by Rex Stout
They looked up together, at Wolfe.
“So what?” Fred demanded.
“My dear sir.” Wolfe pushed his cup and saucer back. “My dear madam. Why did you come to me? Because the fact that the gun was not on, the floor when
66 Rex Stout
you two entered the studio convinced you that Mion had not killed himself but had been murdered. If the circumstances had permitted you to believe that he had killed himself, you would be married by now and never have needed me. Very well. That is now precisely what the circumstances are. What more do you want? You wanted your minds cleared. I have cleared them.”
Fred twisted his lips, tight.
“I don’t believe it,” Peggy said glumly.
“You don’t believe this statement?” Wolfe reached for the document and put it in his desk drawer, which struck me as a wise precaution, since it was getting close to nine o’clock. “Do you think Miss James would sign a thing like that if it weren’t true? Why would—”
“I don’t mean that,” Peggy said. “I mean I don’t believe my husband killed himself, no matter where the gun was. I knew him too well. He would never have killed himself—never.” She twisted her head to look up at her fellow client. “Would he, Fred?”
“It’s hard to believe,” Fred admitted grudgingly.
“I see.” Wolfe was caustic. “Then the job you hired me for was not as you described it. At least, you must concede that I have satisfied you about the gun; you can’t wiggle out of that. So that job’s done, but now you want more. You want a murder disclosed, which means, of necessity, a. murderer caught. You want—”
“I only mean,” Peggy insisted forlornly, “that I don’t believe he killed himself, and nothing would make me believe it. I see now what I really—”
The doorbell sounded, and I went to answer it.
Curtains for Three 67
IX
So the clients stayed for the party.
There were ten guests altogether: the six who had been there Monday evening, the two clients, Inspector Cramer, and my old friend and enemy, Sergeant Purley Stebbins. What made it unusual was that the dumbest one of the lot, Clara James, was the only one who had a notion of what was up, unless she had told her father, which I doubted. She had the advantage of the lead I had given her at the Churchill bar. Adele Bosley, Dr. Lloyd, Rupert Grove, Judge Arnold, and Gifford James had had no reason to suppose there was anything on the agenda but the damage claim against James, until they got there and were made acquainted with Inspector Cramer and Sergeant Stebbins. God only knew what they thought then; one glance at their faces was enough to show they didn’t know. As for Cramer and Stebbins, they had had enough experience of Nero Wolfe to be aware that almost certainly fur was going to fly, but whose and how and when? And as for Fred and Peggy, even after the arrival of the law, they probably thought that Wolfe was going to get Mion’s suicide pegged down by producing Clara’s statement and disclosing what Fred had told us about moving the gun from the bust to the floor, which accounted for the desperate and cornered look on then faces. But now they were stuck.
Wolfe focused on the inspector, who was seated in the rear over by the big globe, with Purley nearby. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Cramer, first 111 clear up a little matter that is outside your interest.”
Cramer nodded and shifted the cigar in his mouth to a new angle. He was keeping his watchful eyes on the move.
68 Rex Stout
Wolfe changed his focus. “I’m sure you’ll all be glad to hear this. Not that I formed my opinion so as to please you; I considered only the merits Of the case. Without prejudice to her legal position, I feel that morally Mrs. Mion has no claim on Mr. James. As I said she would, she accepts my judgment. She makes no claim and will ask no payment for damages. You verify that before these witnesses, Mrs. Mion?”
“Certainly.” Peggy was going to add something, but stopped it on the way out.
“This is wonderful!” Adele Bosley was out of her chair. “May I use a phone?”
“Later,” Wolfe snapped at her. “Sit down, please.”
“It seems to me,” Judge Arnold observed, “that this could have, been told us on the. phone. I had to cancel an important engagement.” Lawyers are never satisfied.
“Quite true,” Wolfe agreed mildly, “if that were all. But there’s the matter of Mion’s death. When I—”
“What has that got to do with it?”
“I’m about to tell you. Surely it isn’t extraneous, since his death resulted, though indirectly, from the assault by Mr. James. But my interest goes beyond that. Mrs. Mion hired me not only to decide about the claim of her husband’s estate against Mr. James—that is now closed—but also to investigate her husband’s death. She was convinced he had not killed himself. She could not believe it was in his character to commit suicide. I have investigated and I am prepared to report to her.”
“You don’t need us here for that,” Rupert the Fat said in a high squeak.
“I need one of you. I need the murderer.”
“You still don’t need us,” Arnold said harshly.
Curtains for Three 69
“Hang it,” Wolfe snapped, “then go! All but one of you. Go!”
Nobody made a move.
Wolfe gave them five seconds. “Then I’ll go on,” he said dryly. “As I say, I’m prepared to report, but the investigation is not concluded. One vital detail will require official sanction, and that’s why Inspector Cramer is present. It will also need Mrs. Mion’s concurrence; and I think it well to consult Dr. Lloyd too, since he signed the death certificate.” His eyes went to Peggy. “First you, madam. Will you give your consent to the exhumation of your husband’s body?”
She gawked at him. “What for?”
“To get evidence that he was murdered, and by whom. It is a reasonable expectation.”
She stopped gawking. “Yes. I don’t care.” She thought he was just talking to hear himself.
Wolfe’s eyes went left. “You have no objection, Dr. Lloyd?” Lloyd was nonplused. “I have no idea,” he said slowly and distinctly, “what you’re getting at, but in any case I have no voice in the matter. I merely issued the certificate.”
“Then you won’t oppose it. Mr. Cramer. The basis for the request for official sanction will appear in a moment, but you should know that what will be required is an examination and report by Dr. Abraham Rentner of Mount Sinai Hospital.”
“You don’t get an exhumation just because you’re curious,” Cramer growled.
“I know it. I’m more than curious.” Wolfe’s eyes traveled. “You all know, I suppose, that one of the chief reasons, probably the main one, for the police decision that Mion had committed suicide was the manner of his death. Of course other details had to fit—as for instance the presence of the gun there beside the body—
70 Rex Stout
and they did. But the determining factor was the assumption that a man cannot be murdered by sticking the barrel of a revolver in his mouth and pulling the trigger unless he is first made unconscious; and there was no evidence that Mion had been either struck or drugged, and besides, when the bullet left his head it went to the ceiling. However, though that assumption is ordinarily sound, surely this case was an exception. It came to my mind at once, when Mrs. Mion first consulted me. For there was present— But I’ll show you with a simple demonstration. Archie. Get a gun.”
I opened my third drawer and got one out.
“Is it loaded?”
I flipped it open to check. “No, sir.”
Wolfe returned to the audience. “You, I think, Mr. James. As an opera singer you should be able to follow stage directions. Stand up, please. This is a serious matter, so do it right. You are a patient with a sore throat, and Mr. Goodwin is your doctor. He will ask you to open your mouth so he can look at your throat. You are to do exactly what you would naturally do under those circumstances. Will you do that?”
“But it’s obvious.” James, standing, was looki
ng grim. “I don’t need to.”
“Nevertheless, please indulge me. There’s a certain detail. Will you do it as naturally as possible?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Will the rest of you all watch Mr. James’ face? Closely. Go ahead, Archie.”
With the gun in my pocket I moved in front of James and told him to open wide. He did so. For a moment his eyes came to mine as I peered into his throat, and then slanted upward. Not in a hurry, I took the gun from my pocket and poked it into his mouth
Curtains for Three 71
until it touched the roof. He jerked back and dropped into his chair.
“Did you see the gun?” Wolfe demanded.
“No. My eyes were up.”
“Just so.” Wolfe looked at the others. “You saw his I .eyes go up? They always do. Try it yourselves sometime. I tried it in my bedroom Sunday evening. So it is by no means impossible to kill a man that way, it isn’t even difficult, if you’re a doctor and he has something wrong with his throat. You agree, Dr. Lloyd?”
Lloyd had not joined the general movement to watch James’ face during the demonstration. He hadn’t stirred a muscle. Now his jaw was twitching a little, but that was all.
He did his best to smile. “To show that a thing could happen,” he said in a pretty good voice, “isn’t the same thing as proving it did happen.”
“Indeed it isn’t,” Wolfe conceded. “Though we do have some facts. You have no effective alibi. Mion would have admitted you to his studio at any time without question. You could have managed easily to get the gun from the base of Caruso’s bust, and slipped it into your pocket without being seen. For you, as for no one else, he would upon request have stood with his mouth wide open, inviting his doom. He was killed shortly after you had been compelled to make an appointment for Dr. Rentner to examine him. We do have those facts, don’t we?”
“They prove nothing,” Lloyd insisted. His voice was not quite as good. He came out of his chair to his feet. It did not look as if the movement had any purpose; apparently he simply couldn’t stay put in his chair, and the muscles had acted on their own. And it had been a mistake because, standing upright, he began to tremble.
72 Bex Stout
“They’ll help,” Wolfe told him, “if we can get one more-^and I suspect we can, or what are you quivering about? What was it, Doctor? Some unfortunate blunder? Had you botched the operation and ruined his voice forever? I suppose that was it, since the threat to your reputation and career was grave enough to make you resort to murder. Anyhow we’ll soon know, when Dr. Rentner makes his examination and reports. I don’t expect you to furnish—”
“It wasn’t a blunder!” Lloyd squawked. “It could have happened to anyone—”
Whereupon he did blunder. I think what made him lose his head completely was hearing his own voice and realizing it was a hysterical squawk and he couldn’t help it. He made a dash for the door. I knocked Judge Arnold down in my rush across the room, which was unnecessary, for by the time I arrived Purley Stebbins had Lloyd by the collar, and Cramer was there too. Hearing a commotion behind me, I turned around. Clara James had made a dive for Peggy Mion, screeching something I didn’t catch, but her father and Adele Bosley had stopped her and were getting her under control. Judge Arnold and Rupert the Fat were excitedly telling Wolfe how wonderful he was. Peggy was apparently weeping, from the way her shoulders were shaking, but I couldn’t see her face because it was buried on Fred’s shoulder, and his arms had her tight.
Nobody wanted me or needed me, so I went to the kitchen for a glass of milk.
Bullet for One
It was her complexion that made it hard to believe she was as scared as she said she was.
“Maybe I haven’t made it clear,” she persisted, twisting her fingers some more though I had asked her to stop. “I’m not making anything up, really I’m not. If they framed me once, isn’t that a good enough-reason to think they are doing it again?”
If her cheek color had been from a drugstore, with the patches showing because the fear in her heart was using extra blood for internal needs, I would probably have been affected more. But at first sight of her I had been reminded of a picture on a calendar hanging on the wall of Sam’s Diner on Eleventh Avenue, a picture of a round-faced girl with one hand holding a pail and the other hand resting on the flank of a cow she had just milked or was going to milk. It was her to a T, in skin tint, build, and innocence.
She quit the finger-twisting to make tight little fists and perch them on her thigh fronts. “Is he really such a puffed-up baboon?” she demanded. “They’ll be here in twenty minutes, and I’ve got to see him first!”
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Suddenly she was out of the chair, on her feet. “Where is he, upstairs?”
Having suspected she was subject to impulses, I had, instead of crossing to my desk, held a position between her and the door to the hall.
“Give it up,” I advised her. “When you stand up you tremble, I noticed that when you came in, so sit down. I’ve tried to explain, Miss Rooney, that while this room is Mr. Wolfe’s office, the rest of this building is his home. From nine to eleven in the morning, and from four to six in the afternoon, he is absolutely at home, up in the plant rooms with his orchids, and bigger men than you have had to like it. But, what I’ve seen of you, I think possibly you’re nice, and I’ll do you a favor.”
“What?”
“Sit down and quit trembling.”
She sat down.
“I’ll go up and tell him about you.”
“What will you tell him?”
“I’ll remind him that a man named Ferdinand Pohl phoned this morning and made a date for himself and four others, to come here to see Mr. Wolfe at six o’clock, which is sixteen minutes from now. I’ll tell him your name is Audrey Rooney and you’re one of the four others, and you’re fairly good-looking and may be nice, and you’re scared stiff because, as you tell it, they’re pretending they think it was Talbott but actually they’re getting set to frame you, and—”
“Not all of them.”
“Anyhow some. I’ll tell him that you came ahead of time to see him alone and inform him that you have not murdered anyone, specifically not Sigmund Keyes, and to warn him that he must watch these stinkers like a hawk.”
Curtains for Three 75
“It sounds crazy—like that!”
“I’ll put feeling in it.”
She left her chair again, came to me in three swift ff steps, flattened her palms on my coat front, and tilted fipher head back to get my eyes.
“You may be nice too,” she said hopefully.
“That would be too much to expect,” I told her as I Hfcurned and made for the stairs in the hall.
II
pounds Ferdinand Pohl was speaking.
k: Sitting there in the office with my chair swiveled so that my back was to my desk, with Wolfe himself bell hind his desk to my left, I took Pohl in. He was close to sitwice my age. Seated in the red leather chair beyond |sthe end of Wblfe’s desk, with his leg-crossing histing ghis pants so that five inches of bare shin showed above I his garterless sock, there was nothing about him to command attention except an unusual assortment of glacial creases, and nothing at all to love.
“What brought us together,” he was saying in a |. thin peevish tone, “and what brought us here together,
76 Rex Stout
“You said,” Pohl told her, even more peevish, “that you were in sympathy with our purpose and
wanted to join us and come here with us.”
Seeing them and hearing them, I made a note that they hated each other. She had known him longer than I had, since she called him Ferdy, and evidently she agreed that there was nothing about him to love. I was about to start feeling that I had been too harsh with her when I saw she was lifting her brows at him.
“That,” she declared, “is quite different from having the opinion that Vie murdered my father. I have no opinion, because I don’t know.”
“Then what are you in sympathy with?”
“I want to find out. So do you. And I certainly agree that the police are being extremely stupid.”
“Who do you think killed him if Vk didn’t?”
“I don’t know.” The brows went up again. “But since I have inherited my father’s business, and since I am engaged to marry Vie, and since a few other things, I want very much to know. That’s why I’m here with you.”
“You don’t belong here!”
“I’m here, Ferdy.”
“I say you don’t belong!” Pohl’s creases were wriggling. “I said so and I still say so! We came, the four of us, for a definite purpose, to get Nero Wolfe to find proof that Vie killed your father!” Pohl suddenly uncrossed his legs, leaned forward to peer at Dorothy Keyes’ face, and asked in a mean little voice, “And what if you helped him?”
Three other voices spoke at once. One said, “They’re off again.”
Another, “Let Mr. Broadyke tell it.”
Another, “Get one of them out of here.”
Wolfe said, “If the job is limited to those terms, Mr.
Curtains for Three 77
1, to prove that a man named by you committed ier, you’ve wasted your trip. What if he didn’t?”
Ill
ny things had happened in that office on the ground or of the old brownstone house owned by Nero Sfolfe during the years I had worked for him as his Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, pMednesday, and Thursday.
