by Rex Stout
“For God’s sake. Hold that towel there.” I hopped to the bathroom again for the mirror and handed it to him, and then went to the phone. A girl’s voice said good morning sweetly.
“Yeah. Swell morning. Has this joint got a doctor? … No, wait, I don’t want to speak to him, send him over here right away, a man’s been shot in Suite 60, Upshur Pavilion … I said shot, and step on it, and send the doctor, and that Odell the house detective, and a state cop if there’s one around loose, and a bottle of brandy. Got it? … Good for you, you’re a wonder.”
I went back to Wolfe, and whenever I want to treat myself to a laugh all I have to do is remember how he looked on that occasion. With one hand he was keeping the towel from unwinding from his neck, and with the other he was holding up the mirror, into which he was glaring with unutterable indignation and disgust. I saw he was holding his lips tight so blood wouldn’t get in his mouth, and went and got some of his handkerchiefs and did some more sopping.
He moved his left shoulder up and down a little. “Some blood ran down my neck.” He moved his jaw up and down, and from side to side. “I don’t feel anything when I do that.” He put the mirror down on the bed. “Can’t you stop the confounded bleeding? Look out, don’t press so hard! What’s that there on the floor?”
“It’s your speech. I think there’s a bullet hole through it, but it’s all right. You’ve got to get stretched out and turned over on your side.—Now damn it, don’t argue—here, wait till I get rid of these cushions…”
I got him horizontal, with his head raised on a couple of pillows, and went to the bathroom for a towel soaked in cold water and came back and poulticed him. He had his eyes shut. I had just got back to him with another cold towel when there was a loud knock on the door.
The doctor, a bald-headed little squirt with spectacles, had a bag in his hand and a nurse with him. As I was ushering them in somebody else came trotting down the hall, and I let him in too when I saw it was Clay Ashley, the Kanawha Spa manager. He was sputtering at me, “Who did it how did it happen where is he who is it…” I told him to save it up and followed the doctor and nurse inside.
The bald-headed doc was no slouch, at that. The nurse pulled up a chair for the bag and opened it, and I shoved a table over by the bed, while the doc bent over Wolfe without asking me anything. Wolfe started to turn over but was commanded to lie still.
Wolfe protested, “Confound it, I have to see your face!”
“What for? To see if I’m compos mentis? I’m all right. Hold still.”
Clay Ashley’s voice sounded at my elbow. “What the devil is it? You say he was shot? What happened?”
The doctor spoke without turning, with authority: “Quiet in here, until I see what we’ve got.”
There was another loud knock on the door. I went out to it, and Ashley followed me. It was my friend Odell and a pair of state cops, and behind them the greenjacket from the main hall. Ashley told the greenjacket:
“Get out of here, and keep your mouth shut.”
“I just wanted to tell you, sir, I heard a shot, and two of the guests want to know—”
“Tell them you know nothing about it. Tell them it was a backfire. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
I took the quartette to my room. I ignored Ashley, because I had heard Wolfe say he was bourgeois, and spoke to the cops:
“Nero Wolfe was sitting up in bed, rehearsing a speech he is to deliver tonight, and I was standing four yards from the open window looking at the script to prompt him. Something outside caught my attention, I don’t know whether a sound or a movement, and I looked at the window and all I consciously saw was a branch of the shrubbery moving, and I threw the script at the window. At the same time a gun went off, outside, and Wolfe called to me, and I saw his cheek was bleeding and went to him and took a look. Then I phoned the hotel, and got busy mopping blood until the doctor came, which was just before you did.”
One of the cops had a notebook out. “What’s your name?”
“Archie Goodwin.”
He wrote it down. “Did you see anyone in the shrubbery?”
“No. If you’ll permit a suggestion, it’s been less than ten minutes since the shot was fired. I’ve told you all I know. If you let the questions wait and get busy out there, you might pick up a hot trail.”
“I want to see Wolfe.”
“To ask him if I shot him? Well, I didn’t. I even know who did, it was the man that stabbed Laszio in Pocahontas Pavilion Tuesday night. I don’t know his name, but it was that guy. Would you like to grab that murderer, you two? Get out there on the trail before it cools off.”
“How do you know it was the one that killed Laszio?”
“Because Wolfe started digging too close to his hole and he didn’t like it. There’s plenty of people that would like to see Nero Wolfe dead, but not in this neighborhood.”
“Is Wolfe conscious?”
“Certainly. That way, through the foyer.”
“Come on, Bill.”
They tramped ahead, and Ashley and I followed, with Odell behind us. In Wolfe’s room the nurse had the table half covered with bandages and things, and an electric sterilizer had been plugged into an outlet. Wolfe, on his right side, had his back to us, and the doctor was bending over him with busy fingers.
“What about it, Doc?”
“Who—” The doctor’s head twisted at us. “Oh, it’s you fellows. Only a flesh wound in the upper cheek. I’ll have to sew it.”
Wolfe’s voice demanded, “Who is that?”
“Quit talking. State police.”
“Archie? Where are you, Archie?”
“Right here, boss.” I stepped up. “The cops want to know if I shot you.”
“They would. Idiots. Get them out of here. Get everybody out but you and the doctor. I’m in no condition for company.”
The cop spoke up. “We want to ask you, Mr. Wolfe—”
“I have nothing to tell you, except that somebody shot at me through the window. Hasn’t Mr. Goodwin told you that? Do you think you can catch him? Try it.”
Clay Ashley said indignantly, “That’s no attitude to take, Wolfe. All this damned mess comes from my permitting a gathering of people who are not of my clientele. Far from it. It seems to me—”
“I know who that is.” Wolfe’s head started to move, and the doctor held it firm. “That’s Mr. Ashley. His clientele! Pfui! Put him out too. Put them all out. Do you hear me, Archie?”
The doctor said decisively, “That’s enough. When he talks it starts bleeding.”
I told the cops, “Come on, shove off. He’s far enough away now so that you’re in no danger.” To Ashley: “You too. Give your clientele my love. Scat.”
Odell had stayed over by the door and so was the first one out. Ashley and the cops were close behind. I followed them, on through the foyer, and into the public hall. There I stopped one of the cops and kept him by fastening onto a corner of his tunic, and his brother, seeing him stay, stayed with him while Ashley and Odell went on ahead. Ashley was tramping along in a fury and Odell was trotting in the rear.
“Listen,” I told the cop. “You didn’t like my first suggestion to get jumping, I’ll try another. This individual that stabbed Laszio and took a shot at Wolfe seems to be pretty active. He might even take it into his head to try some more target practice on the same range. It’s a nice April day and Wolfe wouldn’t want the windows closed and the curtains drawn, and damned if I’m going to sit in there all day and watch the shrubbery. We came into your state alive, and we’d like to go out the same way at 12:40 to-night. How would it be if you stationed a guard where he could keep an eye on those windows and the shrubbery from behind? There’s a nice seat not far away, by the brook.”
“Much obliged.” He sounded sarcastic. “Maybe you’d like to have the colonel come down from Charleston so you can give him instructions.”
I waved a hand. “I’m upset. I’ve had no sleep and my boss got shot and da
rned near had his brains spilled. I’m surprised I’ve been as polite as I have. It would be nice to know that those windows are being watched. Will you do it?”
“Yes. I’ll phone in a report and get a couple of men.” He eyed me. “You didn’t see any more than you told me. Huh?”
I told him no, and he turned and took his brother with him.
In Wolfe’s room the ministrations were proceeding. I stood at the foot of the bed and watched for a few minutes, then, turning, my eye fell on the script still lying on the floor, and I picked it up and examined it. Sure enough, the bullet had gone right through it, and had torn loose one of the metal fasteners which had held the sheets together. I smoothed it out and tossed it on the bureau and resumed my post at the foot of the bed.
The doctor was a little slow but he was good and thorough. He had started the sewing, and Wolfe, who lay with his eyes closed, informed me in a murmur that he had declined the offer of a local anesthetic. His hand on the coverlet was clenched into a fist, and each time the needle went through the flesh he grunted. After a few stitches he asked, “Does my grunting hamper you?” The doctor told him no, and then the grunts got louder. When the sewing was done and the bandaging started, the doctor told me, as he worked, that the wound was superficial but would be somewhat painful and the patient should have rest and freedom from disturbance. He was dressing it so that it needn’t be touched again until we got to New York. The patient insisted that he intended to deliver a speech that evening and wouldn’t be persuaded out of it, and in case such excessive muscular action started a hemorrhage the doctor must be called. It was desirable for the patient to stay in bed until dinnertime.
He finished. The nurse helped him gather up paraphernalia and débris, including bloody towels. She offered to help Wolfe change the soiled pajama top for a fresh one, but he refused. I got out the expense roll, but the doctor said it would be put on the bill, and then walked around to the other side of the bed to get a front view of Wolfe’s face and give him some parting admonitions.
I accompanied them as far as the main hall to tell the greenjacket there that no visitors of any description would be desired in Suite 60. Back in Wolfe’s room, the patient was still lying on his right side with his eyes closed.
I went to the phone. “Hello, operator? Listen. The doctor says Mr. Wolfe must have rest and quiet. Will you please announce to the switchboard that this phone is not to ring? I don’t care who—”
“Archie! Cancel that.”
I told the mouthpiece, “Wait a minute.—Yes, sir?”
Wolfe hadn’t moved, but he spoke again. “Cancel that order about the phone.”
“But you—”
“Cancel it.”
I told the operator to return to the status quo ante, and hung up, and approached the patient. “Excuse me. I wouldn’t butt in on your personal affairs for anything. If you want that phone bell jangling—”
“I don’t want it.” He opened his eyes. “But we can’t do anything if we’re incommunicado. Did you say the bullet went through my speech? Let me see it, please.”
His tone was such that I got the script from the bureau and handed it to him without demur. Frowning, he fingered it, and as he saw the extent of the damage the frown deepened. He handed it back. “I suppose you can decipher it. What did you throw it for?”
“Because I had it in my hand. If it hadn’t deflected the bullet you might have got it for good—or it might have missed you entirely, I admit that. Depending on how good a shot he is.”
“I suppose so. That man’s a dolt. I had washed my hands of it. He stood an excellent chance of avoiding exposure, and now he’s done for. We’ll get him.”
“Oh. We will.”
“Certainly. I have plenty of forbearance, God knows, but I’m not a complacent target for firearms. While I was being bandaged I considered probabilities, and we have little time to act. Hand me that mirror. I suppose I’m a spectacle.”
“You’re pretty well decorated.” I passed the mirror to him, and he studied his reflection with his lips compressed. “About getting this bird, I’m for it, but from the way you look and what the doctor said—”
“It can’t be helped. Close the windows and draw the shades.”
“It’ll be gloomy. I told the cop to put a guard outside—”
“Do as I say, please. I don’t trust guards. Besides, I would be constantly glancing at the window, and I don’t want my mental processes interrupted.—No, clear to the bottom, there’ll be plenty of light. That’s better. The others too.—Good. Now bring me underwear, a clean shirt, the dressing gown from the closet…”
“You’ve got to stay in bed.”
“Nonsense. There’s more blood in the head lying down than sitting up. If people come here I can’t very well make myself presentable, with the gibbosity of this confounded bandage, but at least I needn’t give offense to decency. Get the underwear.”
I collected garments while he manipulated his mass, first to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, and then onto his feet, using grunts for punctuation. He frowned in distaste at the bloody pajama top when he got it off, and I brought towels, wet and dry. As the operations progressed he instructed me as to details of the program:
“All we can do is try our luck on the possibilities until we find a fact that will allow only one interpretation. I detest alternatives, and at present that is all we have. Do you know how to black a man up with burnt cork?—Well, you can try. Get some corks—I suppose we can use matches—and get a Kanawha Spa livery, medium size, including cap. But first of all, New York on the telephone.—No, not those socks, black ones, I may not feel like changing again before dinner. We’ll have to find time to finish that speech.—I presume you know the numbers of Saul Panzer and Inspector Cramer. But if we should get our fact from there, it would be undesirable to run the risk of that blackguard learning we had asked for it. We must prevent that…”
14
MY FRIEND ODELL STOOD beside a lobby pillar with an enormous leaf of a palm spread over his head, looking at me with a doubtful glint in his eye that I didn’t deserve.
I said, “Nor am I trying to negotiate a hot date, nor am I engaged in snooping. I’ve told you straight, I merely want to make sure that a private phone call is private. It’s not suspicion, it’s just precaution. As for your having to consult the manager, what the hell kind of a house dick are you if you haven’t even got the run of your own corral? You come along and stay with me, and if I start anything you don’t like you can throw stones at me. Which reminds me, this Kanawha Spa seems to be pretty hard on guests. If you don’t get hit with a rock you get plugged with a bullet. Huh?”
Without erasing the doubt, he made to move. “Okay. The next time I tell a man a joke it’ll be the one about Pat and Mike. Come on, Rollo.”
He led me through the lobby, down past the elevators, and along a ways to a narrow side corridor. It had doors with frosted glass panels, and he opened one on the right side and motioned me in. It was a small room, and all its furniture consisted of a switchboard running its entire length, perhaps fifteen feet, six maidens in a row with their backs to us, and the straight-backed chairs which the maidens inhabited. Odell went to the one at the end and conversed a moment, and then thumbed me over to the third in the line. From the back her neck looked a little scrawny, but when she turned to us she had smooth white skin and promising blue eyes. Odell said something to her, and she nodded, and I told her:
“I’ve just thought up a new way to make a phone call. Mr. Wolfe in Suite 60, Upshur Pavilion, wants to put in a call to New York and I’m going to stay and watch you do it.”
“Suite 60? That’s the man that was shot.”
“Yep.”
“And it was you that told me I’m a wonder.”
“Yep. In a way I came to check up. If you’ll just get—”
“Excuse me.” She turned and talked and listened, and monkeyed with some plugs. When she was through I said:
“
Get New York, Liberty 2-3306, and put it on Suite 60.”
She grinned. “Personally conducted phone calls, huh?”
“Right. I haven’t had so much fun in ages.”
She got busy. I became aware of activity at my elbow, and saw that Odell had got out a notebook and pencil and was writing something down. I craned the neck for a glimpse of his scrawl, and then told him pleasantly, “I like a man that knows his job the way you do. To save you the trouble of listening for the next one, it’s going to be Spring 7-3100. New York Police Headquarters.”
“Much obliged. What’s he doing, yelling for help because he got a little scratch on the face?”
I made a fitting reply with my mind elsewhere, because I was watching operations. The board was an old style, and it was easy to tell if she was listening in. Her hands were all over the place, pushing and dropping plugs, and it was only five minutes or so before I heard her say, “Mr. Wolfe? Ready with New York. Go ahead, please.” She flashed me a grin. “Who was I supposed to tell about it? Mr. Odell here?”
I grinned back. “Don’t you bother your little head about it. Be good, dear child—”
“And let who will wear diamonds. I know. Have you heard the one—excuse me.”
Odell stayed with me till the end. He had a long wait, for Wolfe’s talk with Saul Panzer lasted a good quarter of an hour, and the second one, with Inspector Cramer—provided he got Cramer—almost as long. When it was finished and the plugs had been pulled, I thought it was only sociable to ask the maiden whether she preferred oblong diamonds or round ones, and she replied that she would much rather have a copy of the Bible because most of hers were getting worn out, she read them so much. I made a feint to pat her on the head and she ducked and Odell plucked me by the sleeve.
I left him in the lobby with thanks and an assurance that I hadn’t forgotten his aspirations to the Hotel Churchill, regarding which Mr. Wolfe would sound out Mr. Liggett at the first opportunity.
A minute later I had an opportunity myself, but was too busy to take advantage of it. Going away from the main entrance in the direction of my next errand took me past the mounting block, and there was a bunch of horses around, some mounted and some not, with greenjacket grooms. I like the look of horses at a distance of ten feet or more, and I slowed down as I went by. It was there I saw Liggett, with the right clothes on which I suppose he had borrowed, dismounting from a big bay. Another reason I slowed down was because I thought I might see another guest get stepped on, but it didn’t happen so. Not that I have anything against guests as guests; it’s only my natural feeling about people who pay twenty bucks a day for a room to sleep in, and they always look either too damn sleek or as if they had been born with a bellyache. I know if I was a horse…
