Murder by the Book

by Rex Stout

  I drove to a secluded road in the park. There was no one in sight, but it was only ten o'clock and there was a

  chance that a car might come along at the worst moment, even in February, so I left the park, drove around for two hours, and then returned to the park and the secluded road. The risk was then at a minimum, and anyhow I had to take it. I took her out of the car, put her on the road near the edge, and ran the car over her. Then I drove away fast. When I was miles away I stopped under a light and inspected the car for signs of blood or other evidence, but I had been careful to go slowly when passing over her and I could find nothing.

  I put the thing down on my desk, looked at my watch, and saw 9:35. In Peoria, Illinois, it was 8:35, and John R. Well-man, according to the schedule he had given me, would be at his place of business. I reached for the phone and put in a call and soorrhad him.

  "Mr. Wellman? Archie Goodwin. I promised to let you know immediately if anything broke. Corrigan, senior partner in that law firm, was found dead on the floor of his apartment last night with a hole in his head and a gun lying nearby. I would-"

  "Did he shoot himself?"

  "I don't know. As a purely personal opinion, it looks like it. I would call that a break, but whether good or bad is for Mr. Wolfe to decide, not me. I'm just keeping my promise and telling you. As it stands this minute, that's all I can say. Mr. Wolfe is busy upstairs."

  "Thank you, Mr. Goodwin. Thank you very much. I'll go to Chicago and take a plane. I'll call you when I reach New York."

  I told him that would be fine, hung up, and returned to my reading.

  There was only one other living person who knew the contents of that manuscript, Rachel Abrams, who had typed it. There was only one logical and sensible thing to do.

  Until three months ago I had never been conscious of anything in my mind or heart to justify any concept of myself as a potential murderer. I believed that I understood myself at least as well as most people. I was aware that there was an element of casuistry in my self-justification for what I had done to O'Malley, but without

  that intellectual resource no man could preserve his self-esteem. At any rate, I was an altogether different being from the moment I rolled Dykes's body from the pier into the water. I didn't know it at the time, but I do now. The change was not so much in my conscious mind as in the depths. If the processes of the subconscious can be put into rational terms at all, I think mine were something like this: (a) I have murdered a man in cold blood; (b) I am a decent and humane person, as men go, certainly not vicious or depraved; therefore (c) the conventional attitude toward the act of murder is invalid and immoral.

  My inner being could not permit me to feel any moral repulsion at the thought of killing Joan Wellman, certainly not enough to restrain me, for if killing her was morally unacceptable how could I justify the killing of Dykes? By killing Joan Wellman the process was completed. After that, given adequate motive, I could have killed any number of people without any sign of compunction.

  So in contemplating the murder of Rachel Abrams my only concerns were whether it was necessary and whether it could be performed without undue risk. I decided it was necessary. As for the risk, I left that to circumstances. With her I could not use the same kind of subterfuge I had used with Joan Wellman, since she had known Dykes as Baird Archer. My plan was so simple that it was really no plan at all. I merely went to her office one rainy afternoon, unannounced. If she had had an associate there with her, or if any one of a dozen other possible obstacles had arisen, I would have gone away and devised a procedure. But she had only one room and was there alone. I told her I wanted a typing job done, approached her to show her what it was, grasped her throat, had her unconscious in half a minute, opened the window, and lifted her and pushed her out. Unfortunately I had no time to search for records; of course I had no time at all. I left, ran down the stairs to the next floor, and took the elevator there, having got off there on my way up. When I left the building her body was on the sidewalk and a crowd was already collecting. Three days later, when my associates and I came to see you, I learned that I had been ahead of your man Goodwin by not

  140 REX STpUT

  more than two minutes. I took that as conclusive evidence that luck was on my side, even though he found entries in her records that connected her with Baird Archer. If he had got to her alive he would have learned the contents of the manuscript.

  By that time, the day we called on you, nine days ago, I knew I was in danger but was confident that I could ward it off. You knew of Baird Archer and the manuscript and had connected them with Dykes and therefore with our office, but that was all. Your noticing that scribbled "Ps 146-3" on Dykes's letter of resignation in my handwriting, and correctly interpreting it, increased the danger only slightly if at all, since my plain square hand can be easily imitated by almost anyone and my associates unanimously supported me in convincing the police that you must have made the notation yourself in an effort to trick us.

  Wednesday, when the letter from Mrs. Potter arrived, I did not suspect that you had anything to do with it. I thought it was a deadly blow that fate had dealt me at the worst possible moment. It was brought to me, but since it had been addressed not to an individual but to the firm our mail clerk had read it, and therefore I had to show it to my associates. We discussed it and agreed with no dissent that it was essential for us to learn what was in the manuscript, and that one of us must go immediately to California. There was a division of opinion as to who should go, and of course I had to insist that it must be me. Since I was the senior partner my view prevailed and I left by the first available plane.

  You know what happened in California. I was in great peril, but I was not desperate until I went to Finch's room in his absence and found Goodwin there. From that moment my position was manifestly hopeless, but I refused to give up. Since, through Goodwin, you had certainly learned the content of the manuscript, my betrayal of O'Malley was sure to be disclosed, but it might yet be possible to avoid a charge of murder. All night, on the plane, with Goodwin seated there only a few feet from me, I considered possible courses and plans.

  I had phoned one of my partners from Los Angeles, and they were all at the office when I arrived this morning, going directly from the airport. Their unanimous

  opinion was that we should call on you and demand to be told the substance of the manuscript. I argued strongly for an alternative course but could not sway them. When we went to your office I was prepared to face the disclosure of my betrayal of O'Malley, supposing that you would tell us about the manuscript, but instead of that you dealt me another blow. You told us nothing, saying that you were not quite ready to act and that you still needed a fact or two. For me that could have only one meaning. You did not intend to expose my betrayal of O'Malley until you were fully prepared to use it as evidence on a charge of murder, and you would not have said that to us unless you expected soon to be prepared. I didn't know which fact or two you still needed, but it didn't matter. Obviously you had me or you would soon get me.

  My associates wanted a luncheon conference, but I plead fatigue from my night on the plane and came here to my apartment. Again my subconscious had taken command, for it came to me in a rush of sudden surprise that I had irrevocably determined to kill myself. I did not dispute the decision. I calmly accepted it. The further decision, whether to leave behind me an account of my disaster and what led to it, has not yet been made. I have spent hours writing this. I shall now read it over and decide. If I send it at all it will go to you, since it is you who have destroyed me. Again here at the end, as at the beginning, what interests me most is my motive. What is it in me that wants to send this to you, or to anyone? But if I start on that I will never end. If I do send it I will not attempt to tell you what to do with it, since in any case you will do as you see fit. That is what I am doing; I am doing as I see fit.

  That was all. I jiggled the sheets together, refolded them, slipped them into the envelope, and went and mounte
d the three flights to the plant rooms. Wolfe, wearing one of his new yellow smocks, was in the potting room inspecting the roots of some Dendrobiums he had knocked out of the pots. I handed him the envelope and told him, "You'll have to read this."

  "When I come down."

  "Cramer is coming at eleven. If you read it with him

  sitting there he'll get impatient. If you talk with him without reading it I would prefer not to be present."

  "What does it say?"

  "A full confession. Betrayal of his partner, O'Malley, three murders-the works."

  "Very well. I'll wash my hands."

  He went to the sink and turned the faucet on.

  20

  WTPHIS," Wolfe told Inspector Cramer, "is correct not only

  J- in substance but also in text."

  He held in his hand a typed copy, brought by Cramer, of what Corrigan had said to us on the phone just before the bang, as reported by Wolfe to Sergeant Auerbaeh.

  Cramer looked at me. "You were on the line too, Goodwin? You heard it?"

  I nodded, arose, got the paper from Wolfe, read it, and handed it back. "Right. That's what he said."

  "I want a statement to that effect signed by both of you."

  "Certainly," Wolfe acceded. –

  Cramer was in the red leather chair, leaning back comfortably, like a man intending to stay a while. "Also," he said, not belligerently, "I want a statement from Goodwin giving all details of his trip to California. But first I would like to hear him tell it."

  "No," Wolfe said firmly.

  "Why not?"

  "On principle. Through habit you put it as a demand, and it's a bad habit, I don't like it."

  "What he did in California led to a violent death in my jurisdiction."

  "Establish that."

  "Nuts," Cramer growled. "I ask it as a favor. Not to me, to the People of the State of New York."

  "Very well. Having had an authentic discovery of mine, the notation in Corrigan's handwriting on Dykes's letter, denounced by them and you as a trick, I thought it only fair to even up by contriving a trick. I needed-"

  "So you still claim that notation was made by Corrigan?"

  "No. I never made that claim. I only denied that it was made by Mr. Goodwin or me. I needed to demonstrate that someone in that office was involved in Baird Archer's manuscript and therefore in the murders, and I proceeded to do so. Tell him about it, Archie."

  "Yes, sir. Leaving out what?"

  "Nothing."

  If I had been alone with Cramer and he had told me to leave out nothing I would have had some fun, but under the circumstances I refrained. I gave it to him straight, accurate and complete, from my checking in at the Riviera to my last view of Corrigan's rear at La Guardia Airport as he trotted out to a taxi. When I finished he had a few questions, and I answered them straight too.

  He was chewing an unlit cigar. He took it from his mouth and turned to Wolfe. "What it amounts to, you tricked-"

  "If you please," Wolfe interposed. "Since you have part you should have all. Yesterday morning, less than three hours after Corrigan's return, they came here-all five of them. They demanded that I tell them what was in the manuscript, and I refused. I would have had to refuse in any case, since I didn't know, but I told them that I wasn't quite ready to act, that I needed one or two more facts. I permitted them to assume that my preparations were all but complete."

  Cramer nodded. "You tricked him into killing himself."

  "Did I? Did he kill himself?"

  "Goddam it, didn't he?"

  "I don't know. You have investigated, I haven't. What have you concluded?"

  Cramer scratched his ear. "There's nothing against suicide. It was his gun, fired at contact. Smudges on it, no clear prints. His prints on the phone. He had been dead less than an hour when the examiner arrived. No evidence safar of anyone else being there. He had been struck a hard blow on the side of the head but could have got it from the corner of the table when he fell, and probably did. There was-"

  Wolfe waved it away. "From you, 'nothing against suicide' is enough. On that sort of thing you are not to be impugned. But it is still open?"

  "It's not closed. That's why I'm here. I just said you tricked him into killing himself, and you may or may not hear more about that, but right now I want a lot more than you've given

  me. If it was suicide, why? Because he thought you knew what was in that damn manuscript? Because he thought you had him? For what? Murder? I want a lot more, a hell of a lot, and I'm here to get it."

  Wolfe pursed his lips. "Well." He opened a desk drawer. "This came in my morning mail." He took a fat envelope from the drawer. "See if that answers your questions." He held it out.

  Cramer got up to take the envelope and sat down again. He inspected the outside of the envelope before he removed the contents. He unfolded the sheets, read a little, looked at Wolfe, made a growling noise, and read some more. As he finished the first page and transferred it to the back, he inquired, "You say this came this morning?"

  "Yes, sir."

  He had no more to say or to ask until he got to the end. Wolfe leaned back, shut his eyes, and relaxed. I kept my eyes open. I kept them on Cramer's face, but all I saw was a man so intent and absorbed that he had no expression at all. When he finished he went back to a place on the third or fourth page and read it over. Then he looked at Wolfe, with his h'ps tightened to a thin line.

  "You got this three hours ago," he muttered.

  Wolfe opened his eyes. "I beg your pardon?"

  "You got this three hours ago. You know how to phone my office. Sergeant Stebbins talked to Goodwin at nine o'clock. Goodwin didn't mention it."

  "I hadn't read it yet," I stated. "It had just come."

  "You know my number."

  "Bosh," Wolfe said testily. "This is ridiculous. Have I concealed it or destroyed it?"

  "No, you haven't." Cramer wiggled the sheets. "What evidence is there that Corrigan wrote this?"

  "None."

  "What evidence is there that you didn't dictate it to Goodwin and he wrote it?"

  "None." Wolfe straightened up. "Mr. Cramer. You might as well leave. If you are in a frame of mind to think me capable of so extravagant an imbecility, all communication is blocked." He wiggled a finger. "You have that thing. Take it and go."

  Cramer ignored it. "You maintain that Corrigan wrote this."

  "I do not. I maintain only that I received it in today's mail, and that I have no knowledge of who wrote it beyond the

  thing itself. I suppose other evidence is procurable. If there is a typewriter in Corrigan's apartment, and if investigation shows it was written on that machine, that would be pertinent."

  "You have no knowledge of it whatever beyond what you've told me?"

  "I have not."

  "Do you know of any evidence other than this that Corri-gan committed the murders?"

  "No."

  "Or that he betrayed his partner O'Malley?"

  "No."

  "Do you believe this to be an authentic confession by Cm-rigan?"

  "I'm not prepared to say. I've read it only once, rather hurriedly. I was going to ask you to let Mr. Goodwin make a copy for me, but I'll get along without it."

  "You won't have to. I'll see that you get a copy, with the understanding that there is to be no publication of it without my consent." Cramer folded the sheets and put them in the envelope. "It's covered with your and Goodwin's prints now, and mine. But we'll try it."

  "If it's a fake," Wolfe said dryly, "I should think that a man capable of contriving it would know about fingerprints."

  "Yeah, everybody knows about fingerprints."

  Cramer rubbed his kneecaps with his palms, regarding Wolfe with his head cocked. The chewed cigar, which had previously taken no part in the conversation, slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor, but he made no move to retrieve it.

  He spoke. "I admit this is damn neat. It will stand a lot of checking, but I admit it's neat. Wh
at are you going to do now, send your client a bill?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "My client, Mr. Wellman, has his share of gumption. Before I bill him both he and I must be satisfied that I have earned my fee." Wolfe's eyes moved. "Archie. Trained as you are, can I rely on you for an accurate copy of that communication from-ostensibly-Mr. Corrigan?"

  "It's pretty long," I objected, "and I read it once."

  "I said I'll send you a copy," Cramer stated.

  "I know you did. I would like to have it as soon as possible. It would be gratifying to have it validated, both by your investigation and my scrutiny, since that would mean that I have exposed a murderer and forced him to a reckoning without a scrap of evidence against him. We still have none, not a title, except that unsigned communication."

  "I know we haven't."

  "Then by all means check it, every detail, every word. Dq you want a comment?"

  "Yes."

  "A focus of interest is the anonymous letter informing on O'Malley. Suppose it was sent not by Corrigan, but by one of the others. In that case that confession may be factually correct in every important detail but one, the identity of the culprit; and the real culprit, finding me too close for comfort, may have decided to shift the burden onto Corrigan, not concerned that the shift required one more murder. So of first importance is the question, was it Corrigan who betrayed O'Malley? You will of course need the informing letter to the court or a photostat of it, and something authentically typed on the machine at the Travelers Club. You will need to know whether any of the others frequented that club or otherwise had access to that machine. With your authority, that kind of inquiry is Vastly easier for you than for me."