Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 10

by Not Quite Dead Enough

  “And he wouldn’t see you?”

  “No.”

  “Ann didn’t mention any names at all?”

  “No.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Downtown, not far from you—316 Barnum Street.”

  “Who is her fiancé?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Lily patted my arm. “Listen, you big rugged hero. Where shall we have dinner tonight? My place?”

  I shook my head. “I’m on duty. Your attitude on bases in Ireland is subversive. For all I know, you’re an Irish spy. I regard you as irresistible, but I’ve got my honor to think of. I warned you that day in the Methodist tent that my spiritual side—”

  She cut me off and so it went. So it went for another hour, until we touched ground again at LaGuardia Airport. I wasn’t able to duck her there. For the sake of decorum I split a taxi with her to Manhattan, but in front of the Ritz, where she had her own tower, and where I knew she would be disinclined to tear up sidewalks. I got myself transferred to another taxi with my bags and gave the driver the address of Wolfe’s house on 35th Street.

  In spite of the encounter with Lily, as I rolled downtown and then turned west, I’m here to tell you it was okay with me. I don’t know why it seemed as if I’d been away a lot longer than two months, but it did. I recognized stores and buildings, as if I owned them, that I didn’t remember ever bothering to look at before. I hadn’t sent a wire because I thought it would be fun to surprise them, and naturally I was looking forward to seeing Theodore up in the plant rooms with the orchids, and Fritz in the kitchen stirring things in bowls and sniffing and tasting, and Nero Wolfe himself seated at his desk, frowning at a page of the atlas or maybe growling at a book he was reading—No, he wouldn’t be in the office. He didn’t come down from the plant rooms until six o’clock, so he would be up there with Theodore. I would say hello to Fritz in the kitchen and then sneak up to my room and wait until after I heard the elevator descending, bringing Wolfe down to the office.

  Chapter 3

  That was the worst shock I ever got in my life, bar none.

  I let myself in with my key, which was still on my ring, dropped my bags in the hall, entered the office, and didn’t believe my eyes. Stacks of unopened mail were on Wolfe’s desk. I walked over to it and saw that it hadn’t been dusted for ten years, and neither had mine. I turned around to face the door and felt myself swallowing. Either Wolfe or Fritz was dead, the only question was which. Next thing I knew I was in the kitchen, and what I saw there convinced me that they both were dead. They must be. The rows of pots and pans were dusty too, and the spice jars.

  I swallowed again. I opened a cupboard door and saw not a damn thing but a dish of oranges and six cartons of prunes. I opened the refrigerator, and that finished it. There was nothing there but four heads of lettuce, four tomatoes, and a dish of applesauce. I dashed out and made for the stairs.

  One flight up, both Wolfe’s room and the spare were uninhabited, but the furniture looked normal. Same for the two rooms on the floor above, one of which was mine. I kept going, on up to the plant rooms. In the four growing-rooms there was nothing under the glass but orchids, hundreds of them in bloom, but in the potting-room I finally found a sign of human life, namely a man. It was Theodore Horstmann, on a stool at the bench, making entries in a propagation record book which I had formerly kept.

  I demanded, “Where’s Wolfe? Where’s Fritz? What the hell’s going on here?”

  Theodore finished a word, blotted it, turned on the stool, and squeaked at me:

  “Why, hello, Archie. They’re out exercising. Only they call it training. They’re out training.”

  “Are they well? Alive?”

  “Of course they’re alive. They’re training.”

  “Training what?”

  “Training each other. Or perhaps more accurately, training themselves. They’re going into the Army, to fight. I am going to stay here as caretaker. Mr. Wolfe was going to dispose of the plants, but I persuaded him to leave them with me. Mr. Wolfe doesn’t work with the plants any more; he only comes up here to sweat. He has to sweat all he can in order to reduce his weight, and then he has to get hardened up, so he and Fritz go over by the river and walk fast. Next week they’re going to start to run. He is dieting and he has stopped drinking beer. Last week he caught cold but he’s over it now. He won’t buy any bread or cream or butter or sugar or lots of things and I have to buy my own meat.”

  “Where do they train?”

  “Over by the river. Mr. Wolfe obtained permission from the authorities to train on a pier because the boys on the street ridiculed him. From seven to nine in the morning and four to six in the afternoon. Mr. Wolfe is very persistent. He spends the rest of the time up here sweating. He doesn’t talk much, but I heard him telling Fritz that if two million Americans will kill ten Germans apiece—”

  I had had enough of Theodore’s squeak. I left him, went back down to the office, got a cloth and dusted my desk and chair, sat down and elevated my dogs, and scowled at the stacks of mail on Wolfe’s desk.

  Good God, I thought, what a homecoming this turned out to be. I might have known something like this would happen if I left him to manage himself. It is not only bad, it may be hopeless. The fathead. The big fat goop. And I told that general I know how to handle him. Now what am I going to do?

  At 5:50 I heard the front door open and close, and footsteps in the hall, and there was Nero Wolfe looking in at me from the threshold with Fritz back of him.

  “What are you doing here?” he boomed.

  I’ll never forget that sight as long as I live. I was speechless. He didn’t exactly look smaller, he merely looked deflated. The pants were his own, an old pair of blue serge. The shoes were strangers, rough army style. The sweater was mine, a heavy maroon number that I had bought once for a camping trip, and in spite of his reduction of circumference it was stretched so tight that his yellow shirt showed through the holes.

  I found my tongue to say, “Come in! Come on in!”

  “I’ve given up the office for the time being,” he said, and he and Fritz both turned and headed for the kitchen.

  I sat there awhile, screwing up my lips and scowling, hearing noises they were making, and finally got up and moseyed out to join them. Apparently Wolfe had given up the dining-room too, for he and Fritz were both seated at the little table by the window eating prunes, with a bowl of lettuce and tomatoes, no dressing in sight, waiting for them. I propped myself against the long table, looking down at them, and managed a grin.

  “Trying an experiment?” I asked pleasantly.

  With his spoon Wolfe conveyed a prune seed from his mouth to the dish. He was looking at me and pretending not to. “How long,” he demanded, “have you been a major?”

  “Three days.” I couldn’t help staring at him. It was unbelievable. “They promoted me on account of my table manners. Theodore tells me you are going to join the Army. May I ask in what capacity?”

  Wolfe had another prune in his mouth. When he got rid of the seed he said, “Soldier.”

  “You mean forward march and bang? Parachute troops? Commandos? Driving a jeep maybe—”

  “That will do, Archie.” His tone was sharp and his glance was too. He put down his spoon. “I am going to kill some Germans. I didn’t kill enough in 1918. Whatever your reason for coming here—I presume it is your furlough before going overseas—I am sorry you came. I am quite aware of the physical difficulties that confront me, and I will tolerate no remarks from you. I am more keenly aware of them than you are. I am sorry you came, because I am undertaking a complicated adjustment in my habits, and your presence will make it more burdensome. I congratulate you on your promotion. If you are staying for dinner—”

  “No, thank you,” I said politely. “I’ve got a date for dinner. But I’ll sleep here in my bed if you don’t mind. I’ll try not to annoy you—”

  “Fritz and I go to bed at nine sharp.”

  “Okay. I’ll t
ake my shoes off downstairs. Much obliged for the fatted calf. I apologize for dusting off my desk and chair, but I was afraid I’d get my uniform dirty. My furlough is two weeks.”

  “I hope, Archie, you will understand—”

  I didn’t wait to hear it. If I had stayed there a second longer I would simply have had to cut loose.

  Chapter 4

  At Sam’s Place, at the corner, I went first to the phone booth and called Colonel Ryder at Governor’s Island to tell him I was on the job, and then settled myself at a table with a plate of beef stew and two glasses of milk.

  As I ate the stew I considered the situation. It was not only tough, it was probably impossible. What had happened was quite plain: Wolfe had simply put his brains away in a drawer for the duration. He wasn’t going to do any thinking, because that was just work, whereas dieting and going outdoors every day and walking fast, getting ready to shoot some Germans—that was heroic. And he had already gone so far with it, and he was so damn bullheaded, that it looked hopeless. After mulling it over, I would have crossed it off and got my bags and headed for Governor’s Island, but for two things: first, I had told the general I knew how to handle him; and second, it looked as if he was going to kill himself if I didn’t stop him. If even one cell of his brain had been working—but it wasn’t.

  I thought of appealing for help, to Marko Vukcic or Raymond Plehn or Lewis Hewitt, or even Inspector Cramer, but of course that was no good. Any kind of appeal or argument would only make him stubborner, since he was refusing to think. The only thing that would turn the trick was to manage somehow to get his brain going. I knew from experience what a job that was, and he had never been in a condition to compare with the one he was in now. Futhermore I was handicapped by having been away for two months and not knowing who had called at the office or tried to, or whether there had been any current events.

  That, I thought, was one possibility, so after I had paid my check I went to the phone booth and called Inspector Cramer. He said he thought I was in the Army, and I said I thought so too, and then I asked him: “You got any good crimes on hand? Murders or robberies or even missing persons?”

  That didn’t get me anywhere. Either he had nothing promising or he wasn’t telling me. I went out to the sidewalk and stood there scowling at a taxi driver. It was cold, darned cold for the middle of March, and flurries of snow were scooting around, and I had no overcoat. As a forlorn hope, because there was nothing else to do, I climbed in the taxi and told the driver to take me to 316 Barnum Street. It wasn’t actually a hope at all, just a stab in the dark because there wasn’t any light.

  There was nothing about the outside of the building to warn me of the goofy assortment of specimens inside, merely an ordinary-looking old brick structure of four stories, the kind that had once been a private house but somewhere around the time I was born had been made into flats, with the vestibule fitted up with mailboxes and bell buttons. The card in one of the slots said Pearl O. Chack and beneath it in smaller letters, Amory. I pushed the button, shoved the door open when the click sounded, and was proceeding along the hall when a door toward the rear was suddenly flung open and somebody’s female ancestor appeared on the threshold. If you had deducted for skin and bones there wouldn’t have been more than 20 pounds left of her for tissue and internal parts all together. Straggling ends of white hair made a latticework for her piercing black eyes to see through, and there was no question about her being able to see. As I headed for her she snapped at me before I got there.

  “What do you want?”

  I produced a smile. “I would like to see—”

  She chopped me off. “She sent you! I know she did! I thought it was her. She plays that trick sometimes. Goes out and rings the bell, thinking I won’t suspect it’s her. She wants to tell me she thinks I killed her mother. I know what she wants! If she ever says that to me once, just once, I’ll have her arrested! You tell her that! Go up and tell her that now!”

  She was drawing back and shutting the door. I got a foot on the sill. “Just a minute, lady. I’ll go up and tell her anything you want me to. You mean Miss Amory? Ann Amory?”

  “Ann? My granddaughter?” The black eyes darted at me through the white latticework. “Certainly not! You’re not fooling me—”

  “I know I’m not, Mrs. Chack, but you’ve got me wrong. I want to see your granddaughter, that’s all. I came to see Ann. Is she—”

  “I don’t believe it!” she snapped, and banged the door shut. I could have stopped it with my foot, but it seemed doubtful if that was the proper course under the circumstances, and besides, I had heard noises upstairs. Immediately after the door banged there were footsteps coming down, and by the time I had moved to the foot of the stairs a young man was there at my level. Evidently he had intended to say something, but at sight of the uniform changed to something else.

  “Oh,” he said in surprise, “the Army? I expected—”

  He stopped, looking at me. As to clothes he was careless and maybe not even too clean in a bright light, but otherwise you might have expected to find his picture as a back on a football team. Except he was a little light for it.

  “Not at present on duty,” I said. “Why, what did you expect, the Navy?”

  He laughed. “I just meant I didn’t expect to see an Army officer. Not here. And I heard you asking to see Miss Amory, and I didn’t know she knew any Army officers.”

  “Do you know Miss Amory?”

  “Sure I know her. I live here. Two flights up.” He extended a hand. “My name’s Leon Furey.”

  “Mine’s Archie Goodwin.” We shook hands. “Do you happen to know if Miss Amory is at home?”

  “She’s up on the roof.” He was taking me in. “Not the Archie Goodwin that works for Nero Wolfe?”

  “That used to. Before I changed clothes. What is Miss Amory doing—”

  A voice cut in from up above:

  “Who is it, Leon? Bring him up!”

  It was a borderline husky voice, the kind that requires further evidence before deciding the question, man or woman. The young man’s head pivoted for a quick look up the stairs and then turned back to me, and his face broke into a grin. It seemed likely that he regarded it as an engaging grin, or maybe even charming. The vote for him in the Larchmont Women’s Club would have stood about 92 to 11. He came closer to me and lowered his voice.

  “I suppose you know you’re in a bughouse? My advice is to beat it. I’ll take a message for Miss Amory—”

  “Leon!” the voice came down. “Bring him up here!”

  “I’d like to see Miss Amory now,” I said, and started to by-pass Leon, but he shrugged his shoulders with masculine charm and started back upstairs, with me following. In the hall one flight up, standing in an open door, was the owner of the voice. The clothes, a brown woolen dress that might have been worn at the inauguration of McKinley, apparently settled the man or woman question, but aside from that she was built to play end or tackle on the same team with Leon. Also she stood more like a soldier than I did or was likely to.

  “What’s this?” she demanded as we approached. “I don’t know you. Come in here.”

  Leon called her “Miss Leeds,” and informed her that I was Archie Goodwin, formerly Nero Wolfe’s assistant, now Major Goodwin of the United States Army, but there was no knowing whether she got it, because she had her back turned, marching inside the apartment, taking it for granted we would follow, which we did. The furniture of the big room she led us into must have dated from McKinley’s childhood, and there was plenty of it. I sat down because she told me to as if she meant it, taking in the museum with a glance. To finish it off, there was a marble-topped table in the center of the room, with nothing on it but a dead hawk with its wings stretched out. Not a stuffed hawk, just a dead one, just lying there. I guess I stared at it, because she said, “He kills them for me.”

  I asked politely, “Are you a taxidermist, Miss Leeds?”

  “Oh, no, she likes pigeons,” Leon
said in an informative tone. He was sitting on a piano stool with a plush top. “There are seventy thousand pigeons in Manhattan, and about ninety hawks, and they kill the pigeons. The hawks keep coming. They live on the ledges of buildings, and I kill them for Miss Leeds. I got that one—”

  “That’s none of your business,” Miss Leeds told me brusquely. “I heard you talking to Mrs. Chack and asking for Ann Amory. I want you to understand that I do not wish any investigation into the death of my mother. It is not necessary. Mrs. Chack is crazy. Both crazy and malicious. She tells people that I think she killed my mother, but I don’t. I don’t think anyone killed my mother. She died of old age. I have explained thoroughly that no investigation is necessary, and I want it understood—”

  “He’s not a policeman,” Leon put in. “He’s an Army officer, Miss Leeds.”

  “What’s the difference?” she demanded. “Army or police, it’s all the same.” She was regarding me sternly. “Do you understand me, young man? You tell the mayor I want this stopped. I own this house and I own nine houses on this block and I pay my taxes, and I don’t intend to be annoyed. My mother wrote the mayor and she wrote the papers a thousand times what they ought to do. They ought to keep the hawks out of the city. I want to ask you what is being done about that. Well?”

  I should have smiled at her, but she just wasn’t anything to smile at. So I looked her in the eye and said, “Miss Leeds, you want facts. Okay, here’s three facts. One. This is the first I ever heard of hawks. Two. This is the first I ever heard of your mother. Three. I came here to see Ann Amory, and Leon tells me she’s up on the roof.” I stood up. “If I see any hawks up there, I’ll catch ’em alive and wring their necks. And I’ll tell the mayor what you said.”

  I walked out to the hall and along that to the next flight of stairs.

  Chapter 5

  The hall above and the one above that were each lit by a single unshaded bulb in a wall socket, but when I opened the door at the stairs to the roof, and passed through and closed it behind me, I was in darkness. I felt my way up with my feet on the wooden treads, found a latch at the top and opened a door, and was on the roof. Blinking at flakes of snow the wind was tossing around, and seeing nothing anywhere that might have been called Ann Amory, I headed for what looked like a penthouse to my left. Light was showing at the edges of a shaded window, and when I got to the door I could make out a sign painted on it: