Bad manners again. It wasn’t his door that was knocked on. It opened and a dick stepped in.
“Inspector, the lieutenant wants you. He’s in the kitchen with one of the women.”
Cramer said he’d be right down, and arose. The dick left. Cramer addressed me. “Get your machine and type that talk with Assa. Bring it up and do it here so you can keep an eye on your boss. We don’t want him humiliated again.” He walked out.
I faced Wolfe and he faced me. I wouldn’t have liked his look either if his expression of cold fury had been meant for me. “Any instructions?” I asked.
“Not at present. I may call on you any time during the night. I won’t try to sleep. With a murderer roaming my house, and me empty-handed and empty-headed …”
“He’s not roaming. You ought to squeeze in a nap, with your door locked of course. I’ll stick around until the company leaves—and incidentally, what about refreshments? With the gate-crashers there won’t be enough marinated mushrooms and almond balls. Sandwiches and coffee?”
“Yes.” He shut his eyes. “Archie. Let me alone.”
“Glad to.”
I left him and went downstairs. Opening the door to the kitchen to tell Fritz sandwiches and coffee, I saw only Cramer and Rowcliff and Susan Tescher and Hibbard, and backed out. Three guests in uniform were in the hall, one in charge of the front door. The doors to the dining room and front room were closed. The one to the office was also closed, and I opened it and entered. The corpse was gone. Half a dozen scientists were still researching, and Purley Stebbins and a dick from the DA’s office had Patrick O’Garro between them over by the refreshment table. That could last all night, bringing each one in separately to tell who was where and when. Fritz was still perched behind Wolfe’s desk and I went to him.
“Nice party.”
“It’s nothing to joke about, Archie. Cochon!”
“I never joke. I’m relieving you. Evidently nothing in this room is available, including the refreshments, so I guess you’ll have to produce sandwiches and coffee. You’ll find characters in the kitchen, but ignore them. If they complain tell them you’re under orders. Don’t bother taking anything up to Mr. Wolfe. He’s chewing nails and doesn’t want to be disturbed.”
Fritz said he should have some beer, and I said okay if he wanted to risk it, and he departed. As for me, I was relieving Fritz on guard duty, and furthermore, the day had not come for me to tell Purley that Cramer had ordered me to remove my typewriter to another room and would he kindly permit me to do so; and I didn’t want to lug it up two flights anyway; and it would be interesting and instructive to watch trained detectives solving a crime.
Speaking of trained detectives, I was supposed to be one, but I certainly wasn’t bragging. I went to my desk and took my gun from the holster and put it in the drawer, and locked the drawer. In this report I could have omitted any mention of it, but I didn’t want to fudge, and I preferred not to skip the way I felt when, after going around armed for several days, I thoughtfully set it up for a homicide right there in the office—and a lot of good my gun did. To hell with it. It would have made it perfect if, soon after ditching it, I had really needed it, but I didn’t get even that satisfaction.
I got paper and carbon from another drawer, rolled the typewriter stand around to the rear of Wolfe’s desk, sat in Wolfe’s chair, and started tapping.
Chapter 20
I would appreciate it if they would call a halt on all their devoted efforts to find a way to abolish war or eliminate disease or run trains with atoms or extend the span of human life to a couple of centuries, and everybody concentrate for a while on how to wake me up in the morning without my resenting it. It may be that a bevy of beautiful maidens in pure silk yellow very sheer gowns, barefooted, singing Oh, What a Beautiful Morning and scattering rose petals over me would do the trick, but I’d have to try it.
That Tuesday morning it was terrible. I had been in bed only three hours, and what woke me was the phone, about the worst way of all. I rolled over, opened my eyes to see the alarm clock at seven-twenty-five, reached, and yanked the damn thing off the cradle.
“Yeah?”
“Good morning, Archie. Can you be down in thirty minutes? I’m breakfasting with Saul, Fred, Orrie, and Bill.”
That woke me all right, though it had no effect on the resentment. I told Wolfe I’d try, rolled out, and headed for the bathroom. Usually I yawn around for a couple of minutes before digging in, but there wasn’t time. As I shaved I wished I had asked him what kind of a program it was, so I would know what to dress for, but if it had been anything special he would have said so, and I just grabbed the shirt on top.
When I made it to the ground floor, in thirty minutes flat, they were in the dining room with coffee. As I greeted them Fritz came with my orange juice, and I sat and took a healthy swallow.
“This is a hell of a time,” I said, still resenting, “to spring a surprise party on me.”
Bill Gore laughed. I said something funny to him once back in 1948, and ever since he has had a policy of laughing whenever I open my trap. Bill is not too smart to live, but he’s tough and hangs on. Orrie Cather is smarter and is not ashamed of it, and since he got rid of the idea that it would be a good plan for him to take over my job, some years ago, he has helped Wolfe with some very neat errands when called upon. Fred Durkin is just Fred Durkin and knows it. He thinks Wolfe could prove who killed Cock Robin any time he felt like spending half an hour on it. He thinks Wolfe could prove anything whatever. You’ve met Saul Panzer, the one and only.
As I finished my orange juice and started on griddle cakes, Wolfe expounded. He said the surprise was incidental; he had phoned them after I had gone to bed, when he had conceived a procedure.
“Fine,” I approved, spreading butter to melt, “we’ve got a procedure. For these gentlemen?”
“For all of us,” he said. “I have described the situation to them, as much as they’ll need. It is a procedure of desperation, with perhaps one chance in twenty of success. After hours on it, most of the night, this was the best I could do. As you know, I was assuming that one of four men—Hansen, Buff, O’Garro, Heery—had killed Dahlmann and taken the wallet, and that because Assa had learned of it or suspected it he had been killed too.”
“I know that’s what you told Cramer.”
“It’s also what I told myself.”
“Why would one of them kill Dahlmann?”
“I don’t know, but if he did he had a reason. That remains, along with his identity. To search into motives would take long and toilsome investigation, and even then motive alone is nothing. I preferred to focus on identity. Which of the four? I went over and over every word they have uttered, to you and to me; all their tones and glances and postures. There was no hint—at least, not for me. I considered all possible lines of inquiry, and found that all of them either had already been pursued by the police, or were now being pursued, or were hopelessly tenuous. All I had left, at five o’clock this morning, that gave the slightest promise of some result without a prolonged and laborious siege, was the possibility of a satisfactory answer to the question: where did he get the poison?”
Chewing griddle cake and ham, I looked at him. “Good lord, if that’s the best we can do. Cramer has an army on it right now. There are six of us and we have no badges, and if—” I stopped because I saw his eyes. “You’ve got something?”
“Yes. A straw to grab at. Can’t it be reasonably supposed that the decision to kill Mr. Assa was made only yesterday afternoon, resulting from the situation caused by the contestants’ receipt of the answers by mail? Various circumstances support such—”
“Don’t bother. I’ve gone over it too a little. I’ll buy that.”
“Then some time yesterday afternoon, not before, he decided that Mr. Assa would have to be killed, and he conceived the idea of using cyanide and putting it in his drink. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“Then where the devil did
he get the cyanide?”
“I couldn’t—oh. That does make it a little special.”
“It does indeed. Did he choose cyanide as something he knew to be lightning-swift and go out and buy some? Hardly. He could of course have procured it easily—a photographic supply house, for one—but he was not an imbecile. No. He knew where some was, handy; he knew where he could get some without being observed. Where? There are a thousand possibilities, and it may have been any one of them, but I didn’t bother speculating about them because one of them was looking at me—or rather, at you. I hadn’t seen it, but you had.”
“Hold it.” I put my coffee cup down. “I’ve seen it?”
“Yes.”
“And told you about it?”
“Yes.”
“That’s interesting.” I closed my eyes, opened them, and slapped the table. “Oh, sure. The display cases at the LBA office. I might have thought of it myself if I had stayed up all night—but I don’t remember seeing any cyanide.”
“You weren’t looking for it. You said there are thousands of items from hundreds of firms. We’re going to look for it.”
“After it’s gone? If he took it, it’s not there.”
“All the better. If he took only what he needed of it we’ll find the residue. If he took it all yesterday or has removed the residue since, we’ll find where it was—or we won’t. There must be a list of the contents of those cases. There’s no point in our trying to intrude before office hours, so there’s plenty of time. Now for the details. I’ll be with you, but you should know what I have in mind for the various eventualities—all of you. Fritz! Coffee!”
He gave us details.
If anyone considers this incident an exception to Wolfe’s rule never to leave the house on business, I say no. It was not business. He was after the man who had abused his hospitality, which was unforgivable, and made him eat crow in front of Cramer, which was outrageous. I have evidence. On a later day, when he was going over the expense account I had prepared for LBA, he left in the fare for one taxi that morning, the one that Fred and Orrie and Bill took, but took out the other, the one that had carried him and Saul and me.
It lacked a minute of nine-thirty when the six of us entered an elevator in the modern midtown skyscraper, but when we got out at the twenty-second floor the aristocratic brunette with nice little ears was there on the job behind her eight-foot desk. The sudden appearance of a gang of half a dozen males startled her a little, but as I approached and she recognized me she recovered.
I told her good morning. “I’m afraid we’ll be making a little disturbance, but we’ve got a job to do. This is Mr. Nero Wolfe.”
Wolfe, at my elbow, nodded. “We have to inventory the contents of the cabinets. The death of Mr. Assa—of course you know of it.”
“Yes, I … I know.”
“That makes it necessary to proceed without delay.”
She looked beyond us, and I turned to do likewise. The squad was certainly proceeding without delay. Saul Panzer had slid open the glass front of the end cabinet at the left wall and had his notebook out. Fred Durkin was at the end cabinet at the right wall, and Bill and Orrie were at the far wall, which was solid with cabinets, a stretch of some fifty feet. It was a relief to see that they all had doors open. I had seen no locks on my former visit, but there could have been tricky ones. We had brought along an assortment of keys, but using them would have made it complicated.
“I know nothing about this,” the brunette said. “Who told you to do it?”
“It’s part of a job,” Wolfe told her, “that was given me by Messrs. Buff, O’Garro, and Assa last Wednesday. I refer you to them.—Come, Archie.”
We headed for the cabinets at the right wall, those nearest the elevators, and as we reached them Fred left and went to join Saul at the left wall. That was according to the plan of battle as outlined at headquarters. I didn’t bother to get out my notebook, wanting both hands free for moving things when necessary. For the first cabinet it wasn’t necessary. It held a picture of an ocean liner, some miniature bags of a line of fertilizers, cartons of cigarettes, a vacuum cleaner, and various other items. The bottom shelf of the second cabinet was no more promising, with an outboard motor, soaps and detergents, canned soup, and beer in both bottles and cans, but the second shelf had packaged goods and got more attention. It didn’t seem likely that cyanide would have fitted in with cereals and cake mixes and noodles, but the program said to look at each and every package. I was doing so, with Wolfe standing behind me, when an authoritative voice sounded.
“Are you Nero Wolfe? What’s going on?”
I straightened and turned. A six-foot executive with a jutting jaw was facing Wolfe and wanted no nonsense. Since he hadn’t emerged from an elevator, he must have been inside and the brunette had summoned him.
“I’ve explained,” Wolfe said, “to the woman at the desk.”
“I know what you told her and it sounds fishy. Get away from these cabinets and stay away until I can check.”
Wolfe shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr….”
“My name’s Falk.”
“I’m sorry we can’t oblige you, Mr. Falk. I was hired by Mr. Buff and Mr. O’Garro—and Mr. Assa, who is dead. We’ve started and we’re going to finish. You look truculent, but I advise you to consult Mr. Buff or Mr. O’Garro. Where are they?”
“They’re not here.”
“You must know where they are. Phone them.”
“I’m going to, and you’re going to stay away from these cabinets until I do.”
“No, sir.” Wolfe was firm but unruffled. “I make allowances for your state of mind, Mr. Falk, after what happened last night, but you must know I’m not a bandit and these men are working for me. It shouldn’t take long to get Mr. Buff or Mr. O’Garro. Do so by all means.”
One test of a good executive is how long it takes him to realize he has lost an argument, and Falk passed it. He turned on his heel and left, striding across the carpet to the door leading to the inside corridor. Wolfe and I resumed, finishing with the shelf of packages and going on to the next one—buckets and cans of paint, electric irons, and so forth.
During the next half hour the elevators delivered eight or nine people, not more than that, and took most of them away again, but nobody bothered us. On the whole it was a nice quiet place to work. Once Wolfe and I thought we might be getting hot, when we came to the display of Jonas Hibben & Co., Pharmaceuticals, but it seemed to be intact, with no vacant spot, and there was no box or bottle from which someone could have removed a dose of cyanide. We gave it up finally, and moved on, and were at the last cabinet on that wall when Saul called to us to come and look at something, and we crossed the room to him, where he and Fred were focusing on the second shelf of the last cabinet in their battery.
The dignified little card—they were all dignified and little—identified it as the exhibit of the Allcoran Laboratories, Inc. There were a couple of dozen boxes, small and large, with the small ones in front and the large ones in the rear, and three rows of brown bottles, all the same size, I would say about a pint.
Saul said, “Middle row, fourth bottle from the left. You have to tip the one in front to see the label.”
Wolfe stepped closer. Instead of tipping the one in front he lifted it with a thumb and forefinger, to get a clear view, and I got one too over his shoulder. No squinting was required. At the top of the label was printed in black, in large type, KCN. At the bottom was printed in red, also in large type, POISON. In between, and below the POISON there was some stuff in smaller type, but I didn’t strain to get it. The bottle was so dark it would have to be lifted out and held up to the light for a look at the contents, and that wouldn’t do, but you could see there was something white in it, almost up to the neck.
“Today’s daily double,” I said. “It was here, and we found it.”
Wolfe returned the bottle he had lifted, gently and carefully. “Did you touch it?” he asked Saul. He knew darned wel
l he hadn’t, since our orders had been not to touch anything until we knew what it was, or at least that it wasn’t what we were looking for. Saul said no, and Wolfe called to Bill and Orrie to come and bring chairs along, and Saul and Fred also went and got chairs. They lined the four chairs up in a row in front of the cabinet, their backs to it, and the quartet sat, facing the room and the elevators. They looked pretty impressive that way, the four of them, and no bottle of poison was ever better guarded.
That was the sight that met four pairs of eyes when Oliver Buff, Patrick O’Garro, Rudolph Hansen, and Talbot Heery stepped from an elevator into the reception room.
“Good morning, gentlemen!” Wolfe sang out, in about as nasty a tone as I had ever known him to use.
They headed for us.
Chapter 21
It rarely gets you anywhere, practically never, but you always do it. When four men enter a room and one of them sees six men grouped in front of a cabinet which has in it a bottle of poison out of which he has recently shaken a spoonful onto a piece of toilet paper, to be used for killing a man, you try to watch all their faces like a hawk for some sign of which one it is. That time it was more useless than usual. They had all had a hard and probably sleepless night, and maybe hadn’t been to bed at all. They looked it, and certainly none of them liked what he saw. Three of them—Buff, O’Garro, and Hansen—all spoke at once. They wanted to know who and what and why and when, oblivious of the presence of a customer who was seated across the room.
Wolfe was incisive. “It would be better, I think, to retire somewhere. This is rather public.”
“Who are these men?” Buff demanded.
“They are working for the firm of Lippert, Buff and Assa, through me. They are now—”
“Get them out of here!”
“No. They’re guarding an object in that cabinet. I intend shortly to tell the police to come and get the object, and meanwhile these four men will stay. They’re all armed, so I—”
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