Curtains for Three

by Rex Stout

  “I was wondering,” she complained, as if she had been holding in a grievance, “if you were going to go on ignoring me. I was around too, you know.”

  “I know. I haven’t forgotten you.” His tone implied that he only wished he could. “When you had a drink in the Churchill bar with your father and Judge Arnold, why did they send you up to Mion’s studio to see him? What for?*

  Arnold and James protested at once, loudly and simultaneously. Wolfe, paying no attention to them, waited to hear Clara, her voice having been drowned by theirs.

  “… nothing to do with it,” she was finishing. “I sent myself.”

  “It was your own idea?”

  36 Rex Stout

  “Entirely. I have one once in a while, all alone.”

  “What did you go for?”

  “You don’t need to answer, my dear,” Arnold told her.

  She ignored him. “They told me what had happened at the conference, and I was mad. I thought it was a holdup—but I wasn’t going to tell Alberto that. I thought I could talk him out of it.”

  “You went to appeal to him for old times’ sake?”

  She looked pleased. “You have the nicest way of putting things! Imagine a girl my age having old times!”

  “I’m glad you like my diction, Miss James.” Wolfe was furious. “Anyhow, you went. Arriving at a quarter past six?”

  “Just about, yes.”

  “Did you see Mion?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “He wasn’t there. At least—” She stopped. Her eyes weren’t glistening quite so much. She went on, “That’s what I thought then. I went to the thirteenth floor and rang the bell at the door to the studio. It’s a loud bell—he had it loud to be heard above his voice and the piano when he was practicing—but I couldn’t hear it from the hall because the door is soundproofed too, and after I had pushed the button a few times I wasn’t sure the bell was ringing so I knocked on the door. I like to finish anything I start, and I thought he must be there, so I rang the bell some more and took off my shoe and pounded on the door with the heel. Then I went down to the twelfth floor by the public stairs and rang the bell at the apartment door. That was really stupid, because I know how Mrs. Mion hates me, but anyway I did. She came to the door and said

  Curtains for Three 37

  she thought Alberto was up in the studio, and I said he wasn’t, and she shut the door in my face. I went home | and mixed myself a drink—which reminds me, I must admit this is good scotch, though I never heard of it ^before.”

  She lifted her glass and jiggled it to swirl the ice. 14
  “No,” Wolfe growled. He glanced at the clock on the wall and then along the line of faces. “I shall cer| tainly report to Mrs. Mion,” he told them, “that you were not grudging with the facts.”

  “And what else?” Arnold inquired.

  “I don’t know. We’ll see.”

  That they didn’t like. I wouldn’t have supposed | anyone could name a subject on which those six characters would have been in unanimous accord, but Wolfe turned the trick in five words. They wanted a verdict; failing that, an opinion; failing that, at least a hint. Adele Bosley was stubborn, Rupert the Fat was |: so indignant he squeaked, andJudge Arnold was next door to nasty. Wolfe was patient up to a point, but finally stood up and told them good night as if he meant it. The note it ended on was such that before going not one of them shelled out a word of appreciation for all the refreshment, not even Adele, the expert on public relations, or Doc Lloyd, who had practically emptied the bourbon bottle.

  With the front door locked and bolted for the night, I returned to the office. To my astonishment Wolfe was still on his feet, standing over by the bookshelves, glaring at the backbones.

  “Restless?” I asked courteously.

  He turned and said aggressively, “I want another bottle of beer.”

  “Nuts. You’ve had five since dinner.” I didn’t

  38 Rex Stout

  bother to put much feeling into it, as the routine was familiar. He had himself set the quota of five bottles between dinner and bedtime, and usually stuck to it, but when anything sent his humor far enough down he hiked to shift the responsibility so he could be sore at me too.

  It was just part of my job. “Nothing doing,” I said firmly. “I counted ‘em. Five. What’s the trouble, a whole evening gone and still no murderer?”

  “Bah.” He compressed his lips. “That’s not it. If that were all we could close it up before going to bed. It’s that confounded gun with wings.” He gazed at me with his eyes narrowed, as if suspecting that I had wings too. “I could, of course, just ignore it— No. No, in view of the state our clients are in, it would be foolhardy. We’ll have to clear it up. There’s no alternative.”

  “That’s a nuisance. Can I help any?”

  “Yes. Phone Mr. Cramer first thing in the morning. Ask him to be here at eleven o’clock.”

  My brows went up. “But he’s interested only in homicides. Do I tell him we’ve got one to show him?”

  “No. Tell him I guarantee that it’s worth the trouble.” Wolfe took a step toward me. “Archie.”

  “Yes/sir.”

  “I’ve had a bad evening and 111 have another bottle.”

  “You will not. Not a chance.” Fritz had come in and we were starting to clear up. “It’s after midnight and you’re in the way. Go to bed.”

  “One wouldn’t hurt him,” Fritz muttered.

  “You’re a help,” I said bitterly. “I warn both of you, I’ve got a gun in my pocket. What a household!”

  Curtains for Three

  [.‘For nine months of the year Inspector Cramer of fHomicide, big and broad and turning gray, looked the , well enough, but in the summertime the heat kept pris face so red that he was a little gaudy. He knew it Piaid didn’t like it, and as a result he was some harder to deal with in August than in January. If an occasion

  * arises for me to commit a murder in Manhattan I hope fit will be winter.

  Tuesday at noon he sat in the red leather chair and f looked at Wblfe with no geniality. Detained by another f appointment, he hadn’t been able to make it at eleven, fithe hour when Wolfe adjourns the morning session | with his orchids up in the plant rooms. Wblfe wasn’t ^exactly beaming either, and I was looking forward to j some vaudeville. Also I was curious to see how Wolfe I would go about getting dope on a murder from Cramer

  without spilling it that there had been one, as Cramer

  was by no means a nitwit.

  “I’m on my way uptown,” Cramer grumbled, “and

  haven’t got much time.”

  That was probably a barefaced lie. He merely didn’t want to admit that an inspector of the NYPD would call on a private detective on request, even though it was Nero Wolfe and I had told him we had something hot.

  “What is it,” he grumbled on, “the Dickinson thing? Who brought you in?”

  Wolfe shook his head. “No one, thank heaven. It’s about the mu*der of Alberto Mion.”

  I goggled at him. This was away beyond me. Right off he had let the dog loose, when I had thought the whole point was that there was no dog on the place.

  40 Rex Stout

  “Mion?” mine.”

  Cramer wasn’t interested. “Not one of

  “It soon will be. Alberto Mion, the famous opera singer. Four months ago, on April nineteenth. In his studio on East End Avenue. Shot—”

  “Oh.” Cramer nodded. “Yeah, I remember. But you’re stretching it a little. It was suicide.”

  “No. It was first-degree murder.”

  Cramer regarded him for three breaths. Then, in no hurry, he got a cigar from his pocket, inspected it, and stuck it in his mouth. In a moment he took it out again.

  “I have never known it to fail,” he remarked, “that you can be counted on for a headache. Who says it was murder?”

  “I have reached that conclusion.”

  “Then that’s settled
.” Cramer’s sarcasm was usually a little heavy. “Have you bothered any about evidence?”

  “I have none.”

  “Good. Evidence just clutters a murder up.” Cramer stuck the cigar back in his mouth and exploded, “When did you start keeping your sentences so goddam short? Go ahead and talk!”

  “Well—” Wolfe considered. “It’s a little difficult. You’re probably not familiar with the details, since it was so long ago and was recorded as suicide.”

  “I remember it fairly well. As you say, he was famous. Go right ahead.”

  Wolfe leaned back and closed his eyes. “Interrupt me if you need to. I had six people here for a talk last evening.” He pronounced their names and identified them. “Five of them were present at a conference in Mion’s studio which ended two hours before he was found dead. The sixth, Miss James, banged on the stu

  Curtains for Three 41

  > door at a quarter past six and got no reply, presum My because he was dead then. My conclusion that was murdered is based on things I have heard 1. I’m not going to repeat them to you—because it take too long, because it’s a question of empha and interpretation, and because you have already

  them.”

  “I wasn’t here last evening,” Cramer said dryly. “So you weren’t. Instead of *y���u/1 should have said i Police Department. It must all be in the files. They s questioned at the time it happened, and told their i as they have now told them to me. You can get Have you ever known me to have to eat my

  B?”

  i’ve seen times when I would have liked to shove t down your throat.”

  it you never have. Here are three more I shall : Mion was murdered. I won’t tell you, now, how that conclusion; study your files.”

  was keeping himself under restraint. “I i-have to study them,” he declared, “for one detail he was killed. Are you saying he fired the gun ‘ but was driven to it?”

  The murderer fired the gun.” must have been quite a murderer. It’s quite a i pry a guy’s mouth open and stick a gun in it .getting bit. Would you mind naming him?”

  shook his head. “I haven’t got that far yet. t isn’t the objection you raise that’s bothering me; |���an be overcome; it’s something else.” He leaned Sand was earnest. “Lookhere, Mr. Cramer. It ijtot have been impossible for me to see this i alone, deliver the murderer and the evidence ^ and flap my wings and crow. But first, I have no i to expose you as a zany, since you’re not; and

  40 Rex Stout

  “Mion?” Cramer wasn’t interested. “Not one of mine.”

  “It soon will be. Alberto Mion, the famous opera singer. Four months ago, on April nineteenth. In his studio on East End Avenue. Shot—”

  “Oh.” Cramer nodded. “Yeah, I remember. But you’re stretching it a little. It was suicide.”

  “No. It was first-degree murder.”

  Cramer regarded him for three breaths. Then, in no hurry, he got a cigar from his pocket, inspected it, and stuck it in his mouth. In a moment he took it out again.

  “I have never known it to fail,” he remarked, “that you can be counted on for a headache. Who says it was murder?”

  “I have reached that conclusion.”

  “Then that’s settled.” Cramer’s sarcasm was usually a little heavy. “Have you bothered any about evidence?”

  “I have none.”

  “Good. Evidence just clutters a murder up.” Cramer stuck the cigar back in his mouth and exploded, “When did you start keeping your sentences so goddam short? Go ahead and talk!”

  “Well—” Wolfe considered. “It’s a little difficult. You’re probably not familiar with the details, since it was so long ago and was recorded as suicide.”

  “I remember it fairly well. As you say, he was famous. Go right ahead.”

  Wolfe leaned back and closed his eyes. “Interrupt me if you need to. I had six people here for a talk last evening,” He pronounced their names and identified them. “Five of them were present at a conference in Mion’s studio which ended two hours before he was found dead. The sixth, Miss James, banged on the stu

  Curtains for Three 41

  |dio door at a quarter past six and got no reply, presum

  ; ably because he was dead then. My conclusion that

  itMion was murdered is based on things I have heard

  ‘said. I’m not going to repeat them to you—because it

  would take too long, because it’s a question of emphaKsis and interpretation, and because you have already

  heard them.”

  “I wasn’t here last evening,” Cramer said dryly.

  “So you weren’t. Instead of ‘you,’ I should have said the Police Department. It must all be in the files. They were questioned at the time it happened, and told their stories as they have now told them to me. You can get it there. Have you ever known me to have to eat my words?”

  “I’ve seen times when I would have liked to shove them down your throat.”

  “But you never have. Here are three more I shall not eat: Mion was murdered. I won’t tell you, now, how I reached that conclusion; study your files.”

  Cramer was keeping himself under restraint. “I don’t have to study them,” he declared, “for one detail —how he was killed. Are you saying he fired the gun himself but was driven to it?”

  “No. The murderer fired the gun.”

  “It must have been quite a murderer. It’s quite a trick to pry a guy’s mouth open and stick a gun in it without getting bit. Would you mind naming him?”

  Wolfe shook his head. “I haven’t got that far yet. But it isn’t the objection you raise that’s bothering me; that can be overcome; it’s something else.” He leaned forward and was earnest. “Look here, Mr. Cramer. It would not have been impossible for me to see this through alone, deliver the murderer and the evidence to you, and flap my wings and crow. But first, I have no ambition to expose you as a zany, since you’re not; and

  42 Rex Stout

  second, I need your help. I am not now prepared to prove to you that Mion was murdered; I can only assure you that he was and repeat that I won’t have to eat it—and neither will you. Isn’t that enough, at least to arouse your interest?”

  Cramer stopped chewing the cigar. He never lit one. “Sure,” he said grimly. “Hell, I’m interested. Another first-class headache. I’m flattered you want me to help. How?”

  “I want you to arrest two people as material witnesses, question them, and let them out on bail.”

  “Which two? Why not all six?” I warned you his sarcasm was hefty.

  “But”—Wolfe ignored it—“under clearly defined conditions. They must not know that I am responsible; they must not even know that I have spoken with you. The arrests should be made late this afternoon or early evening, so they’ll be kept in custody all night and until they arrange for bail in the morning. The bail need not be high; that’s not important. The questioning should be fairly prolonged and severe, not merely a gesture, and if they get little or no sleep so much the better. Of course this sort of thing is routine for you.”

  “Yeah, we do it constantly.” CramePs tone was unchanged. “But when we ask for a warrant we like to have a fairly good excuse. We wouldn’t like to put down that it’s to do Nero Wolfe a favor. I don’t want to be contrary.”

  “There’s ample excuse for these two. They are material witnesses. They are indeed.”

  “You haven’t named them. Who are they?”

  “The man and woman who found the body. Mr. Frederick Weppler, the music critic, and Mrs. Mion, the widow.”

  This time I didn’t goggle, but I had to catch myself

  Curtains for Three 43

  quick. It was a first if there ever was one. Time and again I have seen Wolfe go far, on a few occasions much too far, to keep a client from being pinched. He regards it as an unbearable personal insult. And here he was, practically begging the law to haul Fred and Peggy in, when I had deposited her check for five grand only the day before!
“Oh,” Cramer said. “Them?” “Yes, sir,” Wolfe assured him cooperatively. “As you know or can learn from the files, there is plenty to ask them about it. Mr. Weppler was there for lunch pthat day, with others, and when the others left he re fmained with Mrs. Mion. What was discussed? What they do that afternoon; where were they? Why did p. Weppler return to the Mion apartment at seven ?clock? Why did he and Mrs. Mion ascend together to studio? After finding the body, why did Mr. Weeper go downstairs before notifying the police, to get a . of names from the doorman and elevator man? An ordinary performance. Was it Mion’s habit to an afternoon nap? Did he sleep with his mouth i?”

  “Much obliged,” Cramer said not gratefully. Sfou’re a wonder at thinking of questions to ask. But if Mion did take naps with his mouth open, I ; if he did it standing up. And after the bullet left head it went up to the ceiling, as I remember it. 1 Cramer put his palms on the arms of the chair, i the cigar in his mouth tilted up at about the angle f gun in Mion’s mouth had probably been. “Who’s client?”

  Jo,” Wolfe said regretfully. “I’m not ready to dis that.”

  ‘. thought not. In fact, there isn’t one single damn ; you have disclosed. You’ve got no evidence, or if

  44 Rex Stoat

  you have any you’re keeping it under your belt. You’ve got a conclusion you like, that will help a client you won’t name, and you want me to test it for you by arresting two reputable citizens and giving them the works. I’ve seen samples of your nerve before, but this is tops. For God’s sake!”

  “I’ve told you I won’t eat it, and neither will you. If—”

  “You’d eat one of your own orchids if you had to earn a fee!”

  That started the fireworks. I have sat many times and listened to that pair in a slugging match and enjoyed every minute of it, but this one got so hot that I wasn’t exactly sure I was enjoying it. At 12:40 Cramer was on his feet, starting to leave. At 12:45 he was back in the red leather chair, shaking his fist and snarling. At 12:48 Wolfe was leaning back with his eyes shut, pretending he was deaf. At 12:52 he was pounding his desk and bellowing.