by Rex Stout
In a couple of minutes I heard her voice.
“Listen, darling,” I beseeched her. “I’m up at Thirty-fifth Street, had to come to see Mr. Wolfe. But I’ll be through here in about an hour, and there’s something I want to ask you about, and I’ll even go so far as to buy you a lunch. Meet me at the corner of William and Wall at twelve-thirty?” “You bum,” she said resentfully. “Letting that Hoff chase you clear off the floor and me not getting to see it because I was in Mr. Henderson’s office working. What do you want to ask me about?” “Something special. The next to last step in that rumba. Twelve-thirty?” She said all right.
I was sitting with my legs extended and my hands pushed into my pants pockets, frowning at the knob of the combination on the safe, when Wolfe came down from the plant rooms. After he got in his chair and had his center of gravity adjusted I transferred the frown to him and asked: “Did the boys come?” He nodded.
“All four of them?” He nodded.
“You gave them the set-up?” He nodded.
I shook my head. “Okay. If this thing really works, which I admit is one chance in a hundred and so do you, I only hope to God they don’t lose her and I have to do some more identifying.” “Nonsense.” Wolfe pushed the button for beer. “As I told you, I expect nothing as conclusive as that. But there may be some word, some gesture, some cautious countermove, and you, I trust, will not miss it.” “Yeah.” My frown remained. “Some trust. I have dated Gwynne for lunch and have reserved a booth at Frisbie’s, where shad roe is three bucks. Have you any further suggestions?” He said no, and Fritz entered with the beer.
CHAPTER Thirty
“Yes, turtledove,” I said, “you may have another Martini if it’s okay with Emily Post in the middle of a meal, and further if you don’t get dizzy. I need your head clear.” I had been with Gwynne enough to know that with the third or fourth drink her lovely eyes had a slight tendency to protrude and also to acquire a film of excess moisture. Also she was inclined to start cussing. I preferred her pure and angelic and had told her so frankly.
We were eating shad roe and avocado salad in a corner booth at Frisbie’s.
“I don’t get dizzy,” she pouted. “A girl like me can’t afford to. My head is always clear, and what do you want it clear for? Some more crap about that awful night, that Friday night I’ll never forget? Out of bed to police headquarters! I never thought I’d come to that, I can tell you!” “Neither did I,” I said earnestly. “No, it’s not about that awful night, or at least not about your part of it.” I took time out to tell the waiter to bring the Martini, and, to be sociable, more bourbon for me.
“The reason I’ve been hesitating,” I said, “is that it’s extremely confidential.
On the other hand, I badly need your advice. I have a fair idea of what your opinion of Hester Livsey is, but-well, is she actually a little batty? What do you think?” Gwynne snorted. I had told her she should give up snorting. “That girl batty? I should say not! What’s she trying to put over on you?” “That’s just it,” I said in a puzzled tone. “I can’t figure it that she’s trying to put anything over. I can’t figure it at all.” “I bet she is. What’s she done?” I hesitated. I gazed seriously at the lovely blue eves. “This is very confidential, Gwynne darling.” “Sure.” “I’ve told Mr. Wolfe, and he has given me permission to consult you.” “For God’s sake go on and spill it!” “Well-I suppose-Hester Livsey told me this morning that she knows who killed Waldo Moore. She said she has known for a long time.” Gwynne’s fork, with a hunk of avocado, stopped halfway to her mouth. “She told you she knows?” “Yep.” “No!” “So she told me.” “Jesus!” The fork with the avocado slowly descended to the plate and rested there.
“I don’t wonder you’re impressed, darling,” I said sympathetically. “So am I.
She was telling me when Hoff butted in and chased me. I went to tell Mr. Wolfe about it, and we’re up a stump because we don’t know her well enough. He thought I should consult someone who is well informed and trustworthy and who knows all about her. Obviously that meant you. Is she batty or what?” The waiter came with the drinks. Gwynne looked at her Martini as if it were a complication she was not prepared for, then picked it up and downed it in two gulps.
“Is she batty?” I persisted.
“She is certainly not.” Gwynne used her napkin. “My God, how awfully audacious!
Did she say who it was?” “No. She might have, I don’t know, if Hoff hadn’t interrupted us. What do you-” “Did she say the-the same one killed Naylor too?” “Not in so many words, but it amounted to that.” “Did she say how she knows?” “No, but I think she will. That’s what I want to ask you about, how to handle her. If she’s not merely off her nut she must have-” “I’m late,” Gwynne declared. She pushed her plate away, upsetting the salt shaker. “I only have an hour and I’ve got to get-” “No you don’t,” I said firmly. “I need help. I need advice, and I’m depending on you.” I glanced at my wrist. “You’ve got a good ten minutes. What about her?
Would she say a thing like that just to get even with someone? What’s she like?”
“She’s a snooty conceited bitch.” I kept her there the full ten minutes, but got no further useful information regarding Hester Livsey or anyone or anything else. Gwynne didn’t really put her mind on it. She was too anxious to get back to her work.
CHAPTER Thirty-One
It wasn’t essential to the build-up, I thought, for me to be seen upstairs returning from lunch with Gwynne, so I parted from her down in the lobby of the building. After the elevator door had closed on her I walked past the cigar stand, gave a sign en route to a broad-shouldered man who was standing near by, and continued on out to the sidewalk and around the corner. The broad-shouldered man caught up with me and I greeted him.
“How’s it going, Orrie?” “Tedious as hell,” he grumbled. “She had lunch in an orangeade tavern and then back to work. Trade jobs with me?” “Next week maybe. It may not be so tedious starting at five o’clock. You’re not sleepy?” “I could follow her with my eyes shut. Anything new?” “Nothing, except that tonight’s the night, or maybe tomorrow. If you trip and hurt a finger-” “I know, I know. The name is Gather. Orrie.” “Okay, my brave fellow.” I returned to the building lobby, went to a phone booth, called Wolfe, and told him that the ball was rolling. He had no new suggestions, nothing in fact but a grunt. I took an elevator to the thirty-fourth floor, went to my little room-noting that the units of personnel had decided I was worth looking at again-sat at my desk, and inserted paper and carbons in the typewriter.
The headings were of course routine. I got them down, then considered how to word it. That might or might not be important, depending on whether the hoped-for reaction would come from the thirty-fourth floor or the thirty-sixth.
It should, I thought, be purely factual, without any suggestion of fireworks, to conform to the style of my other reports, but that could be overdone. Finally I tapped the keys: There is a development that looks promising. At 9:40 this morning I called on Hester Livsey in her room. As explained previously, she had refused to go to see Mr. Wolfe again, and he wished to talk with her at length, as he has with others. That has been reported. Miss Livsey was extremely nervous. At first she refused to speak with me, and when I persisted she suddenly blurted out that she didn’t dare to go to talk with Wolfe again because she knows who murdered Waldo Moore. She assumed, I believe, that she was telling me that in confidence, but there was no stated arrangement to that effect. The implication was that she also knows that the same person murdered Naylor. I think I would have got more from her, perhaps much more, if Mr. Sumner Hoff had not suddenly entered the room and ordered me out. There is no reason to think that he knew what she was saying to me, as our voices were not raised and the door was closed.
I went immediately to Mr. Wolfe’s office to report the incident to him. It is his opinion that for the time being this matter should be left entirely to me, but that it would be im
proper to withhold the information from the client. Any further developments will be reported without delay.
That was the way it finally came out. There were a couple of things about the first draft I didn’t like, so I did some editing and then typed it over. I was still setting my trap in the cabinet with a second carbon of my reports, wiping the folder covers and deploying the tobacco crumbs, not with any strong hope of making a catch but to maintain the tradition. After attending to that and putting the original and first carbon in my pocket, I opened my door wide, placed a chair so as to have a view of the door of Hester’s room across the arena, and sat.
Her door was closed.
Within a minute the several dozen females inhabiting the segment of the arena overlooked from my post were aware of my open door and of me sitting there. Eyes were coming at me, all the way from hasty quickly averted glances to marathon stares. It was an interesting experience, or would have been if I had been in a frame of mind to explore all the possibilities. Under the circumstances nothing came of it. I did not actually expect someone to come rolling down the aisle in a stolen sedan, swerve and head for Hester’s room and run the sedan over her. I would have been surprised if anything at all had happened, but even so, during all the time that I sat there I did not yawn once, and there was no interval of more than three seconds when Hester’s door could have opened without me seeing it.
It did in fact open, seven times. At 2:35 she emerged, went to Rosenbaum’s room, and returned to her own at 2:48. At 3:02 she emerged again, went to the end of the arena where the women’s room was, and returned at 3:19. At 3:41 Sumner Hoff came marching down the far aisle and opened her door and went in, closing it behind him. At 3:55 he came out again and headed straight for me-more about that later. At 4:12 Hester came out-more about that later too. That made the seven.
The first proof that I had used good judgment in picking Gwynne as a repository of confidential information came around three o’clock, when my view of the arena was suddenly obstructed by an object appearing in my door. The object was Rosa Bendini. Her black eyes were shining with excitement, but as she entered and approached all she said was: “This is Monday, Archie.” I nodded. “March thirty-first. Six days till Easter.” “Do you remember last Monday?” “I’ll never forget it. I remember Thursday even better.” “So do I. What are you doing, sitting here?” “Remembering Monday and Thursday. Excuse me. Down in front.” I stretched my neck to see. Hester had emerged from her room. When I was satisfied that she was bound for the restroom I came back to my caller. “What are the eyes all lit up for? Not just for me.” “Shall I shut the door?” “No, ma’am. Not during office hours.” She came a step closer. “Hester’s lying to you,” she said with sudden startling intensity. Her head jerked around for a look at the door and then back to me.
“Didn’t I tell you about her? She may know who killed Wally, that part’s all right, but she’s trying to play a trick on you. I told you about her, didn’t I?”
“You did. Keep your voice down. What makes you think she knows who killed Wally?” “She told you so.” Rosa put a hand on my arm, saw my glance at the open door, and took the hand away. “Don’t let her fool you. Archie. Next she’ll be telling you who it was.
“If she does that will be more than you did. You said you knew who killed him but you wouldn’t get down to a name. Then you said you didn’t know. Is that what you call a trick?” “I-I-” She looked around again. “I’m going to shut the door.” “Why, are you ready to name a name?” “I don’t know any names, Archie. I want you to put your arms around me. I’ll shut-” I got her elbow, stopping her. “No, Rosa, not now, we’ll save it for next time.
Who told you-” She jerked free, her eyes flashing. “There may not be any next time,” she said, and went.
It was satisfactory to know that Gwynne had not failed me, but beyond that it was doubtful what I had got, if anything. Wolfe was expecting some word or gesture or countermove, and my instructions were to keep him posted, but I couldn’t for the life of me see anything helpful in Rosa’s wanting me to embrace her. Why shouldn’t she? It had been four days since Thursday. I was making up my mind whether to go to a phone booth and tell him about it, and had decided to wait at least until Hester had returned from the restroom, when my door was darkened again.
It was Ben Frenkel. He advanced two long strides from the door, stopped, gazed down at me with his probe working, and rumbled his thunder: “Am I intruding?” “Sure.” I grinned up at him. “What for?” “You had lunch with Miss Ferris today.” I nodded. “Nothing personal. There was something I wanted to discuss with her.” “I don’t believe it.” He was keeping his thunder low.
“Then I’m a liar again. Ask her.” “I don’t have to ask her. She has told me. You said you wanted to ask her advice, which is preposterous. You have talked with her several times now at great length, both you and Mr. Wolfe, and it is impossible to believe that you would want to ask her advice. You must be aware that she is completely devoid of intellect, and therefore that her opinion on any subject whatever is without value. She is not a moron, but the quality of her brain is distinctly inferior.”
“What’s this?” I was gaping at him. “I thought you liked her!” He waved that aside with a wide sweep of his long bony arm. “I don’t like her. I am passionately in love with her and you know it. Another thing, you told her something in confidence, which is even more preposterous. She is utterly incapable of keeping her mouth shut. You know that. That is your best assurance that I did not kill Waldo Moore-nor Naylor either. If I had I couldn’t have kept it from her-I can keep nothing from her. And if she knew it she would have blabbed it long ago, not just to you, to everybody. That’s how you know I’m innocent.” “It’s a point,” I conceded.
“Certainly it is. Then how do you account for the fact that you told her something which you said was highly confidential, pledging her to tell no one?” “I don’t see why-excuse me.” I stretched my neck again to gawk. Hester was returning from the restroom. As she entered her office I glanced at my wrist and registered the 3:19.1 returned to Frenkel.
“You may be wrong about Miss Ferris. You can’t take it for granted that everybody’s opinion of her brain power agrees with yours. You may be blinded by love.” His arm swept that away too, describing an arc with its full radius. “You’re just talking,” he rumbled. “You are trying to obscure an extremely serious matter by degrading it to a triviality. Also you are making use of Miss Ferris, using her as a tool, in a manner that may be dangerous to her. That is a vicious thing to do. Vicious is not too strong a word.” His eyes were boring into me.
“She is incapable of seeing the danger or of guarding against it, and I have a right to ask, I have a right to demand, that you tell me exactly what Miss Livsey said to you. The exact words. Since you chose Miss Ferris as your puppet, I assume that Miss Livsey mentioned my name. Did she?” “Not yet.” I tilted my head to see him better. “That’s sort of funny, how you’re repeating yourself. It was the same about Naylor, remember? You came to ask me if he had mentioned your name. Funny, huh?” “Not at all.” Frenkel whirled, took a step, grabbed the chair at the desk, planted it facing me, and sat. I had the impression that his eyes hadn’t left me at all. “I’m an introvert,” he declared as if that explained everything. “You could even say that I am egocentric. That’s why my infatuation for Miss Ferris has so deeply disturbed my personality. It has created an inner conflict…” He was off. There were, of course, various ways of stopping him, but I saw no point in hurting his feelings since I could stick to my observation post just as well with him there, though he could have only my ears since my eyes were engaged in another direction. So I listened to him attentively, on the slim chance that the word or gesture or counter-move might come from him, and I even tossed in an occasional question or comment. I was listening to him at 3:41, when I saw, across the arena, Sumner Hoff marching down the aisle and entering Hester’s room, and I was still listening at 3:55, when Hoff
emerged and started in my direction.
Hoff came straight to my door and on in. I was on my feet by the time he arrived because there wasn’t room in that cubby-hole for any fancy acrobatics. Ben Frenkel stopped in the middle of a sentence and stood up too.
Hoff looked at him. “I want to speak with Goodwin. When you’re through?” “I’m never through,” Frenkel declared. He strode to the door, told us over his shoulder, “I never will be through,” and was gone.
Hoff started to close the door. I moved, put out a hand, and swung the door open again.
“I like to see out,” I said. “All the pretty girls. If it’s a private talk just keep your voice down.” For a second he thought he was going to insist on having the door shut, then he changed his mind. He went to the chair Frenkel had vacated and sat down. I would hardly have recognized him for the Hoff I knew. He looked neither belligerent nor indignant; it was even doubtful if he regarded himself as adequately prepared to handle things.
“I underestimated you,” he said. “Either you or Wolfe, or both.” “Don’t mention it,” I said amiably. “As Eve said to Adam, we all make mistakes.”
