Rex Stout_Nero Wolfe 07

by Over My Dead Body

  Somebody snickered. People moved. The lawyer looked dignified. Carla said, “I work for Mr. Miltan. I’ll follow his instructions.” Miltan said something conciliatory and diplomatic, and it was apparent that Mr. Driscoll wasn’t going to be deprived of his fun. I faded into the background. The chinless wonder, whose name I hadn’t got, a blond guy with thin lips and an aggressive nose who stood and walked like a soldier, went up to Neya with a thin smile and said something evidently meant to be agreeable, and was followed by Donald Barrett for a similar performance. Mrs. Miltan crossed to her and patted her on the shoulder, and then she was approached by Percy Ludlow. They spoke together a minute, and she left him and headed for me.

  I grinned at her. “Well, a pretty good show. I hope you didn’t mind my horning in. Nero Wolfe never lets a client sign anything except a check drawn to his order.”

  “I didn’t mind. I say good-bye. I am going to fence with Mr. Ludlow. Thank you for coming.”

  “Your eyes glitter.”

  “My eyes? They always glitter.”

  “Any message for your father?”

  “I think—not now. No.”

  “You ought to run down and say hello to him.”

  “I will someday. Au revoir then.”

  “So long.”

  Turning to go, she bumped into the lawyer and he apologized profusely. That accomplished, he addressed me:

  “Could I have your name, sir?”

  I told him.

  He repeated it. “Archie Goodwin. Thank you. If I may ask, in what capacity do you represent Miss Tormic?”

  I was exasperated. “Look here,” I said, “I am willing to stipulate that a lawyer has a right to live, and I’m aware that even when he’s dead no worm will enter his coffin because if it did he’d make it sign some kind of a paper. I suppose if you don’t get that thing signed you’ll have a tantrum. Give it to me.”

  From the envelope, which he was still clutching in his hand, he extracted the document and handed it over. A glance showed me that his two informal sentences were in fact five legal-size paragraphs. I got out my pen and with a quick flourish signed on the dotted line at the bottom, “Queen Victoria.”

  “There,” I said, and shoved it at him, and moved off before he could react, considering how dignity slows a man up.

  The room was about empty. Miltan’s wife was over by a desk, talking with Belinda Reade. Carla Lovchen, along with the others, had disappeared, presumably to let the rich fat man enjoy some fun. He must have been a pip of a swordsman, I reflected, as I got my hat and coat from the rack and meandered to the hall and out the street door to the sidewalk.

  My wrist told me it was a quarter to six. Wolfe would still be up in the plant rooms, and he wasn’t enthusiastic about being disturbed regarding business while there, but I considered that this wasn’t business, properly speaking, but a family matter. So I found a drugstore with a phone booth and called the number.

  “Hello, Mr. Wolfe? Mr. Goodwin speaking.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, I’m in a drugstore at 48th and Lexington. It’s all over. It was a farce in three acts. First she, meaning your daughter, seemed to be more bored than bothered. Second, a chap named Percy said she was frisking his coat for cigarettes, not Driscoll’s for diamonds, which appeared to be news to her, judging from her expression. Third act, enter Driscoll with a trouble hound and a written apology. There hadn’t been any diamonds in his coat. None had been stolen. His mistake. Sorry and damn sorry. So I’m headed for home. I may add that she doesn’t resemble you a particle and she is very good-look—”

  “You’re sure it’s clear?”

  “It’s cleared up. Settled. I wouldn’t say it’s entirely clear.”

  “You went there with two problems. What about the second one?”

  “No light on it. Not a glimmer. No chance to sniff around on it. There was a mob present, and when the meeting broke up both Balkans went off to give fencing lessons.”

  “Who is the man named Percy?”

  “Percy Ludlow. My age, and a good deal like me—courteous, gifted, of distinguished appear—”

  “You say my—she seemed to be bored. Do you mean to imply—is she stupid?”

  “Oh, no. I mean it. Maybe she’s a little complicated, but she’s not stupid.”

  Silence. No talk. It lasted so long that I finally said, “Hello, you there?”

  “Yes. Get her and bring her here. I want to see her.”

  “Yeah, I thought so. I expected that. It’s a perfectly natural feeling and does you credit, but that’s why I phoned, to explain that I asked her if she had a message for you and she said no, and I said she ought to drop in on you to say hello and she said she would someday, and now she’s in there crossing blades with Percy—”

  “Wait till she’s through and bring her.”

  “Do you mean that?”

  “I do.”

  “I may have to carry her or—”

  He hung up, which is a trick I detest.

  I went to the fountain and got a glass of grapefruit juice, and while drinking it considered persuasions to use on her short of force, but developed nothing satisfactory, and then strolled back along 48th Street to the scene of operations.

  Nikola Miltan and his wife were the only ones in the office. It looked to me as if she had been headed for the door when I entered, but when I took off my hat and coat and put them on the rack, explaining that I wanted to see Miss Tormic when she was disengaged, apparently she changed her mind and decided to stick around. Miltan invited me to have a chair, and I sat down not far from the desk where he was, while his wife opened a door of the big glass cabinet and began rearranging things which didn’t need it.

  “I have met Mr. Nero Wolfe,” Miltan offered politely.

  I nodded. “So I understand.”

  “He is a remarkable man. Remarkable.”

  “Well, I know of one guy that would agree with you.”

  “Only one?”

  “At least one. Mr. Wolfe.”

  “Ah. A joke.” He laughed politely. “I imagine there are many others. In fact—what is it, Jeanne?”

  His wife had uttered a foreign exclamation, of surprise or maybe dismay. “The col de mort,” she told him. “It’s not here. Did you remove it?”

  “I did not. Of course not. It was there—I’m sure—”

  He got up and trotted over to the cabinet, and I arose and wandered after him. Together they stared at a spot. He stretched, and then ducked, to inspect the other shelves.

  “No,” she said, “it’s not there. It’s gone. There is nothing else gone. I was in favor long ago of having a lock put on—”

  “But my dear.” Miltan looked defensive. “There is no sensible reason that could possibly exist why anyone would want to take that col de mort. It was a nice curiosity, but of no particular value.”

  “What’s a col de mort?” I asked.

  “Oh, just a little thing.”

  “What kind of a little thing?”

  “Oh, a little thing—look.” He put an arm through the open door of the cabinet and placed a finger upon the point of an épée which was displayed there. “See? It’s blunt.”

  “I see it is.”

  “Well, once in Paris, years ago, a man wanted to kill another man, and he made a little thing with a sharp point, very cleverly, which he could fit over the end of the épée.” He took the weapon from the shelf and dangled it in his hand. “Then, with the thing fitted on, he made a thrust in quarte—”

  He made a lunge at an imaginary victim in my neighborhood, so unexpected and incredibly swift that I side-stepped and nearly tripped myself up, and was perfectly willing to concede him the championship. Just as swiftly he was back to normal position.

  “So.” He smiled, and returned the weapon to its place. “A thrust in quarte gets the heart, theoretically, but that time it was not theory. A member of the police who was a friend of mine gave me the little thing as a curiosity. The newspapers called
it col de mort. Neck—no, not neck. Collar. Collar of death. Because it fitted the end of the épée like a collar. It was amusing to have it.”

  “It’s gone,” said his wife shortly.

  “I hope not gone.” Miltan frowned. “There is no reason for it to be gone. There has been enough talk of stealing around here. We will find out. We will ask people.”

  “I hope you find it,” I told him. “It sounds cute. Speaking of asking people, I was about to ask you if it would be okay for me to have a little chat with whoever it is that cleans up the fencing rooms.”

  “Why … what for?”

  “Oh, just a little chat. Who does the cleaning?”

  “The porter. But I can’t imagine why you should want—”

  His wife interrupted him, with her eyes on me. “He wants to find out if cigarette stubs and ashes were found in the room where Miss Tormic and Mr. Ludlow were fencing yesterday,” she said calmly.

  I grinned at her. “If you will pardon a personal remark, Mrs. Miltan, I might have known from your eyes that you had that in you.”

  She merely continued to look at me.

  “For my part,” Miltan declared, “I don’t see why you should want to know about cigarette stubs and I don’t see how my wife knew you wanted to. I am slow-witted.”

  “Well, you have to be slow at something, to even up for your speed with that sticker. May I see the porter?”

  “No,” Jeanne Miltan said bluntly.

  “Why not?”

  “It isn’t necessary. I don’t know what is in your mind, but I saw you looking at Miss Tormic, you who were supposed to be here as her friend. If you want to know whether she and Mr. Ludlow were smoking cigarettes, ask her.”

  “I will. I intend to. But how could I do her any harm by discussing the matter with the porter?”

  “I don’t know. You may mean no harm. But this affair of yesterday and today is ended. It was bad. It could have turned out very badly for our business. It is a very delicate matter, the tone of a place like this. A breath may destroy it. Even if you mean no harm to Miss Tormic or to us, I shall tell the porter not to answer your questions if you do see him. I am plain-spoken. Nor may you go to the salle d’armes and inspect the pads to see if the strap of one is broken.”

  “What makes you think I wanted to?”

  “Because I don’t take you for a fool. If you were curious about the smoking, naturally you would also be curious about the broken strap.”

  I shrugged. “Okay. Anyhow, you used the right word. I was just curious. As you know, I’m a detective, and I guess we get into bad habits. But if you’re aware of the reputation of Nero Wolfe, you’re also aware that he dishes out trouble only to people who have asked for it.”

  She gazed at me a moment, turned and closed the sliding door of the cabinet, and then returned to me. “This morning,” she said, “my husband was saying that he would engage Mr. Wolfe to investigate the disappearance of Mr. Driscoll’s diamonds. Miss Tormic was present. She declared that she had engaged Nero Wolfe to act in the matter in her behalf. Shortly afterwards her friend, Miss Lovchen, asked permission to go out on an errand. It is not only detectives who are curious. I am sometimes curious. If I were to ask—”

  She stopped with her mouth open, her body stiffening. Miltan spun on his heel to face the door to the hall. I did the same. The yell that had split the air sounded like something that you might expect but would certainly resent if you found yourself alone in a jungle at night.

  When the second yell came all three of us were running for the door. Miltan was ahead, and in the hall he bounded for the stairs with us after him. There were no more yells, but sounds of commotion, steps and voices, came from above, and on the second-floor landing we were impeded by people who popped out of doors. Miltan was a kangaroo; I couldn’t have caught him for a purse. At the top of the second flight we were brought to a halt by obstructions. A colored man was wriggling, his arms held by the chinless wonder, Nat Driscoll, in his shirt but no trousers, was jumping up and down; the two Balkans, in fencing costumes, were backed against the wall; Zorka, in gold-leaf undies and that was all, was standing apart and systematically screaming. Before Miltan could make any progress or I could get around him, I felt myself brushed aside and Jeanne Miltan was there.

  “What?” she demanded in a tone that would have stopped a hurricane. “Arthur! What is it?”

  The colored man stopped wriggling and rolled his eyes at her and said something I didn’t get, but apparently she did, for she started off on a lope down the hall. I was close behind her and there were steps behind me. She went to the last door, the end room. It was standing open and she passed through, taking the curve without slowing down. She jerked to a halt, saw it there on the floor, and walked over to it. I was beside her. It was Percy Ludlow, lying on his side, so tilted that he would have been on his back if he hadn’t been propped up by the protruding point of the épée which was sticking clean through him.

  Chapter 4

  Jeanne Miltan said something foreign and then stood and stared down at it with her face frozen. I heard a gasp from Miltan behind me, and other noises, and turned and saw them ganged in the doorway.

  “Keep out of here,” I said. “All of you.”

  I stooped over for a quick look and straightened up and told Jeanne Miltan, “He’s dead.” She said peevishly, “Of course he is.” A scream came from the doorway and I yelled in that direction, “Shut up!” and went on to Mrs. Miltan, “Somebody must stay here, and the police of course, and nobody must leave.”

  She nodded. “You phone the police. In the office. Nikola, you stay here. I’ll go down to the hall—”

  She was moving, but I stopped her. “I’d rather not. You do the phoning. It’s your place and you saw it first. I’ll take the street door. Don’t let anyone in here, Miltan.”

  He looked pale as he mumbled. “The col de mort—”

  “No, it’s not there. The end of the épée is bare and blunt.”

  “It can’t be. It wouldn’t go through.”

  “I can’t help that, it’s not there.”

  Jeanne Miltan was headed for the door and I followed her. They made way for us. Carla Lovchen was going to say something to me and I shook my head at her. The chinless wonder grabbed at my elbow and I dodged him. People had come up from the floor below and Nat Driscoll came running down the hall with his shirttails flying. At the head of the stairs I wheeled to announce: “Don’t go into the end room, anybody. Ludlow’s in there dead. Nobody is to leave the building.” I saw Donald Barrett moving in my direction and the chinless wonder behind him. “If you two guys would herd everyone downstairs into the office it might simplify matters.”

  I disregarded the chatter that broke out and beat it down the steps, with Mrs. Miltan following me. On the ground floor she went to the rear, to the office, and I went to the front, to the door to the street vestibule. I was tempted to keep on going, right on through, and get to a phone and call up Nero Wolfe, but I decided it would be a bad move. If I once got out I might not get back in again, or, if I did, it would be under conditions not nearly so favorable as they were now. Guarding the portal, loyal and true, was the best bet.

  From where I stood I could see the inmates straggling down the stairs. They were mostly silent and subdued, but a couple of the female dancing teachers were jabbering. Belinda Reade, the baby doll with a new silk dress, came along to me instead of turning towards the office and said in a determined voice that she had a very important appointment to keep. I told her I had one too so we were in the same boat. Donald Barrett, who was hovering in the background, approached.

  “See here,” he said, “I know I’m caught in this God-awful mess. Frightful stink and I’m helpless just because I’m here. But Miss Reade—after all—are you a cop?”

  “No.”

  “Then my dear fellow, just turn your back and talk to me a moment—and she can just slip out and go to her appointment—”

  “And before long a
dozen dicks will slip out and trace her and haul her back. Don’t be silly. Have you ever been intimate with a murder before? I guess you haven’t. The worst thing you can do is make them start looking for you. They get upset Take my advice and—just a minute, Miss Tormic.”

  The two Balkans were there, three paces off. The glances that passed back and forth among the four of them, in one second, obviously meant something to them but not to me. Belinda Reade said, “Come on, Don,” and he followed her in the direction of the office. I surveyed the pair of girls. Carla had put a long loose thing with buttons over her fencing costume. Neya had on the green robe, carelessly closed as before, with one hand inside its folds apparently clinging to it.

  “There’s no time to talk,” I snapped. “You may be a couple of goons. I don’t know. But I’m asking you a damn straight question, and maybe your life depends on giving me a straight answer.” I took Neya’s eyes with mine. “You. Did you kill that man?”

  “No.”

  “Say it again. You didn’t?”

  “No.”

  I switched to Carla. “Did you?”

  “No. But I must tell you—”

  “There’s no time to tell me anything. That’s the hell of it. But anyhow you can—there they are! Beat it! Quick, damn it!”

  They scampered down the hall towards the office and were gone by the time the cops got through the vestibule. It was a pair of flatfeet. I opened the glass-paneled door and when they were in the hall let it close again.