by Rex Stout
“I do now, since you’ve told me.” I patted her shoulder. “Any time you’re hard up and need a job, ring me. You have the makings of a lady detective, figuring out why they wanted samples from the typewriters. Did they get them?”
“Yes. You can imagine how Mother liked it, but she let them.”
I patted her shoulder again. “Don’t let it wreck your marriage plans. Undoubtedly they got an anonymous letter, but they’re a dime a dozen. Whatever the letter said about Laidlaw, even if it said he was the father of her baby, that proves nothing. People who send anonymous letters are never-”
“That’s not it,” she said. “If he was the father of her baby, that would show that if I married him we could have a family, and I want one. What I’m worried about is his getting in a jam, and you’re no help.”
Mrs Irwin had certainly sized her up. She had her own way of looking at things. She was going on. “So now suit yourself. If you’d rather duck Mother and the Police Commissioner, you know where your hat and coat are. I don’t like being used for a decoy, and I’ll tell them you got mad and went.”
It was a toss-up. The idea of chatting with Mrs Robilotti had attractions, since she might be stirred up enough by now to say something interesting, but with Police Commissioner Skinner present it would probably be just some more ring-around-a-rosy. However, it might be helpful to know why they had gone to the trouble of using Celia for bait, so I told her I would hate to disappoint her mother, and she escorted me out to the reception hall and on upstairs to the music room, where we had joined the ladies Tuesday evening after going without brandy.
The whole family was there-Cecil standing over by a window, and Mr and Mrs Robilotti and Commissioner Skinner grouped on chairs at the far end, provided with drinks, not champagne. As Celia and I approached, Robilotti and Skinner arose, but not to offer hands. Mrs Robilotti lifted her bony chin, but not getting the effect she had in mind. You can’t look down your nose at someone when he is standing and you are sitting.
“Mr Goodwin came up on his own,” Celia said. “I warned him you were laying for him, but here he is. Mr Skinner, Mr Goodwin.”
“We’ve met,” the Commissioner said. His tone indicated that it was not one of his treasured memories. He had acquired more grey hairs above his ears and a couple of new wrinkles since I had last seen him, a year or so back.
“I wish to say,” Mrs Robilotti told me, “that I would have preferred never to permit you in my house again.”
Skinner shook his head at her. “Now, Louise.” He sat down and aimed his eyes at me. “This is unofficial, Goodwin, and off the record. Albert Grantham was my close and valued friend. He would have hated to have a thing like this happen in his house, and I owe it to him-”
“Also,” Celia cut in, “he would have hated to ask someone to come and see him and then not invite him to sit down.”
“I agree,” Robilotti said. “Be seated, Goodwin.” I didn’t know he had the spunk.
“It may not be worth the trouble.” I looked down at Mrs Robilotti. From that slant her angles were even sharper. “Your daughter said you wanted to see me. Just to tell me I’m not welcome?”
She couldn’t look down her nose, but she could look. “I have just spent,” she said, “the worst three days of my life, and you are responsible. I had had a previous experience with you, you and the man you work for, and I should have known better than to have you here. I think you are quite capable of blackmail, and I think that’s what you have in mind. I want to tell you that I won’t submit to it, and if you try-”
“Hold it, Mom,” Cecil called over. “That’s libellous.”
“Also,” Skinner said, “it’s useless. As I said, Goodwin, this is unofficial and off the record. None of my colleagues know I’m here, including the District Attorney. Let’s assume something, just an assumption. Let’s assume that here Tuesday evening, when something happened that you had said you would prevent, you were exasperated-naturally you would be-and in the heat of the moment you blurted out that you thought Faith Usher had been murdered, and then you found that you had committed yourself. It carried along from the precinct men to the squad men, to Inspector Cramer, to the District Attorney, and by that time you were committed.”
He smiled. I knew that smile, and so did a lot of other people. “Another assumption, merely an assumption. Somewhere along the line, probably fairly early, it occurred to you and Wolfe that some of the people who were involved were persons of wealth and high standing, and that the annoyance of a murder investigation might cause one of them to seek the services of a private detective. If that were a fact, instead of an assumption, it should be apparent to you and Wolfe by now that your expectation is vain. None of the people involved is going to be foolish enough to hire you. There will be no fee.”
“Do I comment as you go along,” I inquired, “or wait till you’re through?”
“Please let me finish. I realize your position. I realize that it would be very difficult for you to go now to Inspector Cramer or the District Attorney and say that upon further consideration you have concluded that you were mistaken. So I have a suggestion. I suggest that you wanted to check, to make absolutely sure of your ground, and came here this evening to inspect the scene again, and found me here. And after a careful inspection-the distances, the positions, and so on-you found that, though you had nothing to apologize for, you had probably been unduly positive. You concede that it is possible that Faith Usher did poison her champagne, and that if the official conclusion is suicide you will not challenge it. I will of course be under an obligation to ensure that you will suffer no damage or inconvenience, that you will not be pestered. I will fulfil that obligation. I know you will probably have to consult with Wolfe before you can give me a definite answer, but I would like to have it as soon as possible. You can phone him from here, or go out to a booth if you prefer, or even go to him. I’ll wait here for you. This has gone on long enough. I think my suggestion is reasonable and fair.”
“Are you through?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Well. I could make some assumptions too, but what’s the use? Besides, I’m at a disadvantage. My mother used to tell me never to stay where I wasn’t wanted, and you heard Mrs Robilotti. I guess I’m too sensitive, but I’ve stood it as long as I can.”
I turned and went. Voices came-Skinner’s and Celia’s and Robilotti’s-but I marched on.
Chapter Twelve
If, to pass the time, you tried to decide what was the most conceited statement you ever heard anybody make, or read or heard of anybody making, what would you pick? The other evening a friend of mine brought it up, and she settled for Louis XIV saying L’йtat, c’est moi, I didn’t have to go so far back. Mine, I told her, was “They know me.” Of course, she wanted to know who said it and when, and since the murderer of Faith Usher had been convicted by a jury just the day before and the matter was closed, I told her.
Wolfe said it that Friday night when I got home and reported. When I finished I made a comment. “You know,” I said, “it’s pretty damn silly. A police commissioner and a district attorney and an inspector of Homicide all biting nails just because if they say suicide one obscure citizen may let out a squeak.”
“They know me,” Wolfe said.
Beat that if you can. I admit it was justified by the record. They did know him. What if they officially called it suicide, and then, in a day or a week or a month, Wolfe phoned WA9-8241 to tell them to come and get the murderer and the evidence? Not that they were sure that would happen, but past experience had shown them that it was at least an even-money bet that it might happen. My point is not that it wasn’t justified, but that it would have been more becoming just to describe the situation.
He saved his breath. He said, “They know me,” and picked up his book.
The next day, Saturday, we had words. The explosion came right after lunch. Saul had phoned at eight-thirty, as I was on my second cup of breakfast coffee, to report no progre
ss. Marjorie Betz had stayed put in the apartment all evening, so the Wyatt lock had not been tackled. At noon he phoned again; more items of assorted information, but still no progress. But at two-thirty, as we returned to the office after lunch, the phone rang and he had news. They had found her. A man from a messenger service had gone to the apartment, and when he came out he had a suitcase with a tag on it. Of course that was pie. Saul and Orrie had entered a subway car right behind him. The tag read: “Miss Edith Upson, Room 911, Hotel Christie, 523 Lexington Avenue.” The initials “E.U.” were stamped on the suitcase.
Getting a look at someone who is holed up in a hotel room can be a little tricky, but that situation was made to order. Saul, not encumbered with luggage, had got to the hotel first and gone to the ninth floor, and had been strolling past the door of Room 911 at the moment it opened to admit the messenger with the suitcase; and if descriptions are any good at all, Edith Upson was Elaine Usher. Of course, Saul had been tempted to tackle her then and there, but also of course, since it was Saul, he had retired to think it over and to phone. He wanted to know, were there instructions or was he to roll his own?
“You need a staff,” I told him. “I’ll be there in twelve minutes. Where-”
“No,” Wolfe said, at his phone. “Proceed, Saul, as you think best. You have Orrie. For this sort of juncture your talents are as good as mine. Get her here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Preferably in a mood of compliance, but get her here.”
“Yes, sir.”
That was when we had words. I cradled the receiver, not gently, and stood up. “This is Saturday,” I said, “and I’ve got my cheque for this week. I want a month’s severance pay.”
“Pfui.”
“No phooey. I am severing relations. It has been eighty-eight hours since I saw that girl die, and your one bright idea, granting that it was bright, was to collect her mother, and I refuse to camp here on my fanny while Saul collects her. Saul is not ten times as smart as I am; he’s only twice as smart. A month’s severance pay will be-”
“Shut up.”
“Gladly.” I went to the safe for the chequebook and took it to my desk.
“Archie.”
“I have shut up.” I opened the chequebook.
“This is natural. That is, it is in us, and we are alive, and whatever is in life is natural. You are headstrong and I am magisterial. Our tolerance of each other is a constantly recurring miracle. I did not have one idea, bright or not; I had two. We have neglected Austin Byne. It has been two days and nights since you saw him. Since he got you to that party, pretending an ailment he didn’t have, and since he told Laidlaw he had seen Miss Usher at Grantham House, and since he chose Miss Usher as one of the dinner guests, he deserves better of us. I suggest that you attend to him.”
I turned my head but kept the chequebook open. “How? Tell him we don’t like his explanations and we want new ones?”
“Nonsense. You are not so ingenuous. Survey him. Explore him.”
“I already have. You know what Laidlaw said. He has no visible means of support, but he has an apartment and a car and plays table-stakes poker and does not go naked. The apartment, by the way, hits my eye. If you hang this murder on him, and if our tolerance miracle runs out of gas, I’ll probably take it over. Are you working yourself up to saying that you want to see him?”
“No. I have no lever to use on him. I only feel that he has been neglected. If you approach him again you too will be without a lever. Perhaps the best course would be to put him under surveillance.”
“If I postpone writing this cheque is that an instruction?”
“Yes.”
At least I would get out in the air and away from the miracle for a while. I returned the chequebook to the safe, took twenty tens from the expense drawer, told Wolfe he would see me when he saw me, and went to the hall for my coat and hat.
When starting to tail a man it is desirable to know where he is, so I was a little handicapped. For all I knew, Byne might be in Jersey City or Brooklyn, or some other province, in a marathon poker game, or he might be at home in bed with a cold, or walking in the park. I got air by walking the two miles to Bowdoin Street, and at the corner of Bowdoin and Arbor I found a phone booth and dialled Byne’s number. No answer. So at least I knew where he wasn’t, and again I had to resist temptation. It is always a temptation to monkey with locks, and one of the best ways to test ears is to enter someone’s castle uninvited and, while you are looking here and there for something interesting, listen for footsteps on the stairs or the sound of an elevator. If you don’t hear them in time your hearing is defective, and you should try some other line of work when you are out and around again.
Having swallowed the temptation, I moved down the block to a place of business I had noticed Thursday afternoon, with an artistic sign bordered with sweet peas, I think, that said AMY’S NOOK. As I entered, my wristwatch said 4:12. Between then and a quarter past six, slightly over two hours, I ate five pieces of pie, two rhubarb and one each of apple, green tomato, and chocolate, and drank four glasses of milk and two cups of coffee, while seated at a table by the front window, from which I could see the entrance to 87, across the street and up a few doors. To keep from arousing curiosity by either my tenure or my diet, I had my notebook and pencil out and made sketches of a cat sleeping on a chair. In the Village that accounts for anything. The pie, incidentally, was more than satisfactory. I would have liked to take a piece home to Fritz. At six-fifteen the light outside was getting dim, and I asked for my check and was putting my notebook in a pocket when a taxi drew up in front of 87 and Dinky Byne piled out and headed for the entrance. When my change came I added a quarter to the tip, saying, “For the cat,” and vacated.
It was nothing like as comfortable in the doorway across from 87, the one I had patronized Thursday, but you have to be closer at night than in the daytime, no matter how good your eyes are. I could only hope that Dinky wasn’t set to spend the evening curled up with a book, or even without one, but that didn’t seem likely, since he would have to eat and I doubted if he did his own cooking. A light had shown at the fifth-floor windows, and that gave me something to do, bend my head back every half-minute or so to see if it had gone out. My neck was beginning to feel the strain when it finally did go out, at 7:02. In a couple of minutes the subject stepped out of the vestibule and turned right.
Tailing a man solo in Manhattan, even if he isn’t wise, is a joke. If he suddenly decides to flag a taxi-There are a hundred ifs, and they are all on his side. But of course any game is more fun if the odds are against you, and if you win it’s good for the ego. Naturally it’s easier at night, especially if the subject knows you. On that occasion I claim no credit for keeping on Byne, for none of the ifs developed. It was merely a ten-minute walk. He turned left on Arbor, crossed Seventh Avenue, went three blocks west and one uptown, and entered a door where there was a sign on the window: TOM’S JOINT.
That’s the sort of situation where being known to the subject cramps you; I couldn’t go in. All I could do was hunt a post, and I found a perfect one: a narrow passage between two buildings almost directly across the street. I could go in a good ten feet from the building line, where no light came at all, and still see the front of Tom’s Joint. There was even an iron thing to sit on if my feet needed a rest.
They didn’t. I didn’t last long enough. I hadn’t been there more than five minutes when suddenly company came. I was alone, and then I wasn’t. A man had slid in, caught sight of me, and was peering in the darkness. A question that had arisen on various occasions, which of us had better eyesight, was settled when we spoke simultaneously. He said, “Archie” and I said, “Saul”.
“What the hell,” I said.
“Are you on her too?” he asked. “You might have told me.”
“I’m on a man. I’ll be damned. Where is yours?”
“Across the street. Tom’s Joint. She just came.”
“This is fate,”
I said. “It is also a break in a thousand. Of course, it could be coincidence. Mr Wolfe says that in a world that operates largely at random, coincidences are to be expected, but not this one. Have you spoken with her? Does she know you?”
“No.”
“My man knows me. His name is Austin Byne. He is six-feet one, hundred and seventy pounds, lanky, loose-jointed, early thirties, brown hair and eyes, skin tight on his bones. Go in and take a look. If you want a bet, one will get you ten that they’re together.”
“I never bet against fate,” he said, and went. The five minutes that he was gone were five hours. I sat down on the iron thing and got up again three times, or maybe four.
He came, and said. “They’re together in a booth in a rear corner. No one is with them. He’s eating oysters.”
“He’ll soon be eating crow. What do you want for Christmas?”
“I have always wanted your autograph.”
“You’ll get it. I’ll tattoo it on you. Now we have a problem. She’s yours and he’s mine. Now they’re together. Who’s in command?”
“That’s easy, Archie. Mr Wolfe.”
“I suppose so, damn it. We could wrap it up by midnight. Take them to a basement, I know one, and peel their hides off. If he’s eating oysters there’s plenty of time to phone. You or me?”
“You. I’ll stick here.”
“Where’s Orrie?”
“Lost. When she came out he was for feet and I was for wheels, and she took a taxi.”
“I saw it pull up. Okay. Sit down and make yourself at home.”
At the bar and grill at the corner the phone booth was occupied and I had to wait, and I was tired of waiting, having done too much of it in the last four days. But in a few minutes the customer emerged, and I entered, pulled the door shut, and dialled the number I knew best. When Fritz answered I told him I wanted to speak to Mr Wolfe.
