Homicide Trinity

by Homicide Trinity (lit)

  wouldn't cost him even a finger if he was lucky.

  Wolfe made a tent with his fingers, the tips together,

  his elbows on the chair arms. "Indeed," he said. "I have

  no use for your arm, but some information might be

  helpful. When did you last see Mr. Hazen?"

  "I want to know where that gun is. I know she left it

  here, she told me so."

  "When did she tell you?"

  "This afternoon. I was there when she came home."

  "What else did she tell you?"

  "Not much—there wasn't time. We were inter-

  rupted. I knew Hazen had a gun in a drawer in his room,

  and I had looked to see if it was there and it wasn't, and

  I asked her if she knew where it was. Have the police

  got it?"

  "No. I'll indulge you further, Mr. Weed. The bullet

  The Homicide Trinity 95

  that killed Mr. Hazen wasn't fired by that gun. If you

  already knew that it's no news for you; if you didn't, it

  should relieve—"

  "How do you know it wasn't?"

  "Enough for you that I do. Now you indulge me.

  When did you last see Mr. Hazen?"

  "This morning. At the morgue. I went there to iden-

  tify him, by request. Alive, I saw him last at his house,

  last night."

  "At what hour?"

  "Around half past nine. Five or ten minutes either

  way. The police wanted it more exact, but that's as close

  as I can come."

  "The circumstances?"

  "There were people there for dinner. Do you want

  their names?"

  "Yes."

  "They were clients of Hazen's. Mrs. Victor Oliver, a

  widow. Mrs. Henry Lewis Talbot, the wife of the

  banker. Ambrose Perdis, the shipping tycoon. Jules

  Khoury, the inventor. And Mr. and Mrs. Hazen and me.

  Seven. After dinner Hazen told Lucy—his wife—that

  we were going to discuss a business matter and she left.

  I left soon after that, and that was the last I saw him

  alive, there with them."

  "How did you spend the next six hours?"

  "I walked to the Overseas Press Club—it's a short

  walk—and was there until around midnight, and then I

  went home and went to bed. And stayed in bed."

  "You were associated with Mr. Hazen in his busi-

  ness?"

  "I was in his employ."

  "In what capacity?"

  "Mostly I write stuff. Handouts, plugs, the usual

  junk. Also I was supposed to use my contacts. I was a

  newspaperman when Hazen hired me a little more than

  a year ago."

  "If they were going to discuss a business matter why

  did you leave?"

  "I wasn't needed. Or wanted."

  "Then why were you there at all?"

  96 Rex Stout

  Weed put his hands on the chair arms, levered his

  fanny up, settled farther back, and took a breath. He

  rubbed his chair arms with his palms. "You don't think

  Lucy killed him," he said. "Or you wouldn't be working

  for her. But even if she didn't she's in one hell of a jam.

  If you're half as good as you're supposed to be ... I

  don't know. Maybe I ought to give you a different

  answer than the one I gave the District Attorney when

  he asked why I was there. The right answer. Even if it

  makes you think I killed him. I didn't."

  "If you did, Mr. Weed, you're doomed in any case, no

  matter what answers you give."

  "Okay, then here's why I was there. Exclusive for

  you. Hazen liked to have me in the same room with his

  wife because he knew how I felt about her. God only

  knows how he knew, I certainly tried not to show it and

  I thought I did pretty well, and I'm sure she doesn't

  know, but he did. He was a remarkable man. He had a

  sixth sense about people, and maybe a seventh and an

  eighth, but he also had blind spots. He actually didn't

  know how his wife felt about him, or if he did he was

  even more remarkable than I thought."

  "Did you know?"

  "Of course."

  "She told you?"

  "My God, no. I doubt if she even told her best friend.

  Don't think that the way I feel about her made me

  imagine it. I saw her when he touched her, how she

  tried to cover up. So that's why I was invited to dinner

  last night. I don't think he expected or hoped to see me

  squirm, he didn't have to, he knew how I felt. Of course

  he was a sadist, but he was a damned subtle one. I was

  onto him, in a way, after I had been with him a couple of

  months, but I didn't leave because I ... I had met

  her."

  "And your feeling for her was returned?"

  "Certainly not. I was just a guy that worked for her

  husband."

  "Rather a forlorn situation for you."

  "Yeah. That's the right word, forlorn. I told you

  The Homicide Trinity 97

  because you asked why I was there, and I've got a little

  idea how you work, and you're working for her. An-

  other thing you might want to know, I think there was

  something screwy about his business. I know the

  public-relations game is mostly just a high-grade

  racket, but even so. Take the four people who

  were there last night. Why did Mrs. Victor Oliver, the

  sixty-year-old widow of a millionaire broker, pay him

  two thousand dollars a month? She needs public rela-

  tions like I need a hole in the head. The same for Mrs.

  Talbot—twenty-five hundred a month. Maybe her hus-

  band, the banker, could use a P.R. expert, granted that

  there is one, but why her? Jules Khoury's amounts

  vary, sometimes a couple of thousand, sometimes more.

  Possibly an inventor likes to stand in well with

  the public, though I don't see why, and during the time

  I've been there Khoury has got damn little for his

  money. Ambrose Perdis is the screwiest of all. For his

  business, his shipping corporations, he uses one of the

  big P.R. operators, the Codray Associates, but person-

  ally he has paid Hazen more than forty thousand dollars

  this past year. I'm not supposed to know all this. I got

  curious and I got at the records one day."

  Wolfe grunted. "A man who hires another man to

  forge distinction for him deserves as little as he gets.

  Are you suggesting that Mr. Hazen extorted those

  sums?"

  "I don't know, but he didn't earn them. I admit that

  very few P.R. operators do earn what they get. If any."

  "Did he have any clients other than those four?"

  "Sure, about a dozen. Fifteen altogether, as of yes-

  terday. His total take was over a quarter of a million a

  year."

  Wolfe looked up at the clock. "It will be my dinner

  time in five minutes. If my assumption that Mrs. Hazen

  didn't kill her husband is correct, and if you didn't, who

  did?"

  That question gets a helpful answer about once in a

  hundred times. It was obvious that Weed had given it

  no brain room at all before he rang our doorbell, be-

  98 Rex Stout

  cause he had either thought that Lucy had done it or

  known t
hat he had, so he had no guesses ready. He was

  more than willing; the idea appealed to him; but he had

  to start from scratch, and five minutes wasn't enough.

  He thought that Wolfe should forget about dinner,

  though he didn't say so, which was just as well. He said

  he would return after dinner, but Wolfe said no, if he

  would leave his phone number he would hear from us.

  He would have left the bills there on Wolfe's desk if I

  hadn't handed them to him.

  By the time we had finished dinner and were back in

  the office, with coffee, I had no personal worry. If the

  bullets had matched we would have heard from Cramer

  by then. Wolfe got at the letters to sign, still on his desk,

  and as he finished the last one and I took it he spoke.

  "Did Mr. Weed shoot him?"

  I shook my head. "No comment. I'd have to flip a coin.

  He cleared up one point, anyway, about her. You said

  that no one wants to kill a man merely because she

  despises him. Sure. So what was eating her? Weed.

  He says she doesn't know how he feels about her and

  the feeling is not returned. Nuts. Either he lies or he's

  simple. Of the ten thousand women I have fallen in love

  with, every single one of them knew it before I did. As

  for Weed shooting him, I am split. It would be tough to

  send her a bill for nailing him, but if he didn't you've got

  a job. Where do you start? Apparently Hazen was the

  kind of specimen—"

  The doorbell rang. Could Cramer possibly have held

  off so long? No. It would be Weed, to help some more.

  No. It was a more familiar figure, a tall thin middle-

  aged man in a dark gray overcoat that had been cut to

  give him more shoulder, but not overdoing it. Nathaniel

  Parker had his clothes made by Stover. When I opened

  the door and greeted and admitted him he headed for

  the office, keeping his coat on and his homburg in his

  hand, and I followed.

  He was one of the eight men, not counting me, that

  Wolfe shook hands with. He declined Wolfe's invitation

  The Homicide Trinity 99

  to be seated, saying that he was an hour and a half late

  for a dinner appointment. "I stopped in instead of phon-

  ing," he said, "because I had to deliver this." He took a

  key from his pocket and handed it to me. "That's the

  key to Mrs. Hazen's house. Also this." From his inside

  pocket he took a folded paper. "That's authority from

  her to enter and get something. What you're to get, if

  you want to, is an iron box—she said iron but I suppose

  it's tin or steel—that is under the bottom drawer of the

  chest in Hazen's bedroom. You remove the drawer and

  pry up the board that it slides in on, and the box is

  underneath. She doesn't know what's in it. One day

  about a year ago Hazen lifted the board and showed her

  the box, and told her that if he died she was to get the

  box, have it opened by a locksmith, and bum the con-

  tents without looking at them. I thought you might

  want to have a look, and she is willing. You'll be acting

  for her, through her attorney."

  Wolfe grunted. "I'll use my discretion."

  "I know you will. If you don't want to tell me what

  was in it you'll say it was empty. I'd like to be present

  when it's opened, but I have an appointment. As for

  her, what did she tell you this morning?"

  "Ask her."

  "I did. She wouldn't tell me. She said she would

  disclose it only if you told her to. If she is charged with

  homicide I'll want to know that or I'll step out. She has

  been there more than five hours, and they'll probably

  keep her another five. If she is held as a material

  witness I can do nothing about bail until morning. I

  have an appointment with Hazen's lawyer at nine-

  thirty. He has the will. Anything else now?"

  Wolfe said no, and he went. I escorted him out, re-

  turned to the office, and asked, "Any special instruc-

  tions?"

  "No. Will the police be there?"

  "I shouldn't think so. It's only where he lived, he

  wasn't shot there. Do I wear gloves?"

  "No. You have her authority."

  Ever since a difficulty I got into some years ago I

  100 Rex Stout

  have made it a practice to have a gun along when I am

  on an errand that may interfere with a murderer's

  program. I took off my jacket, got a shoulder holster

  and a Mariey, which I loaded, from the drawer, put

  them where they belonged, put the jacket back on,

  checked that Lucy's key was in a pocket and her author-

  ity in another one, and went to the hall for my coat and

  hat.

  Chapter 5

  I stood across the street from the Hazen house, on

  37th Street between Park and Lexington, for a

  look. It was brick, painted gray with green trim,

  four stories, narrower than Wolfe's brownstone, with

  the entrance three steps down from the sidewalk. I

  noted those details just for the record, but they weren't

  important. What was important was that there was a

  tiny sliver of light at the lower part of the right edge of

  one of the three windows on the third floor—a sliver

  that you might leave if you weren't quite thorough

  enough when you arranged a drape.

  I didn't know where Hazen's room was; that could be

  it. It could be a Homicide man looking things over, but it

  wasn't probable; they had had ten hours. It could be the

  maid who slept in, but why, at 9:30 at night? Her room

  certainly wasn't third floor front. Whoever it was and

  whatever he was doing, I decided not to interrupt him

  by ringing. I crossed over, descended the three steps,

  used the key, opened the door with care, entered,

  closed it with more care, and stood and listened while

  my eyes adjusted to the dark. For half a minute there

  was no sound from any direction; then there was

  something like a bump from up above, followed by a

  voice, male, very faint. Unless he was talking to himself

  The Homicide Trinity 101

  there was more than one. Thinking there might be

  occasion for activity, I took off my overcoat and put it

  on the floor, and my hat, and then tiptoed along the hall,

  feeling my way, found the stairs, and started up.

  Halfway up I stopped. Had there been another voice,

  a soprano? There had. There was. Then the baritone

  again. I went on up, with more care now and slower,

  keeping to the end of the steps next the wall. In the hall

  on the second floor there was a little light coming from

  above, enough to catch outlines. Up the second flight I

  went even slower, since each step might bring me

  within range. The voices had stopped, but there were

  tapping sounds. On the fourth step I could get my eyes

  to the level of the floor by stretching. The hall was the

  same as the floor below, and the light was coming from

  a half-open door at its front end. All I could see inside

  was a chair and part of a bed and drapes ove
r a window,

  and the back of a woman's head over the back of the

  chair, silvery hair under a black pancake hat.

  I might have stayed put until the voices came again,

  and now I could get words, but a staircase is not a good

  tactical position, the light was on them, not me, and at

  the top I would be nearly out of range through the

  opening. I moved. As I put my weight on the next to last

  step the tapping stopped and the baritone came.

  "There's no sense in this." I made the landing and

  across to the wall. The soprano came. "There certainly

  isn't, Mr. Khoury." I started along the wall toward the

  door. Another female voice came, pitched lower. "I

  don't think it's here. It could be in Lucy's room, that

  would be like him." Then another man's voice, a deeper

  one. "All right, we'll try it," and the door swung wide

  and the man was there, on the move.

  I'm not proud of the next two seconds. I was alerted

  and he wasn't, and I think I am fairly fast. My excuse is

  that I was in the middle of a careful step, putting my toe

  down, but anyway he was at me before I was set, and he

  damn near toppled me. When you're thrown off balance

  by impact you only make it worse if you try to get

  purchase on your way down, so I let myself go, brought

  102 Rex Stout

  my knees up to my chin as I hit the floor, rolled to get

  my feet at his middle, and let him have it. He was plenty

  heavy, but it tore him loose and sent him bouncing off