The bits of tobacco in the folder had not been disturbed. That was no great disappointment, since I had no good reason to suppose that anyone in the place was sitting on tacks, and I left the set-up intact. At ten o’clock I got Jasper Pine on the phone and gave him a report of the Mr. and Mrs. Harold Anthony episode.
I also said, “Your wife came to see us last night.” “I know she did,” he replied, and let it go at that. It was a fair guess that his position was that there was no point in asking what she had said because she had already said everything to him about everything. When I told him that the whole department apparently had me tagged as a bloodhound he said grimly that in that case I might as well act like one and gave me the run of the pasture.
My first gallop was out of the pasture entirely, up to the Gazetee office to see Lon Cohen, having first called him. I had a healthy curiosity not only about Pine’s attitude toward his wife’s fondness for pets, but also about her and Moore. Wanting the low-down, I came away, after a session with Lon and talks with a couple of legmen, satisfied that I had it. Either Pine had years ago adopted the philosophy that a wife’s personal habits are none of a husband’s business, and really didn’t give a damn, and Mrs. Pine had completely lost interest in Moore early in 1946, except to see that he got a job, or the Gazetee boys were living in a dream world, which didn’t seem likely.
I bought them a lunch at Pietro’s and then returned to William Street. There was nothing in my office for me, no message from Wolfe or Pine or even Kerr Naylor, and the drawer of the cabinet hadn’t been touched. I was still without a bridle and could pick my own directions. Across the arena to Miss Livsey’s room was, I thought, as good as any.
Her door was open and she was inside, typing. I entered, shut the door, lowered myself onto the chair at the end of her desk, and inquired, “What thoughts have you got about Rosa Bendini?” “What on earth,” she inquired back, “have you been doing with your face?” She was gazing at it.
“You may think,” I said, “that you’re changing the subject, but actually you’re not. There’s a connection. It was Rosa’s husband who embroidered my face. What’s your opinion of her in ten thousand words?” “Does it hurt?” “Come on, come on. Being sweet and womanly when you haven’t even started to forget that Moore? Quit stalling.” She showed a hint of color, very faint, but the first I had seen of it. “I’m not stalling,” she denied. “If you can’t feel it you ought to look in a mirror and see it. What about Rosa Bendini?” I grinned at her to show her that the muscles worked, no matter how it looked.
“So you’re asking me instead. Okay. She calls Moore Wally. She says that he never had any intention of marrying you, and that you went crazy—these are her words—when you found out that he was still seeing her, and that you have never recovered. I may add that I don’t believe everything I hear, because if you have never recovered you must be crazy now, and on that I vote no.” The color had gone. She had held her working pose in front of her typewriter, her fingertips resting on the frame of the machine, implying that I had just dropped in to say hello and would soon drop out again, but now her torso and head came square to me to meet my eyes straight. The tone of her voice matched the expression of her eyes.
“You should have asked me to give you a list of the best ones to go to for gossip, but maybe you didn’t need to, because, if you had, Rosa would have been near the top, and you’ve already found her yourself. When you’ve found the others, please don’t bother repeating it to me. I have a lot of work to do.” Her body pivoted back to its working position, she looked at the paper in the machine and then at her notebook, and her fingers hit the keys.
I had my choice of several remarks, among them being that Rosa had found me, not me her, but it would have had to be a loud yawp to carry over the din of the typewriter, so I saved my breath and departed.
The day was more than half gone and I hadn’t made a beginning on the names I had got from Rosa. I returned to my room, got the head of the reserve pool on the phone, said I would like to have a talk with Miss Gwynne Ferris of his section, and asked if he would send her to see me. He said he was sorry, Miss Ferris was busy at the moment taking dictation from a section head whose secretary was absent for the day, and would a little later do? I told him sure, any time at his and her convenience, and as I pushed the phone back I became aware that my doorway was being darkened.
The darkener was a tall bony young man with a lot of undisciplined hair that could have used a comb or even a barber’s scissors. He looked like a poet getting very deep into something, and since his eyes were unmistakably fastened on me, evidently I was what was being probed.
“May I come in, Mr. Truett?” he inquired in a rumble like low thunder from the horizon.
When I told him yes he entered, closed the door, crossed to a chair in three huge strides, sat, and informed me, “I’m Ben Frenkel. Benjamin Frenkel. I understand you’re here looking for the murderer of Waldo Moore.” So if I didn’t have Gwynne Ferris I had the next best thing, the intense young man who, according to Rosa, had been beckoned and promised by her until he didn’t know which way was south.
Meeting his gaze, I had to concentrate to keep from being stared right out through the window behind me. “I wouldn’t put it like that, Mr. Frenkel,” I told him, “but I don’t mind if you do.” He smiled sweetly and sadly. “That will do for my purpose,” he stated. “I wouldn’t expect you to commit yourself. I’ve been here before, several times, since I heard this morning what you are here for, but I didn’t find you in. I wanted to tell you that I am under the strong impression that I killed Moore. I have had that impression ever since the night it happened—or I should say the next day.” He stopped. I nodded at him encouragingly. “It’s still your turn, Mr. Frenkel.
That’s too vague. Is it just an impression, or can you back it up?” “Not very satisfactorily, I’m afraid.” He was frowning, a cloud on his wide brow for his thunder rumble. “I was hoping you would straighten it out and I would be rid of it. Can I tell you about it confidentially?” “That depends. I couldn’t sign up to keep a confession of murder confidential—” “My God, I’m not confessing!” “Then what are you doing?” He took a deep breath, held it a couple of seconds, and let it out. “My hatred for Waldo Moore,” he said, “was one of the strongest feelings I have ever had in my life. Possibly the strongest. I won’t tell you why, because I have no right to drag in another person’s name. I doubt if any man ever hated another one as I hated him. It went on for months, and Iwas frightened at it, literally frightened. I have always had a profound interest in the phenomenon of death.
The two merged inside of me. There was a fusion, a synthesis of those two reactions to stimuli. The one, the hatred was emotional, and the other, the interest in death, was intellectual; and the two came together. As a result I became preoccupied with the conception of the death of Moore and I thought of it, over and over again, in concrete and specific terms. The conception of a car running over him and crushing the life out of him came to me many times, I don’t know how many, but dozens.” “It wasn’t a conception that hit him, it was a sedan.” “Certainly. I’m not suggesting anything esoteric. I live in a furnished room on Ninety-fourth Street not far from Broadway. One evening I was sitting there in my room, and those conceptions, those I have spoken of, were filling my mind. It was an extremely exhausting experience; it always was. Psychologically it might be compared to a trance resulting from a congestion of the cerebral cells brought about by prolonged and unendurable tension. My head ached and I lay on the bed.” I was getting bored. “And went to sleep and dreamed.” “No, I didn’t. I went to sleep, but I didn’t dream. That is, the overwhelming impression was that I had been asleep. That was a little after one in the morning, ten minutes after one. At the moment of consciousness I was opening the door of the bathroom. I thought to myself that I must have been very deep in sleep to have left the bed and got to the bathroom door at the other side of the room without being aware of it. My
mind was completely empty, and rested; there were no dreams in it at all, though there often are when I get up. That was all there was to it that night; I undressed and went to bed and after a while went back to sleep; but in the morning, when I read the news of Moore’s death in the paper—of course it was an electrifying experience for me—my mind was suddenly occupied, completely dominated, by the impression that I had killed him. I think one little circumstance was a major factor in the birth of the impression: the circumstance that the car that killed him had been found parked on Ninety-fifth Street, just one block from where I lived.” “Think again, Mr. Frenkel. The car wasn’t found until nearly noon, so it couldn’t have been in the morning paper.” “What!” He was disconcerted. “Are you sure of that?” “Positive.” “That’s strange.” He shook his head. “That shows what a mind can do with itself.
I clearly remember that the impression was with me that morning when I went to work, so the detail of where the car was found must have come later and only made the impression deeper and stronger. Anyhow, that was when it started, and I’ve had it ever since, and I want to get rid of it.” “I don’t blame you,” I assured him. “That first time you went to sleep, when you were exhausted with conceptions and your head ached, what time was it?” “It was around nine o’clock. Naturally I’ve considered that. I can’t determine it very exactly, but it couldn’t have been far from nine one way or the other.” “Did you know where Moore was that evening? Or where you might expect to find him?” “No.” He hesitated. “I knew—” He left it hanging.
I nudged. “Let’s have it.” “I knew where I surmised he was, or might be. No, that’s not right. I knew whom I surmised he might be with, and that’s all. I prefer not to mention names.” “When you woke up by the bathroom door, how were you dressed?” “As usual. As I had been when I lay down. Suit, shoes—fully dressed.” “No hat or overcoat?” “My God, no. That would have removed any doubt, wouldn’t it?” “Well, a couple of layers. Any other indications—dirty hands or any thing?” “No. Nothing.” “Have you ever mentioned this to anyone, your impression that you killed Moore?”
“Never. When the police were investigating, soon after it happened, a detective called on me and asked if I had been out for a walk late that night and had noticed anyone parking a car on Ninety-fifth Street.
Of course that meant they were interested in me because I lived only a block away. He also asked about certain—about my relations with Moore. I told him frankly that I hated Moore.” “But you didn’t tell him about your impression?” “No, why should I?” “You shouldn’t. Why are you telling me?” Frenkel hunched his shoulders together. His eyes were no longer probing me; now they left me entirely, going down until they reached the floor. He seemed to be getting forlorn, and I hoped he didn’t have another headache coming on. I waited for him to lift his eyes again, which he eventually did.
“It’s very difficult,” he said in a grieved tone. “It may sound foolish, but when I learned that you are investigating Moore’s murder I had a kind of vague hope that if I told you about it you might be able to check up on it—you’re a detective and would know how to do it—perhaps by questioning the landlady and other people there you could establish the fact that I didn’t leave my room that evening.” He looked uncertain. “Or perhaps you could relieve my mind. Maybe I haven’t made it plain what terrible pressure I’ve been under. Perhaps you could tell me whether Mr. Naylor has mentioned any names in connection with this—with that irresponsible report he sent to Mr. Pine. Specifically, has he mentioned mine?” I was no longer bored, but if any gleam showed in my eyes it was against orders.
“Well,” I said offhand, “a lot of names have been mentioned of course. Have you any reason to suppose that Mr. Naylor might single you out?” “No good reason, no. It’s like this, Mr. Truett.” He leaned forward, and apparently he had got his second wind, for he was probing again. “This impression that I killed a man has been the dominating element of my whole mental process for nearly four months. It is vital to me, absolutely vital, that I either validate it or destroy it with as little delay as possible. I need to know, and I have a right to know, if anyone else has the same impression, and if so for what reason and with what justification. It can’t be the same reason as mine, for no one on earth, except you now that I’ve told you, knows what happened to me in my room that evening. So I ask if Mr. Naylor has mentioned my name. If he has, and if your telling me so is not regarded as in confidence, I would like to go to him—” The door opened and Kerr Naylor was in the room.
In spite of Ben Frenkel’s distress and SOS appeal I had sprouted no germ of brotherly feeling for him, or if I had, it had wilted fast at the suspicion that what he chiefly wanted was to pump me. But the sight of Naylor’s neat little colorless face and glittery colorless eyes aroused my protective instinct, not only in behalf of Frenkel, but of the whole stock department. As Frenkel saw who the newcomer was and arose, nearly knocking his chair over in his haste, I told Naylor casually: “Hello, I haven’t seen you today. I’ve been discussing the personnel of his section with Mr. Frenkel. I think—” “He isn’t the head of the section,” Naylor snapped.
“Yeah, but I often find in my personnel work that you get more from an assistant than you do from a head. Did you want something?” “You can finish with Frenkel later.” “Sure,” I said agreeably, “but about one point that came up, I got the impression that he wanted to ask you about it. That right, Mr. Frenkel?” It didn’t seem to be since he was edging toward the door. He had not gone wholly inarticulate, but his rumble had degenerated to a mumble, something about the outgoing mail waiting for him, and he was gone. He left the door standing open.
Kerr Naylor went and closed it, came to the chair his underling had just vacated, and sat down.
“You’ve got them jumping through hoops,” I said in admiring awe. “Even big ones like Frenkel, who could do a major operation on you with one hand.” Naylor smiled his two-cent smile. “He would like to, Frenkel would.” “Why, any particular reason?” “No, except that he thinks I prevented his promotion in January.” Naylor pulled a pamphlet from his side pocket. “I came across this in a drawer of my desk and thought you might like to read it.” I took it. The title on the cover was PROTEINS AND ENZYMES. “Did you say read it or eat it?” I inquired.
Having no sense of humor, he ignored that. It seemed that he had paid me a visit expressly to give me the pamphlet and discuss its thesis—or rather, to give me a lecture on it. It was all at the tip of his tongue, and he reeled it off as if I had paid to get in and was dying to hear about it.
I did hear a word here and there, enough to enable me to contribute an occasional grunt or a question, but mostly I was trying to decide what kept him wound up. That he really had it in his heart to sell me on the enzyme potential of foliage I did not believe for a moment. I felt helpless, and so of course I was irritated. Right there in his little head, as he sat doing his spiel, were facts and intentions that were what I needed and all I needed, and I hadn’t the faintest idea how to start prying them loose. I have often felt, talking with a man in the line of duty, okay, brother, wait till Wolfe gets a crack at you, but with Kerr Naylor I wasn’t at all sure that even Wolfe could get a wedge in him.
He went on and on. I glanced twice at my writstwatch, without effect. Finally I told him I was sorry, I had an appointment and was already late. He wanted to know who with. I gave him the first name that popped into my head, Sumner Hoff.
“Ah.” He nodded, leaving his chair. “One of our best men—a fine engineer and a good organizer. It’s regrettable—really unfortunate—that he is endangering his whole career on account of that Livsey girl. He could have gone to Brazil, taken charge there, and he wouldn’t leave because of her. You know who she is—you were in her room yesterday and again today. Do you know where Hoff’s office is?” “I’ll find—” “Come along. It’s near mine. I’ll show you.” I followed him, thinking that his intelligence service was not only thorough
but on its toes, since he already knew of my brief call on Miss Livesy. We went down the broad aisle that separated the main arena from the row of offices, and when we were nearing its end he halted in front of a closed door.
“This is Hoff’s room,” he announced in the thin tenor that I had had enough offer a while. “By the way, something I nearly forgot to mention. Regarding the murder of Waldo Moore, I told you yesterday that all I could furnish was the bare fact. That was not strictly true, and was therefore in the nature of a misrepresentation. I am in possession of another fact: the name of the person who killed him. I know who it was. But I can go no further. It is neither proper nor safe to accuse a person of murder without communicable evidence to support the charge. So that’s all I can say.” He smiled at me. “Tell Mr. Wolfe I’m sorry.” He turned and went, headed for his own office at the end of the aisle.
My impulse was to go after him. I stood and considered it. He had done it in style, his style, waiting to toss it at me until we were outside, with the nearest row of desks and personnel so close that I would have had to take only two short steps to touch the rayon shoulder of a dark-haired beauty with magenta lipstick. She was looking at me, now that the big boss had departed, and so were others in that sector, enjoying a good view of the bloodhound. I made a face at them collectively, and, deciding not to go after Naylor because I wasn’t sure I could keep from strangling him, I opened the door of Hoff s room and went in.
He looked up, got me at a glance, and barked at me. “Get out!” I shut the door and surveyed. He had a nice big room. As for him, it might have been expected that the man who had plugged Waldo Moore in the jaw for romantic reasons, and was a civil engineer into the bargain, would be well designed and constructed, but no. There was heft to him, but he would be pudgy before many years passed and also he would have two chins. He didn’t get up and start for me or pick up anything to throw; he simply told me to get out. I approached his desk, offering reasonably, “I will if you’ll tell me why.” “Get out of here!” He meant every word he said. “You goddam snoop! And stay out!” For one thing, with a man in that frame of mind the chances of having a friendly and fruitful conversation are not very good, and for another, I was there at that time only because I had told Naylor on the spur of the moment that I had an appointment with him. I hated to pass up an opportunity for a cutting remark, two or three of which were ready for my tongue simultaneously, but the look on his face indicated that he would like nothing better than for me to try to stay, so he could add some remarks of his own. Therefore I outwitted him by pivoting on my heel and getting out, just as he said.
Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe - Too Many Women Page 8
