps the movie
s. Who is he?”

  “Donald Barrett.”

  “The son of John P. Barrett of Barrett & De Russy, who got you girls a job here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who are those other girls?”

  “Well … the three in the corner, and the one sitting by the end of the desk, teach dancing. That one talking now with Mrs. Miltan is Zorka.”

  I boosted the brows. “Zorka?”

  “Yes, the famous couturière. She charges four hundred dollars for a dress. That would be over twenty thousand dinars.”

  “She looks like a picture in our Bible at home of the dame that cut off Samson’s hair, I forget her name, but it wasn’t Zorka. Does she sell diamonds at her place?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “She wouldn’t those, anyway. Who’s the chinless wonder with his—hold it. Miltan’s going to make a speech.”

  The épée champion, with Percy Ludlow standing beside him, was in the middle of the room trying to collect eyes. Some of them didn’t get it and he claimed their attention by clapping his hands. Two of them went on talking and his wife shushed them.

  “If you please.” He sounded as harassed as he looked. “Ladies and gentlemen. If you please. Mr. Driscoll has not arrived. It is very disagreeable, asking you to wait. He should be here. Mr. Ludlow has something to say.”

  Percy Ludlow looked around at the faces with complete aplomb. “Well,” he observed in a conversational tone, “really I don’t quite see that we should hang around waiting for Driscoll. It’s his row, you know. I’ve an explanation to make that I’d like you all to hear, because all of you know of Driscoll’s absurd accusation regarding Miss Tormic. You’ll understand it better if you’ll observe the clothes I’m wearing. This is the suit I had on yesterday. Didn’t any of you notice anything peculiar about it?”

  “Certainly,” said a voice promptly, fluttering the r like a moth on a marathon. “I did.”

  He smiled at her. “What did you notice, Madame Zorka?”

  “I noticed that the material is of the same pattern, perfectly, as the one Mr. Driscoll was wearing.”

  Two additional female voices chimed in simultaneously, “So did I,” and other voices murmured.

  Ludlow nodded. “Apparently Driscoll agrees with me on tailors.” His tone sounded as if there were something about that faintly deplorable. “The fabric is identical. I wondered that none of you mentioned it yesterday. Perhaps you did, but not to me. Of course the coincidence explains why, when Miss Tormic went to my locker to get my cigarettes from my coat, and Driscoll saw her, he thought the coat was his own. My locker adjoined his.”

  There was a round of ejaculations. Eyes moved from his face to that of Neya Tormic and back again. I felt Carla Lovchen’s fingers gripping my elbow, but I didn’t react because I was trying to keep my brain cleared for action.

  Ludlow continued in the same easy tone, “Yesterday when Miss Tormic was suddenly confronted with Driscoll’s ugly accusation, naturally she was flustered. Impulsively and perhaps foolishly, she denied having been in the locker room. Hearing that denial, I was a little flustered myself. It would have produced a most unfortunate impression if I had contradicted her on the spot, so I temporized and confirmed her statement that she had been With me continuously in the end room. But as it turned out, that was no go. Driscoll was positive that it was Miss Tormic he had seen with his coat. Miss Reade and Mr. Gill both declared that they had seen her in the hall near the door of the locker room shortly prior to four thirty. So it was clear that the only thing for it was the truth, which is that while we were fencing yesterday the strap of my pad broke and I had to change it, and we felt like a cigarette and found that we had none, and while I was changing the pad she took my key and went to the locker room for my cigarettes.”

  I had left his face and was concentrating on Neya’s, but I couldn’t read it. It wasn’t alarmed nor angry nor pleased; I would have said it was more puzzled than anything else; but that seemed unlikely, so I scored myself zero. There was a buzz around the room which stopped when Miltan remarked, more to space than to any audience, “So! So she was there!”

  Ludlow nodded negligently. “Oh, yes, she was there, but it was my coat she had, not Driscoll’s. No doubt of it, because she returned with my cigarette case and lighter. We had a few puffs together, and we were fencing again when word came that Miltan wished to see Miss Tormic—”

  He stopped, and lost his audience. The door had opened, and two men entered. The one in front was a gray-haired guy with a full cargo of dignity and an air that invited respect, and behind him, practically hiding behind him, was a plump specimen about fifty-one years old with thick lips and bald eyebrows. They came on in and Miltan met them.

  “We’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Driscoll—”

  “I’m sorry,” the plump one stammered, edging around. “Very sorry … unh … this is Mr. Thompson, my lawyer—Mr. Miltan …”

  As the gray-haired one extended a hand for the shake he conceded the point without reservation or qualification. “I am Mr. Driscoll’s counsel. I thought it best to come personally—this regrettable affair—extremely regrettable—will you kindly introduce me to Miss Tormic? If you will be so good …”

  That was done by Miltan, who looked a little bewildered. The lawyer’s bow was courteous and respectful, as was his verbal acknowledgement; Neya stood motionless and silent. He turned. “These people—are these the persons whom Mr. Driscoll—before whom he accused Miss Tormic—”

  Miltan nodded. “We’ve been waiting for him, to—”

  “I know. We’re late. My client was reluctant to come, and I had to persuade him that his presence was necessary. Miss Tormic, what I have to say is addressed primarily to you, but these others should hear it—in fact, they must hear it, in justice to you. First for the facts. When Mr. Driscoll left his home yesterday morning he had in his pocket a pillbox containing diamonds which he intended to take to a jeweler to be set in a bracelet. From his office he phoned the jeweler and discussed the matter. His secretary took the box of diamonds to arrange for their delivery. They are at the jeweler’s now. Here, later, Mr. Driscoll, lamentably and inexcusably, but innocently, forgot that his secretary—”

  A clatter of comment from all corners interrupted him. He smiled at Neya but got nothing in return. Driscoll had a handkerchief out, wiping his brow, trying to find a place to look without meeting a pair of eyes. Miltan sputtered:

  “Do you mean to say that this infamous—this irresponsible—”

  “Please!” The lawyer had a hand up. “Please let me finish. Mr. Driscoll’s lapse of memory was inexcusable. But he was honestly convinced that he had seen Miss Tormic with his coat—”

  “It was my coat,” Ludlow snapped. “Of the same pattern. I have it on.”

  “I see. Well. That explains that. Was it in the same locker?”

  “The one adjoining.” Ludlow was severe. “But Mr. Driscoll should know that before making a grave accusation—”

  “Certainly he should.” The lawyer conceded everything again. “Even the coincidence of the coats is no excuse for him. That’s why I insisted on his coming, to make his apology to Miss Tormic in the presence of all of you. His reluctance is understandable. He is extremely embarrassed and humiliated.” He eyed his client. “Well?”

  Driscoll, gripping his handkerchief, faced Neya Tormic. “I apologize,” he mumbled. “I’m damn sorry.” The mumble became abruptly and surprisingly an outraged roar. “Of course I’m sorry, damn it!”

  Someone giggled. Nikola Miltan said grimly, “You certainly should be sorry. It might have been disastrous, both for Miss Tormic and for me.”

  “I know it. I’ve said I’m sorry and I am.”

  The lawyer put in smoothly and sweetly, “I hope, Miss Tormic … may we hope for an expression from you—of forgiveness? Or … er … quittance?” He took an envelope from his pocket. “In fact, I thought it would be as well for you to have Mr. Driscoll’s written apology to support his ora
l one, so I brought it along”—he got a paper from the envelope—“and I brought also a quittance, just an informal sentence or two, which I’m sure you will want to sign for him in return—”

  “Just a minute.” It was me entering on my cue. “I represent Miss Tormic.”

  The way he went on guard like lightning, facially, was a treat. He demanded, “Who are you, sir? A lawyer?”

  “Nope, I’m not a lawyer, but I speak English and I represent Miss Tormic and we’re not before a court. She isn’t signing anything.”

  “But my dear sir, why not? Merely an informal—”

  “That’s the trouble, it’s too informal. For instance, what if Miltan here gets sore about this fracas, though it’s not her fault, and she loses her job? Or what if this thing had been turned loose around town and she can’t catch up with it? Nothing doing on the quittance.”

  “I have no intention,” Miltan put in, “of dismissing Miss Tormic. But I agree that it is not necessary for her to sign anything. I am quite sure she will have no desire to make trouble for Mr. Driscoll.” He looked at her.

  She spoke for the first time. “No, certainly.” She sounded darned unconcerned for a girl who had just escaped being thrown in the hoosegow as a sneak thief. Almost indifferent, as if her mind was on something else. “I will make no trouble.”

  The lawyer pounced on her. “Then, Miss Tormic, if you feel that way, surely you have no objection to signing—”

  “Damn it, let her alone!” It was his own client tripping him up. Driscoll glared at him. “Damn a lawyer anyway! If I’d had the nerve to face it, I’d have done just as well if I’d come alone!” He confronted Miltan. “Now I’ve apologized! I’m sorry! I’m damn sorry! I like this place. I’ve been overweight for years. I’m damn near fat! I’ve monkeyed around with exercises and health farms and damn fool games throwing a ball and riding a horse as tall as a skyscraper, and the first thing I’ve ever done to sweat that is any fun is what I do here! I may be a rotten fencer but I like it! I don’t care whether Miss Tormic signs a paper or not, I want to be friends with Miltan!” He whirled. “Miss Lovchen! I want to be friends with you! Miss Tormic is your friend and I acted like a damn fool. I am a damn fool. Will you fence with me or won’t you? I mean right now!”