Rex Stout_Nero Wolfe 07

by Over My Dead Body

  “Where is Miss Lovchen?”

  “I suppose she’s at the studio. She said she was going there.”

  “Surely there’ll be no fencing lessons there today.”

  “I don’t know. That’s what she said.”

  “You saw her this morning?”

  “Of course. We live together in a little flat on 38th Street.” She put her hand out. “Give me—”

  “Wait a minute. I don’t know why I assumed that Miss Lovchen would accompany you here this morning—it was stupid of me to do so, but I did. Anyway, it was she who left this paper here, and I’d rather return it to her. If she—”

  “I’ll take it to her.”

  “No, I think not. Here, Archie. Go along with Miss Tormic to Miltan’s and deliver this to Miss Lovchen. I like it better that way—”

  “That’s absurd!” the client protested. “What’s the difference whether it’s me or Carla?”

  “None, perhaps. But this suits me better. It’s neater.” He handed the thing to me and then regarded her gloomily. “I hope you know what you’re doing. I hope you have some idea of what’s going on. I haven’t. Mr. Faber has come here twice for the purpose of getting hold of that paper.”

  “Oh.” She compressed her lips. “He has?”

  “Yes. The second time was only a little more than an hour ago, and Mr. Goodwin lost his temper and hit him in the eye. So … I presume you girls realize that possession of that document—”

  “We realize it.”

  “Very well. Do you still expect to complete your … errand … today?”

  “Yes.”

  “When and where.”

  She shook her head.

  He shrugged. “Did you keep your appointment with Mr. Cramer this morning?”

  “Yes, but not with Mr. Cramer. A man came and took me down there, and two men talked with me. That’s where I came from, here.”

  “You told about finding those things in your pocket and so on.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they ask about your political mission—anything of that sort?”

  “Why, no, they don’t know anything about that.”

  “Were you followed when you left there?”

  “I—” She bit it off. In a moment she said, “I don’t think so.” Her head jerked at me and back at him. “If you’re going to insist—I haven’t much time. I must see Carla anyway, but if he’s going—”

  Wolfe nodded. “All right. Pfui. Archie, give that paper to Miss Lovchen in the presence of Miss Tormic.”

  I suggested, “Fred’s in the front room—”

  “No. You do it.”

  “Cramer’s due in half an hour.”

  “I know. Hurry back.”

  I ushered her out. The roadster was still at the curb in front where I had left it. We climbed in and I warmed up the engine a minute, and rolled. She was completely don’t-touch-me. Whatever her mind was on, it certainly wasn’t on me, and during the short ride to 48th Street I accepted that as the status quo.

  Across the street from Miltan’s a little group was collected on the sidewalk, and in front of the entrance a flatfoot was pacing a short beat. He gave us an eye as we went in, but made no attempt to interfere. Inside was no sign of life in the hall or reception room, but a murmur came from the rear and we went back there to the large office. Jeanne Miltan was in a chair at a desk, with two squad dicks, each with a notebook, seated facing her. Her husband, looking haggard and hopeless, was pacing the floor, shaking his head at himself. As we entered one of the dicks looked up and barked:

  “What do you want?”

  I waved a friendly hand. “Okay, private business.”

  Neya intercepted Miltan and asked, “Is Miss Lovchen upstairs?”

  He groaned. “No one is upstairs. We are deserted. We are ruined. Mr. Goodwin, can you tell me—”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you a darned thing. Has Miss Lovchen been here this morning?”

  “She came and stayed a while, but she left.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Oh, my God, I don’t know—half an hour.” He clapped a hand to his head and stared at Neya. “She said to tell you something if you came—”

  Jeanne Miltan’s voice sounded: “She went home, Miss Tormic.”

  “That’s it,” Miltan agreed. “She said to tell you she went home. That was all. She went home.”

  “What do you want with her?” a dick demanded.

  “Sell her a chance on a turkey raffle. Come on, Miss Tormic.”

  We went back out to the sidewalk. Halting there, I asked her, “You said 38th Street? East or west?”

  She smiled at me. “It’s silly for you to go. It’s so silly. Why don’t you just give it to me?”

  “I’d love to,” I assured her. I didn’t see any sense in antagonizing her if she was my future wife. “I really would.” We were moving along to the roadster. “But here’s my car and I have to go downtown anyway. Besides, if I don’t follow instructions I’ll get fired. What’s the address?”

  “404 East 38th.”

  “Okay, that’ll only take—excuse me a minute.” I had caught a glimpse of something comical. “Climb in,” I told her, “I’ll be right back.”

  I left her and went down the sidewalk to where a taxi had parked twenty feet behind the roadster. My glimpse had been of the passenger inside ducking out of our sight. As I lifted a foot to the running board the driver said:

  “Busy.”

  “Yeah, so I see.” I stretched my neck to get a better view of Fred Durkin huddled on the seat. So Wolfe was putting a tail on his own client. “I just wanted to save you some trouble. 404 East 38th Street.”

  I returned to the roadster and got in and started off, telling Neya that I had merely exchanged the time of day with a Russian nobleman friend of mine who was driving a taxicab for his health. She said nothing. Apparently she was concentrating again on Balkan history, or whatever kind it was she was making. I retaliated by concentrating on my driving.

  There was space for me directly in front of 404. It was an old house, one of a row, that had been done over into inexpensive flats by blocking off the stairs and sticking in some partitions. Eight steps up to the stoop, then a vestibule with mailboxes and bell buttons, then the door into the narrow hall. It wasn’t even necessary for Neya to use her key on the door, because it had stopped an inch short of closing and all I had to do was push it open. I let her go ahead. She led me up two flights of stairs with just enough light to keep you from groping, went to a door towards the front, and opened her bag and started fishing for a key. Then she thought better of that and pushed the button, and I could hear a bell ringing inside. But nothing else was heard, though after an interval she rang the bell again, and then again.

  She muttered, “He said she was coming home.”

  “So he did. Got a key?”

  She opened her bag again, and this time produced the key. She used it herself, pushed the door open, went in four paces with me on her heels, and stopped in her tracks, jerking her head up and freezing there. Over her shoulder I could see what she saw: the body of a man sprawled on the floor in a very unlikely attitude; and the face, which was the one I had undertaken to alter with my fist two hours previously.

  Before I could stop her she jerked her head up higher and yowled into space:

  “Carla!”

  Chapter 13

  I said resentfully, “Will you kindly close your trap?”

  She didn’t move. I got in front of her and took a look at her face. She didn’t seem to be prepared for more clamor, so I went and squatted for a quick survey of the corpus. A quick one was enough. I glanced up at her again and saw that she was breathing through her nose. I rocked on my heels for half a minute, gazing at the chinless wonder and using my brain up to capacity. Then I stood up and said:

  “The first and worse thing seems to be that I’ve got that goddam paper in my pocket.”

  She met my eye and said with her lips barel
y moving, “Give it to me.”

  “Sure. That’d be swell.”

  I walked around a table to get at one of the windows, which fronted on 38th Street, and opened it and poked my head out, and saw what I hoped to see. I pulled my head in and asked her, “How’s your nerve?”

  “My nerve’s all right.”

  “Then come over here.”

  She came, nice and steady, and I told her to look out the window with me.

  “See that gray and white taxicab at the curb in the middle of the block?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go down there and you’ll find a man inside. Ask him if his name is Fred Durkin and he’ll say it is. Tell him I want him up here quick, but no more than that because the driver will hear you. Come back up with him and use your keys. I’ll be watching from the window, and if you get an impulse to scoot off—”

  “I won’t.”

  “Okay. Step on it. You’re a good brave girl.”

  She went. In a few seconds, from my post at the window, I saw her descend the stoop, trot to the taxi, open the door and speak to its inhabitant, and come back with Fred. Not sure of what a Montenegrin female might do under stress, I stayed at the window until they both entered the room. Fred stopped short at sight of the casualty on the floor.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said, and looked at me.

  “No,” I said, “not guilty this time. Nobody will ever sock him again.” I pulled the paper from my pocket. “Here’s something important. I discovered this corpse and I can’t leave it, and after certain events that happened yesterday they’re apt to frisk me to the skin when they come. Take this—hey, you little devil!”

  Neya had lunged like a champion with an épée, grabbed the paper from my fingers and sprung back. She stood there clutching it.

  “Jesus,” I said, “you’re like a streak of lightning! But you’re dumb. You’ve got to stay here too and I’ll see that you do. When the cops come they’ll go through this place, including us, extra special for today considering yesterday. They would love to have that paper and they’ll have it. Hand it to Fred. Well?”

  Her breast heaved.

  “Don’t be dumb, damn it! The only chance of getting it out of here is for him to take it! Hand it over!”

  Fred stuck out a hand. “Gimme, lady.”

  “What will he do with it?”

  “Take care of it.” She didn’t move. I stepped over and yanked it out of her fingers and passed it to Fred. “Go down and dismiss your taxi,” I told him, “and take the roadster and go to the office. If Wolfe’s alone, give him that paper. If he isn’t, go to the kitchen and have Fritz bring Wolfe to the kitchen and give him the paper there.”

  “Do I tell him—”

  “I’ll phone him. If and when you’re questioned, tell them just what happened, leaving out the paper. I’m sending you to the office because I know I’ll be held up here God knows how long, and with me absent Wolfe will need you. Okay?”

  “Okay.” He turned to go.

  “Hold it. Stay there by the door a minute.” I began darting around. I took a look behind a sofa and even under it, and opened a closet door for a glance inside, and had my hand on the knob of another door leading to the rear of the flat when Fred growled:

  “Hey, what about prints?”

  “To hell with prints. I’ve got a right to look for a murderer, haven’t I?” I went on through, and kept moving, bothering only with places big enough to hide a man or woman. It didn’t take long, since there was only a bath, a kitchenette, and two small bedrooms. I trotted back to the front and told Fred, “All right, one two three go,” and he beat it.

  I looked at Neya. “You’re starting to tremble. You’d better sit down.”

  She shook her head. “I’m all right. But I … I … Carla. Where is she?”

  “Search me.” I had gone around the table to where the phone was and lifted it from its cradle.

  “But wait—please! Why can’t we … just leave? Just go and find her?”

  “Sure. Splendid.” I started dialing. “You certainly get charming ideas. Like the one yesterday, stuffing that junk in my pocket. Just lock up and go, huh? With those babies at Miltan’s knowing we started for here and Fred’s taxi driver—”

  The phone told me, “This is Nero Wolfe.”

  I kept my voice down. “Hullo, boss. Let’s be discreet.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Cramer there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, leave it open so that if you want to you can say it was the Salvation Army. We went to Miltan’s and Carla had been there but left for home. We came on here, 404 East 38th. Got the address?”

  “Yes.”

  “Old house, walk-up, two flights. Neya let us in with her key. Rudolph Faber was lying on the floor dead. Hole through his coat, left breast. Shirt soaked with blood inside. No weapon. Carla not around on quick inspection. I’m phoning from right here, this room, and Neya is standing here—”

  “One moment. I was empowered with reservation—”

  “That’s all right. Fred was tailing us and Neya went down for him and I gave it to him and he’s on his way with it now. He can be traced here easy and so can we. The place has been frisked by someone in a hurry—drawers standing open, things scattered on the floor and so on. The number of this phone is Hammond 3-4505. Do you want me to keep on talking?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to ring off and let your genius work and I’ll call again in three minutes?”

  “No. You had better stay there, both of you. Mr. Cramer is here and I’ll tell him about it. Hold the wire.”

  I heard him telling Cramer, and I heard noises which were presumably the inspector turning somersaults. Then a voice in my ear not Wolfe’s.

  “Goodwin!” Cramer yapped.

  “Yes, sir, speaking.”

  “You stay there, hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  That was all, except the click. I hung up and walked to Neya, took her elbow and steered her to a chair, and put her in it.

  “They’ll be here in five minutes. Or less. This time Inspector Cramer will get here first. And this time you’re connected up. Here in your own front room. What are you going to tell him?”

  Her eyes met mine. They didn’t waver, but she was having trouble with her chin. She shook her head. “What can I tell him?”

  “I don’t know. What can you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Not enough. Under the circumstances. Did your friend Carla do it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you?”

  “You know I didn’t!”

  “I do not. Is there a lot of stuff around here about Bosnian forests and Barrett & De Russy and secret codes—”

  “No, nothing. I am very careful.”

  “Yeah, this looks like it. All I’m saying, if you try telling Cramer that you know nothing about Faber and you can’t imagine why in the world he came here to get killed, you’ll find yourself out on a limb. If you tell the truth, that won’t be it, and if you decide on lies, you’ll have to do a lot better than that. One little fact is that whoever killed Faber deprived you of your alibi for the murder of Ludlow. I’m not trying to scare you, I’m only trying to make you grab hold—”

  The phone rang and I went and got it.

  “This is Hammond 3-45—”

  “Archie. Mr. Cramer will be there shortly.”

  “Goody!”

  “How is Miss Tormic?”

  “She’s all right. She says her mind’s a blank?”

  “Shock?”

  “No, just ignorance.”

  “When she is questioned about anything except her movements since ten o’clock this morning—which is the time Mr. Faber left this house alive—she will decline to reply except in the presence of her attorney. That is amply justified in the circumstances.”

  “I’ll tell her that.”

  “Do so. I’ll arrange for Mr. Parker to represent her. What
does she say about Miss Lovchen?”

  “More ignorance. The first thing she did when she entered the room and looked at the floor was let out a yell for Carla.”

  “I see. That’s too bad. By the way, where did you put those germination records on the oncidium hybrids? I want to check them over.”

  “Christalmighty,” I said bitterly. “Here’s your daughter sizzling on a spot, and here am I with blood on my fingers off of Faber’s shirt, and you prate—why don’t you try doing a little work for a change—”

  “I can’t work with nothing to work on. Get away as soon as you can. Where did you put those records?”

  I told him. He thanked me and rang off. I looked at Neya, sitting there with her jaw clamped and her fingers twisted, and observed grimly, “You certainly picked a lulu for an adopted daddy. Do you know what he’s doing? Checking up on orchid seeds he planted a year ago! Incidentally, he says you are to answer any questions the cops ask about your movements since ten o’clock this morning. All other questions, refuse to answer until you see a lawyer. He’s getting one.”

  “A lawyer for me?”

  “Yes.”

  A police siren sounded through the window I had left open.

  Chapter 14

  At five minutes past two Wolfe sipped the last drop of his luncheon coffee, put down his cup, and made two distinct and separate oral noises. The first was meant to express his pleasure and satisfaction in the immediate past, the hour spent at table; the second was a grunt of resigned dismay at the prospect of the immediate future, which was embodied in the bulky figure of Inspector Cramer, planted in a chair in the office. He had arrived on the stroke of two and was waiting.

  Wolfe and I went in and sat down. The end of the unlighted cigar in Cramer’s mouth described a figure 8.

  “I hate to hurry your meal,” he said sarcastically.

  Wolfe eructed.

  The inspector turned the sarcasm on me. “Have you had any new ideas about the purpose of your going there with Miss Tormic?”

  I shook my head. “No, sir. As I told you, we merely went there to get Miss Lovchen.”

  “And what were you going to do with her?”

  “We were going to bring her to see Mr. Wolfe. To go over things.”