by Rex Stout
Fred Durkin, at the door, announced, “They want breakfast.”
Chapter 14
The office of the inspector in command of Homicide South on West Twentieth Street is not really shabby, but it’s not for show. The linoleum floor has signs of wear, Cramer’s desk would appreciate a sanding job, I have never seen the windows really clean, and the chairs, all but Cramer’s, are plain, honest, hard wood. As I put my fundament on one of them at 2:35 p.m. he snapped at me, “I told you don’t come and don’t phone.”
I nodded. “But it’s okay now and I had to. Mr. Wolfe—”
“What’s okay?”
“He has earned the hundred grand and a fee.”
“The hell he has. He has got them to quit on that Mrs. Bruner?”
“Yes. Bejabers. But we haven’t filled your order. We have—”
“I didn’t give any order.”
“Oh, all right. We have learned that it wasn’t a G-man who shot Morris Althaus. We think we know who did, and we think we know how it can be tagged. I’m not going to tell you how we put the screws on the FBI. That’s not what I came for, and Mr. Wolfe will enjoy telling you some time at your leisure, and you’ll enjoy listening. It was the longest shot he has ever played, and it hit. I’m here to talk homicide.”
“Go ahead. Talk.”
I reached to my breast pocket, took something out, and handed it to him. “I doubt if you’ve seen that before,” I said, “but one or more of your men have. It was in a drawer in Althaus’s bedroom. His mother gave me the keys, so don’t book me for illegal entry. Look at the back.”
He turned it over and read the poetry.
“That,” I said, “is a take-off of the last four lines of the second stanza of Keats’s ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn.’ Rather clever. It was written by Miss Sarah Dacos, Mrs. Bruner’s secretary, who lives at Sixty-three Arbor Street, second floor, below Althaus’s apartment. The way I know, I got samples of her handwriting from Mrs. Bruner. Here they are.” I got them from a pocket and handed them over. “By the way, she saw the three G-men leave the house. From her window. Remember that when you’re working on her.”
“Working on her for what? This?” He tapped the photograph.
“No. The main thing I came for was to place a bet. One will get you fifty that if you get a warrant and comb her apartment you’ll get something you’ll appreciate. The sooner the better.” I stood up. “That’s all for now. We would—”
“Like hell it’s all.” His red round face was redder. “Sit down. I’ll work on you. What will we find and when did you put it there?”
“I didn’t. Listen. As you know, when you deal with me you’re dealing with Mr. Wolfe. You also know that I always stick to instructions. For the present I’m through. I stand mute. Any time you spend barking at me will be wasted. Get the warrant and use it, and if you find anything Mr. Wolfe will be glad to discuss it.”
“I’ll discuss it with you first. You’ll stay right here.”
“Not unless I’m put under arrest.” I got sore. “What more do you want, for God’s sake? You’ve had this homicide nearly two months! We’ve had it one week!”
I turned and walked out. It was even money I would be stopped, if not there by him then down on the ground floor when I left the elevator. But all I got, from the bull on duty in the downstairs hall, who knew me by sight, was a nod, not too friendly but almost human. I didn’t loiter.
I crossed town to Sixth Avenue and turned south. Everything was under control at the old brownstone. Ashley Jarvis and Dale Kirby, not too badly hung over, had been fed a hearty breakfast and handed the bonus of one grand each, and had departed. Fred and Orrie had each been given three Cs for two days’ work, not to mention nights, miles above scale, and had also departed. Saul was up at Mrs. Bruner’s office getting ready to paint or plaster, whichever suited. Wolfe would of course be reading a book, certainly not The FBI Nobody Knows, since he knew them now, anyhow three of them, and at four o’clock he would go up to the plant rooms, back on schedule. Since I never take an afternoon nap, even when I’m short on sleep, I could go for a walk, and did.
I came to a stop across the street from 63 Arbor Street. But the thermometer outside the front-room window had said sixteen above zero when I got up, and it had climbed only about five notches since, and I had the keys in my pocket, so I crossed the street, entered, and mounted the two flights to Althaus’s apartment. I include this in the report not because it changed anything, but because I remember so well my state of mind.
Fifty-three hours had passed since I had put the gun under the box spring, and that was time enough for a healthy girl to find a dozen guns and put them somewhere else. If it wasn’t there we would now be out on a limb, and a shaky one, since I had told Cramer. He knew Wolfe hadn’t sent me there just on a suspicion or a hunch; he knew we knew there was something hot in that apartment, and if it was gone we were in for it. If I told him about the gun I would be admitting I had tampered with evidence; if I didn’t, I would be suspected of something even worse, and good-by licenses.
You may not be interested in my state of mind, but believe me I was. At one of the front windows in Althaus’s living room I pushed the drape aside and pressed my forehead against the glass so I could see the sidewalk below. That was fairly dumb, but a state of mind can make you dumb. It was 3:25. I had left Cramer only thirty-five minutes ago, and it would take them about an hour to get the warrant, so what was I expecting to see? Also the glass was cold, and I backed away a couple of inches. But I was really on edge, and now and then I put my forehead to the glass again, and after a while I did see something. Sarah Dacos came in view on the sidewalk with a big brown paper bag under her arm and turned in at the entrance. It was ten minutes to four. Seeing her didn’t help my state of mind any. I had nothing against Sarah Dacos. Of course I had nothing for her either. A woman who sends a bullet through a man’s pump may or may not deserve some sympathy, but she damn well can’t expect a stranger to take a detour if she gets in his way while he’s doing a job.
Bending my ears, I heard the door of her apartment open and close.
At a quarter past four two police cars stopped out in front. One of them found a spot at the curb and the other one double-parked, and I recognized all three of the homicide dicks who got out and headed for Number 63. One of them, Sergeant Purley Stebbins, was probably thinking of me as he pushed the button at the door. He hates to find Nero Wolfe or me in the same county with a homicide, and here he was on an errand we were responsible for. I wanted to go to the hall to hear the conversation when he showed her the warrant, but didn’t. He might smell me and it would hold up the search.
It took them not more than ten minutes to find it. They entered the apartment at 4:21, that was when I heard the door close, and Purley left the house with her at 4:43. I’m allowing twelve minutes for him to ask her a few questions after he got the gun. I stood at the window and watched Purley get in the car with her, and the car pull off, and then went and sat on the couch. Since he had taken her, the question about the gun was answered. I stayed on the couch a few minutes while my state of mind got adjusted.
I got my hat and coat and went. There was still a NYPD car out in front, waiting for the two dicks still in the apartment, and the driver might know me, but so what? I hadn’t recognized him from the window, and I don’t know if he knew me or not. As I walked past the car, no hurry, he gave me a hard eye, but that could have been because I had come out of that house.
I walked home. It was a little after half past five, dark, when I mounted the stoop and let myself in. I went to the kitchen, got a glass of milk, and asked Fritz, “Has he told you that we’re off the hook?”
“No.” He was inspecting carrots.
“Well, we are. Say anything you want to on the phone. Resume with your girl friends. If a stranger speaks to you, do as you please. Do you want some good advice?”
“Yes.”
“Hit him for a raise. I am. By the way, I haven’t asked
you about the dinner last night. Did you feed them good?”
He leveled his eyes at me. “Archie, that is never to be mentioned. That terrible day. Epouvantable. My mind was here with you. I don’t know what I did, I don’t know what was served. I will forget it if possible.”
“Hewitt said on the phone that they stood and applauded you.”
“But certainly. They were polite. I know I put no truffles in the Périgourdine.”
“Good God. I’m glad I wasn’t there. Okay, we’ll forget it. May I have a carrot? It’s wonderful with milk.”
He said certainly, and I helped myself.
I was at my desk, making out checks to pay bills, when Wolfe came down from the plant rooms. Though he hadn’t said so I knew he was as much on edge as I had been, and as he went to his desk I turned my head and said, “Relax. They got the gun.”
“How do you know?”
I told him, beginning with the conversation with Cramer and ending with the conversation with Fritz. He asked if I had got a receipt for the photograph.
“No,” I said, “he wasn’t in a mood for signing receipts. I had told him that Althaus hadn’t been killed by a G-man, and that hurt.”
“No doubt. Will Mr. Wragg be at his office?”
“He could be.”
“Get him.”
I turned and got the phone, but as I started to dial the doorbell rang. I cradled it and went to the hall for a look, turned, and said, “You can ask him for the receipt.”
He took a breath. “Is he alone?”
I told him yes and went to the front and opened the door. Cramer didn’t have a carton of milk for me. He had nothing at all for me, not even a nod. When I had his coat he made for the office, and when I got there he was planted in the red leather chair and talking. I got the end of it: “… and I might have known better. God knows I should know better.” He switched to me as I sat. “Where did you get that gun and when did you put it there?”
“Confound it,” Wolfe growled, “you shouldn’t have come. You should have waited until you had arranged your mind. Archie, get Mr. Wragg.”
When Cramer is boiling it isn’t easy to stop the stream, but that did, the name Wragg. I didn’t see him clamp his jaw and glare at Wolfe, I only knew he did, because my back was turned as I dialed LE 5-7700. I was supposing it would take patience and staying power to get through to the top, but not at all. Apparently word had been passed down that a call from Nero Wolfe had priority, which was a good sign. In no time the smooth low-pitched drawl was in my ear, and in Wolfe’s too, for he had picked up his phone. I stayed on.
“Wolfe?”
“Yes. Mr. Wragg?”
“Yes.”
“I’m ready for that bullet. Now. As we agreed. Bring the bullet, and I surrender the credentials if you are not satisfied within a month. I think it will be sooner, much sooner.”
No hesitation. “I’ll come.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
As we hung up Wolfe asked me, “How long will it take him?” I said twenty minutes or less, that he wouldn’t have to scout for a taxi, and Wolfe turned to Cramer. “Mr. Wragg will be here in twenty minutes. I suggest—”
“Wragg of the FBI?”
“Yes. I suggest that you postpone your onslaught until he arrives—and, perhaps, goes—and meanwhile I’ll describe an operation which has been concluded. I have told Mr. Wragg that I will make no public disclosure of it, but you are not the public, and since you made it possible I owe it to you. But it will help in dealing with him if you will answer two questions. Was a gun found in Miss Dacos’s apartment?”
“Certainly. I just asked Goodwin when he put it there, and I’m going to ask him again.”
“You may not after we finish with Mr. Wragg. Was it the gun Morris Althaus had a permit for?”
“Yes.”
“That will simplify matters greatly. Now that operation …”
He described it, and he reports almost as well as I do—better, if you like long words. There was no point in leaving Hewitt’s name out since the FBI knew all about it, and he gave all the details. When he came to the scene in the office, with the two G-men completely surrounded by guns and him dropping their credentials in his drawer, I saw something I had never seen before and will probably never see again, a broad smile on the face of Inspector Cramer. And it was there again when, reporting the conversation with Wragg that morning, Wolfe came to where he had told him that his word was much better. I was thinking that he might even pop up to go to Wolfe and pat him on the back when the doorbell rang and I went to answer it.
I have mentioned that Wragg was fazed when Wolfe asked him to bring the bullet, but that was nothing compared to the jolt he got when he walked into the office and saw Cramer. I was behind him and couldn’t see his face, but I saw him go stiff and his fingers curl. Cramer, on his feet, started a hand out but took it back.
As I brought a yellow chair Wragg spoke to Wolfe. “Your word? Better than mine? You goddam skunk!”
“Sit down,” Wolfe said. “Whether my word is better or not, my brain is. I don’t judge a situation before I understand it. Mr. Cramer is—”
“All agreements are off.”
“Pfui. You’re not a donkey. Mr. Cramer is regretting that he surmised that a member of your bureau was a murderer. If you sit down and compose yourself he may tell you so.”
“I have no apologies for anybody,” Cramer growled. He turned his head to make sure the red leather chair was still there, and sat. “Anyone who withholds information—”
“No,” Wolfe snapped. “If you gentlemen must contend, that’s your affair, but not in my office. I want to resolve a situation, not tangle it. I like eyes at a level, Mr. Wragg. Be seated.”
“Resolve it how?”
“Sit down and I’ll tell you.”
He didn’t want to. He looked at Cramer, he even looked at me, like a general surveying a battlefield and watching his flanks. He didn’t like it, but he sat.
Wolfe turned a palm up. “Actually,” he said, “the situation isn’t tangled at all. We all want the same thing. I want to get rid of an obligation. You, Mr. Wragg, want it made manifest that your men are not criminally implicated in a murder. You, Mr. Cramer, want to identify and bring to account the person who killed Morris Althaus. It couldn’t be simpler. You, Mr. Wragg, give Mr. Cramer the bullet you have in your pocket and tell him where it came from. You, Mr. Cramer, have a comparison made of that bullet with one fired from the gun which was taken this afternoon from the apartment of Sarah Dacos, and along with other evidence which no doubt your men are securing now, that will settle it. There is no—”
“I haven’t said I have a bullet in my pocket.”
“Nonsense. I advise you to pull in your horns, Mr. Wragg. Mr. Cramer has good reason to suppose that you have on your person an essential item of evidence in a homicide which occurred in his jurisdiction. Under the statutes of the State of New York he may legally search you, here and now, and get it. Is that correct, Mr. Cramer?”
“Yes.”
“But,” Wolfe told Wragg, “that shouldn’t be necessary. You do have a brain. Obviously it is to your interest and that of your bureau that you give Mr. Cramer that bullet.”
“The hell it is,” Wragg said. “And one of my men gets on the stand and says under oath that he was in that apartment and took it? The hell it is.”
Wolfe shook his head. “No. No indeed. You wouldn’t. You give Mr. Cramer your word, here privately, that that’s where the bullet came from, and one of his men gets on the stand and says under oath that he took it from that apartment. There will—”
“My men are not perjurers,” Cramer said.
“Bah. This is not being recorded. If Mr. Wragg hands you a bullet and says it was found on the floor of Morris Althaus’s apartment about eleven o’clock in the evening of Friday, November twentieth, will you believe him?”
“Yes.”
“Then save your posing for audiences that
will appreciate it. This one isn’t sufficiently naive. I don’t think—”
“He might not be posing,” Wragg cut in. “He might go on the stand himself and tell how he got it. Then I’m called to the stand.”
Wolfe nodded. “True. He might. But he wouldn’t. If he did, I too would be called to the stand, and Mr. Goodwin, and a much larger audience than this one would learn how the murderer of Morris Althaus had been disclosed after the police and the District Attorney had spent eight futile weeks on it. He wouldn’t.”
“Damn you,” Cramer said. “Both of you.”
Wolfe looked at the clock. “It’s past my dinner hour, gentlemen. I’ve said all I have to say, and I have disposed of my obligation. Do you want to settle it, or mulishly fail to, elsewhere?”
Wragg looked at Cramer. “Do you see anything wrong with it?”
The eyes of the cop and the G-man met and held. “No,” Cramer said. “Do you?”
“No. You have the gun?”
“Yes.” Cramer turned to Wolfe. “You said I might not ask Goodwin after we finished with Wragg. I won’t. I may later if we hit a snag. I would only get a run-around, and to hell with it.” He went back to Wragg. “It’s up to you.”
Wragg’s hand went to a pocket and came out with a little plastic vial. He rose and took a step. “This bullet,” he said, “was found on the floor of Morris Althaus’s apartment, in the living room, around eleven o’clock in the evening on Friday, November twentieth. Now it’s yours. I have never seen it.”
Cramer stood up to take it. He removed the lid of the vial, let the bullet drop into his palm, inspected it, and returned it to the vial.
“You’re damned right it’s mine,” he said.
Chapter 15
Three evenings later, Monday around half past six, Wolfe and I were in the office, debating a point about the itemization of expenses to go with the bill to Mrs. Bruner. I admit it was a minor point, but it was a matter of principle. He was maintaining that it was just and proper to include the lunch at Rusterman’s, on the ground that the meals we got there were in consideration of services he had rendered and was still rendering to the restaurant and so were not actually gratis. My position was that the past services had already been rendered, and the present ones would be rendered, even if she and I had gone to the Automat for lunch.
