Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 43

by The Father Hunt

As I hung up, the doorbell rang, and I went, expecting Saul, and it was. I opened the door only a couple of inches and said through the crack, “You may not want to come in. No champagne. There are angles.”

  It was my fault. When Saul had phoned I had just got home, so pleased with myself and wanting to spread joy around that I had not only invited him to dinner but also told him I would have a bottle of Dom Pérignon ready to open. Then the angles had made it obvious that putting champagne in the refrigerator would be premature and I hadn’t gone to the kitchen. Not that Saul needed any explanations or apologies; that long dry spell had got on his nerves too.

  Anyway, along with the clams and broiled turtle steaks he drank more than half of a bottle of Montrachet, so all he missed was bubbles.

  With coffee, in the office after dinner, we settled the program. When Vance arrived Saul would go to the front room, and as soon as the guest was in the office and seated he would leave, to go to 490 Lexington Avenue and collect likely objects for fingerprints. Since he had seen the lock he knew which keys to take from the assortment in the cabinet, and after he made his selections he helped me prepare the props in the office. We did a thorough wiping job on twelve objects: the stand by the red leather chair, two ash trays—one on the stand and one on the corner of Wolfe’s desk—two photographs of Elinor Denovo in a drawer of Wolfe’s desk, four glasses of different kinds, since we didn’t know what he would drink, two books of matches—one on the stand and one on Wolfe’s desk—and every inch of the red leather chair. Now and then I took a second for a glance at Wolfe, for comic relief. He sat with his fingers laced at the summit of his center mound, scowling at us. He knew darned well that what we were doing was a lot more important than anything he could possibly be thinking, and it hurt. He would have loved to take the position, and hold it, that he could solve any problem on earth or in outer space by leaning back and closing his eyes and working his lips. The trouble was that the little chores Saul and I did for him were nearly always done somewhere else, but that time it was going on right there in his office, before his eyes. I was surprised that he didn’t get up and go to the kitchen.

  Amy’s father rang the doorbell at ten after nine. As I went to admit him Saul headed for the connecting door to the front room, and as I took him to the office and to the red leather chair I did something that I had done many times although I had learned long ago that it was absolutely useless. For a spectator in a courtroom to try to decide from a man’s looks if he’s guilty or not is natural and he has to pass the time somehow, but for a working detective it’s pure crap. So I did it again. I looked at Vance’s puffed eyes, flabby cheeks, thin hair, saggy shoulders, down to his brown shoes that needed a shine actually hoping to get a slant on the question, Did he kill Elinor Denovo? Nuts.

  By the time I got to nuts Wolfe was saying, “… not that I scorn all trite expressions; some of the finest words and phrases in the language were once vulgarisms and are well worn. But a faddish cliché like ‘image’ as now abused is an abomination. You told Mr. Goodwin that my ‘public image’ needs expert handling and you would like to meet me. If you have some proposal to make I’ll listen as a matter of courtesy, but don’t call my repute my image.”

  “To hell with your courtesy. Shove it.” Vance’s voice was not as I remembered it. I had thought he was a fairly smooth talker that Sunday, but now the words came out blurry. He went on, “I’ve learned something about you since I talked with Goodwin. You don’t give a damn about your public image. Did you get me here just to tell me you don’t like clichés? Do I go home now?”

  Wolfe nodded. “That’s your question, why I got you here. My question is, Why did you come? I doubt if either of us expects a candid answer. In fact, Mr. Vance, I’m in some confusion about my objective. One possibility is that I would like to know why you prevailed on your friends to drive you to Miss Rowan’s so you could meet Mr. Goodwin. Another possibility is that I would like to know why you made several attempts to see Mrs. Elinor Denovo last May. Still another is that I want to ask you about your association with Miss Carlotta Vaughn in the summer of nineteen forty-four. And again, another is that I wondered why you didn’t reply to an advertisement which appeared—”

  “Jesus. Give me a pad and pencil. I’ll have to make notes.”

  We hadn’t wiped a pad. You can’t think of everything. I got one from a draw, and a pencil, and went with them, and he took them, probably because he was uncertain what to do with his tongue and so was glad to have something to do with his hands.

  “As you see,” Wolfe said, “I have—since you fancy clichés—an embarrassment of riches.” His head tilted; I hadn’t sat. “Beer, please, Archie?”

  “Yes, sir.” I took a step and stopped. “Something wet, Mr. Vance?”

  He shook his head and said emphatically, “No.” I started out, foiled because a glass or a bottle is a best bet, and as I neared the door his voice stopped me. “What the hell. Scotch and water. And ice.”

  Fritz, having been told that he wouldn’t be needed, had gone out. In the kitchen I put Wolfe’s beer and glass on a tray, and on another tray a wiped glass, a bowl which I wiped before putting icecubes in it, a pitcher which I wiped before putting water in it, and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black which I also wiped. That took a while and made me miss something. When I got to the office with the trays Vance had used his hands some more and had a cigar lit, so I didn’t know if he carried them loose or in a case, or if he had used the matches on the stand. The cigar was a long panatela, nothing like a Gold Label Bonita, but that didn’t bother me; if he had left that case in the hit-and-run car it would have been common prudence to switch. After serving the trays I went back to the kitchen for a glass of milk and when I returned to the office Vance had his glass in hand and Wolfe was talking.

  “… for I have no intention or desire to make any demand or indictment, and I don’t think my client has either. I want only what I have been hired to get, information. I can’t name my client, but if my questions reveal her identity to you, that in itself would answer my basic question. The advertisement plainly implied that the woman once known as Carlotta Vaughn was later known as Elinor Denovo, but if you prefer to tell me nothing about Elinor Denovo we’ll restrict it to Carlotta Vaughn. By the way …”

  He opened a drawer and took out the two photographs. I had cautioned him not to handle them in a way that would make it obvious that he was taking care not to leave prints—the Police Department files already had samples of his—and he did all right, perfectly normal as he handed them to me and I passed them on to Vance.

  “She was Elinor Denovo when those were taken,” Wolfe said, “but had been Carlotta Vaughn only a year or two previously, so you should recognize her.”

  Vance handled them normally too. He had put his glass down, and with one in each hand he gave them a look, first the three-quarters face and then the profile. He looked at Wolfe. “So what? Sure I recognize her.” He put the photographs on the stand. “I’m not denying that I once knew a woman named Carlotta Vaughn.” He picked up his glass and drank.

  “When and where did you first meet her?”

  “In the spring of nineteen forty-four.” He was no longer blurring his words; apparently a few swallows of Scotch with very little water had helped. “I think it was late March. My God, it was twenty-three years ago.”

  “Where?” Wolfe had opened his bottle but hadn’t poured.

  “I don’t remember. I suppose some party. I was under thirty and I got around.”

  “And you hired her?”

  “Well … yes.”

  “You paid her a salary?”

  Vance took a swallow. “Look,” he said, “I’m not going to toot my horn. As I said, I was under thirty, and girls were no problem. They seemed to like my style. This Carlotta Vaughn got it hard. I wasn’t setting any rivers on fire in my business and she knew it—what the hell, everybody knew it—and she wanted to help, and she was smart. So I let her help. No, I didn’t pay her.”
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  “How long did she continue to help?”

  “Oh, all summer. Into fall. Six months, perhaps seven.”

  “Why did she stop?”

  “I didn’t ask her. She just stopped.”

  “I think you can improve on that, Mr. Vance. Didn’t she stop because she was pregnant?”

  Vance tapped ashes from the cigar into the ash tray, put it between his lips and found it was out, took the book of matches from the stand and lit it, and blew smoke. He looked at Wolfe, opened his mouth and shut it, reached for the bottle and poured Scotch, picked up the glass, took a swig, and looked at Wolfe again.

  “Yes,” he said. “She was storked. So she said. It didn’t show.”

  “So you had impregnated her.”

  “The hell I had.”

  “Certainly.”

  “For God’s sake. She was a nymph. She was a goddam tart. She didn’t know herself who knocked her up. She admitted it. To me.”

  That showed, if we had needed showing, how impossible it would be to tag him as the father. There were three people—Raymond Thorne, Bertram McCray, and Dorothy Sebor—who would contradict him on Carlotta Vaughn’s morals and habits, and we could probably get more, but that would just be a squabble. However, he had a wide-open flank. What would he or could he say to the question, why did Cyrus M. Jarrett send her a thousand dollars a month as long as she lived? I decided he could say, and almost certainly would say, search me. Wolfe was probably making the same decision. He had poured beer and was watching the bead go down; of course he could merely have been thinking that Vance had used a cliché that was still a vulgarism. He turned his head to me and asked, “Is there any point in persisting?”

  Meaning, have we got enough fingerprints?

  “No,” I said. Meaning yes.

  He looked at his glass. The foam was down to the right level, exactly. He pushed his chair back, rose, and walked out. As he disappeared in the hall I told myself, for the twentieth time, that the furniture should be rearranged, so he wouldn’t have to detour around the red leather chair when there was someone in it. An exit like that should be a beeline so you can stride.

  I told Vance, “Serves you right. You used another cliché.”

  “Isn’t he coming back?”

  “Sure, after you’ve gone.”

  “What the hell, you could have asked me on the phone, any time, if I knocked her up and I would have told you.”

  “Yeah, I tried to tell him that. He thought that question was too personal for the phone. Also he likes to do things the hard way, and he likes to hear himself talk.”

  He looked at his glass, saw that there was a couple of fingers in it, picked it up, and drained it. “I thought he was going to …” He let it hang, and started over. “He said he would like to know why I tried to see that Elinor Denovo. What the hell, I wanted that account, Raymond Thorne Productions. I didn’t know she was Carlotta Vaughn. The first I heard of that was that ad in the paper.”

  “You don’t hear an ad in the paper. You hear an ad on the radio. You see an ad in the paper. On television you both hear it and see it. It’s getting very complicated, and before we know it we’ll—”

  “Balls. I’ve heard enough of you. You’re a pair of goddam loudmouths.” It wasn’t as easy as falling off a log to rise from that chair, and four of his fingertips pressed against the leather arm as he used leverage. When he was erect he told me to go do something, still another vulgar cliché, and I moved to get to the hall ahead of him; he might turn left instead of right, and Wolfe was in the kitchen. I didn’t go to the front to open the door for him. Not because he was a liar; it just didn’t seem to be called for.

  When the door had shut behind him, with a bang, I went and opened the kitchen door enough to call through, “Company’s gone!” and then to the stairs down to the basement storeroom for empty cartons and tissue paper and twine.

  When I got back up to the office, loaded, Wolfe was standing at the end of his desk, frowning around at everything in sight. I put the cartons down on the couch and the paper and twine on my desk, and said, “I wouldn’t trade images with that specimen, public or private. I have never felt so sorry for a client. If she had known what she was going to get for her twenty grand …”

  He growled. “How long will that cigar smoke last?”

  “The air conditioner will do it in about an hour.” I was gently wrapping in tissue paper the glass that had held Scotch. “I need your help on a decision. The bottle is more than half full of Johnnie Walker Black. About six dollars’ worth. Do we donate it to Cramer or do I empty it?”

  “Empty it in the sink. It’s contaminated. Confound this smell. I’m going upstairs, but there’s a letter to write. Your notebook.”

  I went and sat, and for the first time in I don’t know how long he dictated a letter standing.

  “Dear Mr, Cramer: Five days ago you told Mr. Goodwin you had in your possession a leather cigar case from which you had taken nine fingerprints. Period. The cartons he will deliver to you with this letter contain an assortment of objects, comma, some of which may have on them fingerprints which may possibly match those you secured from the cigar case. Period. This is merely a conjecture, comma, and I shall be obliged if you will tell me whether it is valid. Sincerely yours. Fritz can bring it up with my breakfast for my signature. By the time you and Saul finish here I may be asleep.”

  He pinched his nose, told me good night, and headed for the door.

  Chapter 14

  When I arrived at the headquarters of Homicide South on West Twentieth Street at a quarter to nine Tuesday morning, I was on the fence. I wanted the cartons to get to Cramer as soon as possible, but if he was there I didn’t want to deliver them to him myself, because as soon as he read the letter I would be stuck. He would hold me until the prints had been lifted and compared, and if they matched I would be held tighter and longer. So I was just as well pleased that he hadn’t come yet. Neither had Purley Stebbins, but I got a sergeant I knew named Berman. When he saw the six cartons, one big enough to hold a wastebasket, which was one of the items Saul had brought from 490 Lexington Avenue, he said he hoped it wasn’t all bombs and I said no, only one was, and the trick was to guess which. He put the letter in his pocket and promised to give it to Cramer as soon as he came.

  It would be instructive to report how Saul got a big wastebasket out of that office building at ten o’clock at night, but it would take a page.

  Home again, having had only orange juice before leaving, I ate breakfast, tried to find something in the Times that deserved attention, and expected. The trouble with expecting is that you always jump the gun. It could take anywhere from one to eight hours for them to get the prints lifted and compared, but as I went to the office to dust and tear pages from the desk calendars and put fresh water in the vase on Wolfe’s desk and open the mail, I was expecting the phone to ring any minute. You simply can’t help it, especially when you have no good reason to bet a dime either way on what you’re expecting. If the fingerprints didn’t match we were left with a Grade A mess and no way on earth of making a neat package of it to deliver to the client; if they did match we could take our pick of three or four different ways to play it and they all looked good. So I expected, and although I opened the mail and gave it a look before putting it under the chunk of jade on Wolfe’s desk, I had no clear idea what was in it. One thing, not in the mail, did get some real attention. Saul and I had decided that we almost certainly had enough without lifting the prints from the red leather chair. We had got bed sheets from the closet and draped them over it, and there it was, and it looked pretty silly. I removed the sheets, folded them, and put them back in the closet. What the hell, as Amy’s father would say, I was there on guard. Returning to the office, I looked at my watch for about the tenth time since breakfast, saw that it was 10:38, and decided it was time to consider it calmly and realistically. To begin with, if the prints didn’t match there was nothing to expect. Some detective second grade would ph
one in a day or two to tell me to come get the junk I had left there. If they did match the best guess was that Lieutenant Rowcliff or Sergeant Stebbins would phone around two or three o’clock and tell me they wanted me there quick. Or possibly—

  The doorbell rang and I went to the hall and saw Cramer and Stebbins on the stoop.

  Ordinarily the sight of a pair of cops wanting in doesn’t scatter my wits, but as I started for the front I had room in my skull for only one item: the beautiful fact that the prints had matched and Floyd Vance had murdered Elinor Denovo. I should have realized that their coming twenty minutes before eleven o’clock, when they knew Wolfe wouldn’t be available, showed that it would take handling. Before I opened up I should have put the chain bolt on, holding the door to a two-inch crack, since it would have taken a warrant to open it legally and they wouldn’t have one, and we could discuss the situation. But I was so glad to see them that I swung the door wide, and I was probably showing my teeth in a big grin of welcome. If so, it soon went. They came in fast, Stebbins’ shoulder jostling me as he passed, headed for the rear, and started up the stairs.

  A cop inside the house is a very different problem from one outside. Once he’s inside legally, and I had opened the door, about all you can do is sit down and write a letter to the Supreme Court. Even if I could beat them to the plant rooms, and I couldn’t, since the elevator was up there, what good would it do? I went to the kitchen to tell Fritz what had happened and that I was going up to join the party, and then took my time mounting the three flights.

  To go through those three rooms, the cool, the moderate, and the warm, down the aisles between the benches, without being stopped by a color or a shape that you didn’t know existed, your mind must be fully occupied with something else. That time mine was. In the middle room I could already hear a voice, and when I opened the door to the warm room I could name it. Cramer. I walked the aisle and opened the door to the potting room, and there they were. Wolfe, in a yellow smock, was on his stool at the big bench. Theodore was standing over by the pot racks. Stebbins was off to the right. Cramer, in the center of the room, had his felt hat off and in his hand, I don’t know why. Facing Wolfe, he was telling him, louder than necessary, “… and hold you as material witnesses until we get warrants and then, by God, you go to a cell. All right, talk or move.”