The others talked some too, but Bahr, the professional word user, had more to use. Pompa had been surprised at Mrs. Whitten. He had supposed she would start slashing and mow them down, reminding them that AMBROSIA belonged exclusively to her, a fact she frequently found occasion to refer to, but apparently the shock of finding them there in privy powwow, ganging up on her Floyd, had cramped her style. She had not exactly wailed, but had come close to it, and had reproached them bitterly for ever dreaming that she could forget or ignore their right to a proper share in the proceeds of their father’s work. For that a couple of them apologized. Finally Bahr took over again, insisting that they should bring Whitten down and reach a complete understanding. There were murmurs of agreement with him, and when Mrs. Whitten seemed about to vote yes too, Pompa decided it was time for him to move. He walked out the front door and went home.
That was all we had from Pompa. He wasn’t there when Mrs. Whitten and her son Jerome and Daniel Bahr went upstairs together to get Whitten, and found him hunched over on the table with a knife in him from the back. It was one of the pointed slicing knives, with an eight-inch blade.
III
Wednesday morning, as I said, in Wolfe’s bedroom, when he started to save old Virgil Pompa by getting Mrs. Whitten on the phone before he finished breakfast, instead of getting Mrs. Whitten he got coffee in his windpipe. He coughed explosively, gasped, and went on coughing.
“You shouldn’t try to drink when you’re mad,” I told him. “Peristalsis is closely connected with the emotions. Anyhow, I think it was only a butler. Naturally she has brought the hired help in from the country. Do you care whether a butler has heard of you? I don’t.”
With the panic finally out of his windpipe, Wolfe took off his yellow silk pajama top, revealing enough hide to make shoes for four platoons, tossed it on the bed, and frowned at me.
“I have to see those people. Preferably all of them, but certainly Mrs. Whitten. Apparently they squirm if she grunts. Find out about her.”
So that was what I spent the day at.
The Homicide Bureau was of course a good bet, and, deciding a phone call would be too casual, I did a few morning chores in the office and then went to 20th Street. Inspector Cramer wasn’t available, but I got to Sergeant Purley Stebbins. I was handicapped because my one good piece of bait couldn’t be used. It was a fair guess that Mrs. Whitten and the Landy children had given the cops a distorted view of the reason for the secret gathering in the dining room and the two-hour silent sit in the dark—possibly even a fancy lie. If so, it would have helped to be able to give Purley the lowdown on it, but I couldn’t. Pompa, when first questioned by the city employees, had stated that when Mrs. Whitten had asked him to go to the living room and wait there for her, he had done so, and had left when he got tired of waiting. The damn fool hadn’t wanted to admit he had eavesdropped, and now he was stuck with it. If he tried to change it, or if Wolfe and I tried to change it for him, it would merely make his eye blacker than ever and no one would believe him.
Therefore the best I could do with Purley was to tell him Wolfe had been hired to spring Pompa, and of course that went over big. He was so sure they had Pompa for good that after a couple of supercilious snorts he got bighearted and conversed a little. It seemed that the secret meeting of scions in the dining room had been to discuss a scrape Mortimer had got into—a threatened paternity suit—which mamma mustn’t know about. So for me they were a bunch of barefaced liars, since Wolfe had decided to take Pompa for gospel. Purley had lots of fun kidding me, sure as he was that for once Wolfe had got roped in for a sour one. I took it, and also took all I could get on Mrs. Whitten and other details. The Homicide and DA line was that while waiting for Mrs. Whitten in the living room Pompa had got bored and, instead of just killing time, had trotted upstairs and killed Whitten, who was about to toss him out of his job.
Altogether I saw eight or nine people that day, building up an inventory on Mrs. Whitten and her offspring, and bought a drink for nobody, since there was no client’s expense account. They were a couple of radio men, a realtor who had once paid Wolfe a fee, a gossip peddler, and others, naturally including my friend Lon Cohen of the Gazette. During the afternoon Lon was tied up on some hot item, and I got to him so late that I made it back to West 35th Street barely in time for dinner. Marko Vukcic was there when I arrived.
After a meal fully as good as the one Marko had fed us the evening before, the three of us went across the hall to the office. Wolfe got himself arranged in the chair behind his desk, the only chair on earth he really loves; Marko sat on the red leather one; and I stood and had a good stretch.
“Television?” Wolfe inquired politely.
“In the name of God,” Marko protested. “Pompa will die soon, perhaps tonight.”
“What of?”
“Fear, rage, mortification. He is old.”
“Nonsense. He will live to get his eye back, if for nothing else.” Wolfe shook his head. “As you said yesterday, Marko, you’re a Boniface, not a detective. Don’t crack a whip at me. What have you got, Archie?”
“No news.” I pulled my chair away from my desk and sat. “Are we still swallowing Pompa whole?”
“Yes.”
“Then they’re all lying about what they were there for, except Daniel Bahr, Eve’s husband, who merely says it was a family matter which he prefers not to discuss. They say they met to consider a jam Mortimer is in with a female by the name of—”
“No matter. Mrs. Whitten?”
“She’s in on the lie, of course. Probably she clucked them into it. During Landy’s life he was absolutely the rooster, and she merely came along with the flock, but when he died she took command and kept it. She is of the flock, by the flock, and for the flock, or at least she was until Whitten got his hooks in. Since her marriage she has unquestionably been for Whitten, though there has been no sign that she intended to swear off clucking—at least there wasn’t until a month ago, when she installed Whitten in the big corner office that had been Landy’s. Pompa never moved into it. She is fifty-four, fairly bright, watches her figure, and looks as healthy as she is.”
“Have you seen her?”
“How could I? She wouldn’t even talk to you on the phone.”
“The son, Mortimer. Is he really in a scrape? Does he urgently need money?”
“Sure, I suppose so, like lots of other people, but this girl trouble is apparently nothing desperate, only enough of a mess so they could drag it in. About people urgently needing money, who knows? Maybe they all do. Jerome owns part of a real estate business, but he’s a big spender. Mortimer could owe a million. Eve and her husband might be betting on horse races, if you want to be trite. Phoebe may want to finance a big deal in narcotics, though that would be pretty precocious at twenty-four. There are plenty—”
“Archie. Quit talking. Report.”
I did so. It filled an hour and went on into the second, my display of all the little scraps I had collected, while Wolfe leaned back with his eyes closed and Marko obviously got more and more irritated. When the question period was finished too Marko exploded.
“Sacred Father above! If I prepared a meal like this my patrons would all starve to death! Pompa will die not of fear but of old age!”
Wolfe made allowances. “My friend,” he said patiently, “when you are preparing a meal the cutlet or loin does not use all possible resource, cunning, resolution, and malice to evade your grasp. But a murderer does. Assuming that Mr. Pompa is innocent, as I do on your assurance, manifestly one of those six people is behind a shield that cannot be removed by a finger’s flick. They may even be in concert, if one of them went upstairs and dealt with Mr. Whitten while Mrs. Whitten and Mr, Pompa were in the living room. But before I can move I must start.” Wolfe looked at the clock on the wall, which said ten past ten, and then at me. “Archie.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get them down here. As many of them as possible.”
“Yeah. Durin
g the week?”
“Tonight. Now.”
I gawked at him. “You don’t mean it.”
“The devil I don’t.” He was positively serious. “You probably can’t do it, but you can try. Confound it, look at Marko! At least you can bring the younger daughter. A woman that age likes to be with you no matter where you go, heaven knows why.”
“It’s my glass eye and wooden leg.” I stood up. “This is Wednesday. Hold your breath until Saturday.” I crossed to the door, and asked over my shoulder, “Have you any suggestions?”
“None. The circumstances may offer one.”
IV
Since there would be no parking problem in the East Seventies at that hour, I decided to take my own wheels and went around the corner to the garage for the car.
On the way uptown I went over it. I was quite aware that Wolfe didn’t really expect me to deliver, not even Phoebe. He merely wanted to get Marko off his neck, and sending me out to pass a miracle was his first and most natural notion, and also the least trouble for him. He knew it would make me sore, so the first thing I decided was not to be sore. When, stopping for a light on Fifth Avenue in the Forties, I caught myself muttering, “The fat lazy bum,” I saw that wasn’t working very good and took a fresh hold.
I parked a few yards west of the house I wanted to get into, on the same side of the street, just back of a dark gray sedan with an MD plate alongside the license. Sitting there with my eyes on the house entrance, which was the sort of granite portal to be expected in that upper-bracket neighborhood, I tried going over it again. I could get the door to open just by pushing the bell button. I could get inside by the momentum of 180 pounds. There were even simple stratagems that would probably get me to Mrs. Whitten. But what about from there on? With the house right there in front of me I got ambitious. It would be nice to make a delivery that Wolfe didn’t expect. The notion of playing it straight, saying that we had been engaged by Pompa and would like to have a conversation with the family, had been rejected before I had got to 42nd Street. I had other notions, some risky, some screwy, and some clever, but nothing that seemed to fit all the requirements. When I looked at my wrist watch and saw 10:40 I decided I had better settle for one and shoot it, did so, and climbed out to the sidewalk. As I swung the car door shut, I saw a man emerging from the entrance I was bound for. The light wasn’t very bright there, but there was plenty to see that it wasn’t either of the sons or the son-in-law. He was past middle age, and he was carrying the kind of black case that means doctor anywhere. He crossed the sidewalk to the gray sedan with an MD plate on it, got in, and rolled away. Naturally, with my training and habits, I automatically noted the license number and filed it.
I walked to the portal, entered the vestibule, and pushed the button. In a moment the door opened enough to show me a baldheaded guy in conventional black, with a big pointed nose, and to show me to him.
“My name is Archie Goodwin,” I informed him, “and I would like to see Mrs. Whitten.”
He said authoritatively, “No newspapermen are being admitted,” and started to close the door. My foot stopped it after a couple of inches.
“You have newspapermen on the brain,” I told him courteously but firmly. “I happen to be a detective.” I got my card case from my pocket. “Like this.” I pulled my license card, with photograph and thumbprint, from under the cellophane and handed it to him, and he inspected it.
“This does not indicate,” he asserted, “that you are a member of the police force.”
“I didn’t say I was. I merely—”
“What’s the trouble, Borly?” a voice came from behind him. He turned, and the pressure of my foot made the door swing in more. Since an open door is universally regarded as an invitation to enter, I crossed the threshold.
“There’s no trouble, Mr. Landy,” I said cheerfully. “The butler was just doing his duty.” As I spoke two other men came in sight from a door to the right, which made it four to one. I was going on. “My name’s Goodwin, and I work for Nero Wolfe, and I want to see Mrs. Whitten.”
“The hell you do. On out.” With a gesture he indicated the door he wished me to use. “I said out!”
He took a step toward me. I was mildly confused because I hadn’t expected to have to deal with a whole quartet immediately on entering. Of course it was no trick to spot them, from their pictures in the papers and descriptions. The one outing me, which he might possibly have done since he was a little bigger, up to heavyweight specifications, with a big red face having eyes too far apart, was Mortimer. The one with dark hair slicked back, wirier and smaller and smarter looking, was his elder brother Jerome. The middle-sized one, who looked like a washed-out high school teacher, was their brother-in-law, the famous columnist who was more widespread than AMBROSIA, Daniel Bahr.
“You can,” I admitted, “put me out, but if you wait half a minute you can still put me out. I have come to see Mrs. Whitten on behalf of Miss Julie Alving. It would be only fair to let Mrs. Whitten herself decide whether she wants to see someone who wishes to speak for Miss Alving. If you—”
“Beat it.” He took another step. “You’re damn right we can put you out—”
“Take it easy, Mort.” Jerome was approaching, in no haste or alarm. He saw the license card in the butler’s hand, took it and glanced at it, and handed it to me. “My mother’s upstairs asleep. I’m Jerome Landy. Tell me what you want to say for Miss Alving and I’ll see that it gets attention.”
“She’s asleep?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s sick?”
“Sick?”
“Yeah. Ill.”
“I don’t know. Not me. Why?”
“I just saw a doctor leave here carrying his case, and of course if he gave her sleeping pills and then stopped for a chat with you, naturally she would be asleep now. It’s the way a detective’s mind works, that’s all.” I grinned at him. “Unless she’s not the patient. One of your sisters maybe? Anyhow, I have nothing to say for Miss Alving except direct to Mrs. Whitten. I don’t know whether she would agree that it’s urgent and strictly personal, and there’s no way of deciding but to ask her. By tomorrow it might be too late. I don’t know about that either.”
“Ask him,” suggested Daniel Bahr, who had joined us, “whether it’s a request for money. If it is an attempt at a shakedown there is only one possible answer.”
“If that was it,” I said, “our blackmail department would be handling it, and I’ve been promoted from that. That’s as far as I can go except to Mrs. Whitten.”
“Wait here,” Jerome instructed me, and made for the stairs.
I stood in quiet dignity, but allowed my eyes to move. This, of course, was the reception hall, with the stairs at the left, the door to the living room on the right, and at the far end the door to the dining room, where the secret meeting of sons and daughters had been held. The hall was large and high-ceilinged and not overfurnished, except maybe a pink marble thing against the wall beyond the living-room door. It had a bare look because there was nothing but a couple of straw mats on the floor, but since it was July that was understandable. The only action while Jerome was gone was Mortimer’s dismissing the butler, who disappeared through the door to the dining room.
It wasn’t too long before Jerome came halfway down the stairs and called to me.
“Up here, Goodwin.”
I mounted to join him. On the landing above he turned to face me.
“You’ll keep it brief. I’m telling you. Is that understood?”
“Sure.”
“My mother’s in bed but not asleep. The doctor didn’t give her sleeping pills because she doesn’t need them. Her heart isn’t as good as it might be, and what happened here night before last, and these two days —I tried to persuade her not to see you, but she takes a lot of persuading. You’ll make it brief?”
“Sure.”
I followed him up to the third floor, which seemed a bad location for a woman with a weak heart, and i
nto a room at the front. Inside I halted. Within range there was not one woman, but three. The one standing over by the bed, dark and small like Jerome, was Eve. The one who had been doing something at a bureau and turned as we entered was Phoebe, the child who, according to my day’s collection of scraps, most resembled her father. My quick glance at her gave me the impression that Father could have asked for no nicer compliment. Jerome was pronouncing my name, and I advanced to the bedside. As I did so there were steps to my rear and I swiveled my neck enough to get a glimpse of Mortimer and Daniel Bahr entering. That made it complete—all the six that Wolfe wanted to see!
But not for long. A voice of authority came from the bed.
“You children get out!”
“But mother—”
They all protested. From the way she insisted, not with any vehemence, it was obvious that she took obedience for granted, and she got it, though for a moment I thought Phoebe, who was said to resemble her father, might stick it. But she too went, the last one out, and closed the door after her as instructed.
“Well?” Mrs. Whitten demanded. She took in a long breath, with a long loud sigh. “What about Miss Alving?”
She was lying flat on her back with a thin blue silk coverlet nearly up to her throat, and against the blue pillow her face was so pale that I might not have recognized her from the pictures and descriptions. That made her look older, of course, and then her hair was in no condition for public display. But the snap and fire were in her eyes, as specified, and the firm pointed chin was even exaggerated at that angle.
Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 17 Page 9
