“What do you want to talk about?”
I would have preferred to tell her, but a husband is a husband. “About a man,” I said. “His name is Orrie Cather, and the police think he killed Isabel Kerr. He has worked off and on for Nero Wolfe, and Mr. Wolfe and I know him very well, and we don’t think he did. You know I work for Nero Wolfe?”
“Of course.”
“We are looking into it a little, and I would like very much to ask your wife if she can supply any information that might help. Naturally she wants the murderer of her sister caught and punished, but she wouldn’t want it to be Orrie Cather if he’s innocent. You wouldn’t, would you?”
“Of course not.” He was puckering his lips and frowning at me. He was about my height, narrow-shouldered and narrow-hipped, with a long face that showed the cheekbones. He went on, “I wouldn’t want an innocent man punished for anything, certainly not for murder. But I doubt very much if my wife can give you any information that would help. She’s not—she’s taking it pretty hard.”
“Sure. Believe me, I don’t want to make it any harder for her.”
“Well—where’s your coat?”
“There.” I pointed to it, on the floor by the wall.
“Get it. There’s no sense in waiting out here.” With a key ring in his hand, he went to the door of 7D. When I came with my coat he was holding the door open and I entered. The foyer was about the size of a pool table. He hung my coat in the closet before he took his off, and as he was hanging his up the door opened and a woman entered. At the sight of me she gawked a second, then whirled to him.
“Barry! You let him in?”
From her tone I knew then and there that I had had a break, him coming first.
“Now, dear.” He put an arm across her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. “He only wants some information, if we have any. He thinks—”
“We have no information for anybody! You know that!”
I spoke up. “But you must have a preference, Mrs. Fleming. If an innocent man is convicted of murdering your sister, the trouble is that the guilty man goes free. Do you want that?”
She focused up at me. Up, because she wasn’t more than an inch over five feet. “It’s none of your business what I want,” she said, and meant it.
“No,” I said, “but it’s your business. I’m not a newshound trying to get a headline, I’m a private detective trying to dig up some facts. I already have some. I know why you won’t see reporters, why you have no information for anybody. Because your sister was a doxy, and you—”
“My sister was a what?”
“D,O,X,Y, doxy. I happen to like that better than concubine or paramour or mistress. I don’t—”
I stopped because I had to, to protect my face. When a woman flies at you to claw, what you do depends on the woman. If she has real tiger in her you may even have to plug her, but with Stella Fleming, with her short reach, all I had to do was stiff-arm her, with my palm flat on her mouth. Then the husband got her shoulders from behind and pulled her back and told me, “You’d better go.”
I was inclined to agree, but it was just as well that Wolfe couldn’t read my mind by short-wave because he thinks I understand women. She turned and drummed on his chest with her fists and squeaked, “I don’t want him to go,” and then calmly, no hurry, started to shed her coat. When he had it she told me, “Come on inside,” perfectly polite, and headed through an archway. When he had the closet door shut he motioned me on, and I moved.
She had turned on lights and gone to a couch and sat and was biting her lip. I hadn’t really seen her, too busy, and as I crossed to a nearby chair I noted that she resembled her sister not at all, with her brown hair and brown eyes and round filled-out face. As I approached she demanded, “Why did you say that?”
“To jar you.” I sat. “I had to. Either that or—”
“I mean why do you lie like that about my sister?”
I shook my head. “That line is wasted with me, Mrs. Fleming. We both know it’s not a lie, so skip it. It’s not important, not to me. I only said it to—”
“Did you know my sister?”
“No. I had never heard of her until yesterday.”
“Then how could you know …”
I gave her three seconds, but she let it hang. I flipped a hand. “It’s obvious. A showgirl leaves—”
“She was an actress.”
“Okay. An actress leaves the theater, takes a three-hundred-dollar apartment, has no job, eats well, dresses well, has a car, uses thirty-dollar perfume. Who wouldn’t know? Who doesn’t know? That’s not important, not now. What’s—”
“It is to me. It’s the most important thing in the world.”
“Now, dear,” Fleming said. He was beside her on the couch.
“Well,” I said, “if it’s that important to you, that’s what you want to talk about. Go ahead.”
“She was twenty-eight years old. I’m thirty-one. She was only twenty-five when she … stopped work. She was six and I was nine when our mother died, and she was twelve and I was fifteen when our father died. That’s why it’s so important.”
I nodded. “Certainly.”
“You’re not a newspaper reporter. William told me your name, but I don’t remember.”
“William’s the elevator man,” Fleming said.
To him: “Thank you.” To her: “My name is Archie Goodwin. I’m a private detective, I work for Nero Wolfe, and I came—”
“You’re a detective.”
“Yes.”
“Then you know about things. You said I wouldn’t want the man that killed my sister to go free, and no, I wouldn’t, but if he’s arrested and there’s a trial, no one is going to say about my sister what you said about her. If anyone said that at the trial it would be in the newspapers. If anyone is going to say that there mustn’t be any trial. Even if he goes free. So you didn’t know what I want.”
That made the second woman in one day who didn’t want a trial, though for a different reason. “I do now,” I told her, “and from your standpoint there’s no argument. I even agree with you, at least part way. You don’t want a trial even if they get the right man. What I don’t want is a trial of the wrong man, and that’s what is going to happen unless someone stops it. Of course you read the papers.”
“I read all of them.”
“Naturally. Then you know they are holding a man named Orrie Cather and that he has worked for Nero Wolfe. Had you ever heard or seen that name before? Orrie Cather?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? Didn’t your sister ever mention him?”
“No. I’m sure she didn’t.”
“Mr. Wolfe and I know him very well. We do not believe he killed your sister. I don’t say we know all about him. He may have had, he may have, some—uh—connections that we don’t know about. I will even concede that he may have been the one who was paying the rent for your sister’s apartment, and her other—You’re shaking your head.”
“She didn’t shake her head,” Fleming said.
“Sorry, I thought you did. Anyway, whether he was paying the rent or not, we do not believe he killed her, and that’s why Mr. Wolfe sent me to see you. If they bring him to trial—you know what will happen. Everything they have found out about your sister will be on record. As you know, a jury is supposed to acquit a man if there’s a reasonable doubt. We want to establish a reasonable doubt for the police so it won’t get in a courtroom for a jury, and we thought you might help. You saw your sister fairly often, didn’t you?”
“That’s pretty clever,” Fleming said. “But I must remind you that for my wife a trial of the right man might be just as bad as a trial of the wrong man. I don’t agree with her, not at all, but Isabel was her sister.”
“No,” I said, “I’m not being clever. All we need is a reasonable doubt. For instance, what if we can show the police that there’s another man, or woman, who had a good motive? Or what if they learn that Isabel told someone—it cou
ld be your wife—that someone had threatened to kill her? If and if and if. For our purpose, Mr. Wolfe’s and mine, it doesn’t have to be strong enough to charge him and try him, just the doubt. But even if they nailed him, his trial might not be as bad, for your wife, as Orrie Gather’s trial is sure to be. We know something about the line they think they have on Orrie.”
“What is it?”
“I can’t tell you that. We got it in confidence.”
He was squinting at me. “You know, Mr. Goodwin, I’m a mathematics teacher and I like problems. Since this is so close to us, though it’s closer to my wife than to me, it isn’t just a problem, but still my mind has the habit.” He put a hand on his wife’s knee. “You won’t mind, dear, if I admit I would like to help with this problem. But I won’t. I know how you feel. You do exactly what you want to do.”
“Fair enough,” I told him. And to her: “You saw your sister often, didn’t you?”
She had put her hand on top of his. “Yes,” she said.
“Once or twice a week?”
“Yes. Nearly always we had dinner together on Saturday and went to a show or a movie. My husband plays chess Saturday evenings.”
“According to the newspaper, when you went there day before yesterday you got no answer to your ring and the superintendent let you in. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“That was an important moment, when you entered the bedroom. I don’t want to jar you again, Mrs. Fleming, I truly don’t, but it’s important. What was your first thought when you saw your sister’s dead body there on the floor?”
“I didn’t—it wasn’t a thought.”
“First there was the shock, of course. But when you saw the—when you realized she had been murdered, it would have been natural to have the thought He killed her or She killed her, something like that. That’s why it’s important; a first thought like that is often right. Who was the he or the she?”
“There wasn’t any he or she. I didn’t have any such thought.”
“Are you sure? At a time like that your mind jerks around.”
“I know it does, but I didn’t have a thought such as that then or any other time, that he killed her or she killed her. I couldn’t even try to guess who killed her. All I know is there mustn’t be a trial.”
“There will be a trial, of Orrie Cather, unless we can find a way to stop it. Did your sister ever show you her diary?”
She frowned. “She didn’t keep a diary.”
“Yes, she did. The police have it. But since—”
“What does it say?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen it. Since—”
“She shouldn’t have done that. That makes it worse. She didn’t tell me. She must have kept it in that drawer she kept locked. Don’t I have a right to it? Can’t I make them give it to me?”
“Not now. You can later. If there’s a trial it will be evidence. It’s called an exhibit. Since you never saw it, we’ll have to skip it. It looks pretty hopeless, because I don’t know of anyone but you who can give me any information. Of course a good prospect would be the man who paid the rent for the apartment, and the car and the perfume and so on, but I don’t know who he is. Do you?”
“No.”
“That surprises me. I thought you would. You were close with your sister, weren’t you?”
“Certainly I was.”
“Then you must know who else was. Since you say you couldn’t even try to guess who killed her, I’m not asking that, just who knew her well. Of course you have told the police.”
“No, I haven’t.”
I raised a brow. “Are you refusing to talk to them too?”
“No, but I couldn’t tell them much because I don’t know. It was …” She stopped, shook her head, and turned to her husband. “You tell him, Barry.”
He squeezed her hand. “You could almost say,” he said, “that Isabel lived two lives. One of them was with my wife, her sister, and to a much less extent me. The other one was with her—well, call it her circle. My wife and I know very little about it, but we sort of understood that her friends were mostly from the world of the theater. You will realize that in the circumstances my wife preferred not to associate with them.”
“It wasn’t what I preferred,” she corrected. “It was what was.”
That helped a lot, another whole circle, but I might have expected it. “All right,” I told her, “you can’t give me names you don’t know. Isn’t there anyone, anyone at all, that you know and she knew?”
She shook her head. “Nobody.”
“Dr. Gamm,” Fleming said.
“Oh, of course,” she said.
“Her doctor?” I asked.
Fleming nodded. “Ours too. An internist. He’s—you might say—a friend of mine. He plays chess. When Isabel had a bad case of bronchitis a couple of years ago I—”
“Nearly three years ago,” she said.
“Was it? I recommended him. He’s a widower with two children. We have had him and Isabel here two or three evenings for bridge, but she wasn’t very good at it.”
“She was terrible,” Stella Fleming said.
“No card sense,” Fleming said. “His name is Theodore Gamm with two Ms. His office is on Seventy-eighth Street in Manhattan.”
Presumably he was helping with the problem, and I fully appreciated it; at least, by gum, I had one name and address. I got my notebook out and wrote it down to show that I was on the ball.
“He can’t tell you anything,” she said, perfectly calm, but suddenly she was on her feet, trembling, her hands tight fists, her eyes hot. “Nobody can! They won’t, they won’t! Get out! Get out!”
Fleming, up too, had an arm across her shoulders, but she didn’t know it. If I had sat tight she would probably have soon got organized again, but I hadn’t had a bite since breakfast. I nodded at Fleming, and he nodded back, and I went to the foyer for my hat and coat and let myself out. As I entered the elevator, William said, “So you got in, huh?” and I said, “Thanks to you, pal, telling both of them I was there.” Outside it was even colder, but the Heron started like an angel, as it damn well should, and I headed for the Grand Concourse.
When I entered the office, a little after half past six, Wolfe was at his desk, scowling at a document two inches thick—part of the transcript of the Rosenberg trial, which he had sent for after reading the first three chapters of Invitation to an Inquest. My desk was clean, no memos or messages about phone calls. I yanked a sheet from my pocket notebook and sat studying it until Wolfe cleared his throat, whereupon I rose and handed it to him.
“There,” I said. “The name and address of the doctor who treated Isabel Kerr when she had bronchitis nearly three years ago.”
He grunted. “And?”
“You’ll appreciate it more if I lead up to it. I spent an hour with Mr. and Mrs. Barry Fleming. Now or after dinner?”
He looked at the clock. Thirty-five minutes to anchovy fritters. “Is it urgent?”
“Hell, no.”
“Then it can wait. Saul called twice. Nothing. Fred will join him in the morning. I rang Mr. Parker, and he came after lunch and I described the situation, everything relevant except the name of Avery Ballou. He telephoned later. He had seen Orrie, and he has arranged for you to see him in the morning at ten o’clock. He thinks it advisable.”
“Has Orrie been charged? Homicide?”
“No.”
“But no bail?”
“No. Mr. Parker doesn’t wish to press it.” He glanced at the sheet I had handed him. “What’s this? Did this man kill her?”
“No, he cured her. I’m very proud of it. It’s the crop.”
“Pfui.” He dropped it and resumed with the transcript.
Business is taboo at the dinner table, but crime and criminals aren’t, and the Rosenberg case hogged the conversation all through the anchovy fritters, partridge in casserole with no olives in the sauce, cucumber mousse, and Creole curds and cream. Of course it wa
s academic, since the Rosenbergs had been dead for years, but the young princes had been dead for five centuries, and Wolfe had once spent a week investigating that case, after which he removed More’s Utopia from his bookshelves because More had framed Richard III.
He let up only when we were back in the office and had finished with coffee. He pushed the tray aside and asked if it had to be verbatim, and I said yes and proceeded. When I told about the deal with William he pursed his lips, not objecting, merely reacting to the fact that the fifteen bucks was down the drain, since we couldn’t expect to bill Orrie. Then he leaned back and closed his eyes and quit reacting, as usual, until I had finished.
He opened his eyes and demanded, “You had no lunch? None at all?”
I shook my head. “If I had gone out it might have cost a C to get back up. William is a mooch.”
He straightened up. “Never do that.”
“It’s good for me. I was nine ounces overweight. Do you comment or do I?”
“You.”
I took a minute. “First, did Stella kill her sister? Two to one she didn’t. She—”
“Only two?”
“That’s the best I’ll give. The most important thing in the world, she said. If it’s still that important when she’s dead, what was it when she was alive? She left the rails twice in my presence. She just can’t stand it. If she went there Saturday morning and—do I need to spell it?”
“No. Why two to one? Why not even or less?”
“Because, on the record, a woman kills her sister only if she hates her or is afraid of her. Stella didn’t. She loved her and wanted to—well, save her. Make it three to one. Anyway, even if she did it, she’s hopeless. Try and prove it. Even if we got enough to satisfy us, Cramer and the DA would never buy it, let alone a jury. So forget her. As for him, no bet. He could have had an elegant motive, anybody could, but as of now the only one visible is that he killed her to stop his wife worrying about her, which is a little farfetched. One thing, though, why did he let me in?”
“So she wouldn’t encounter you in the hall.”
Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 42 Page 5
