Homicide Trinity

by Homicide Trinity (lit)

  tigation, but not in yours. You have your gun, the one

  the murderer used. How can it embarrass you to tell me

  about this one?"

  Cramer considered it. "You're going to tell me what

  she said about it."

  "I am."

  "Okay. Go ahead."

  "I have your word?"

  "Yes."

  "Get the gun, Archie."

  I went to the safe and squatted to twirl the knob.

  Ordinarily I leave it unlocked when I'm in the office, but

  with that box in it I was taking no chances, so after I had

  worked the combination and got the gun I shut the door

  and turned the knob. As I crossed to Cramer I spoke.

  "By the way, I asked a question that wasn't answered.

  What make is your gun? The one that killed him."

  "Drexel thirty-two."

  "So's this." I handed it to him. "Of course there are

  millions of Drexel thirty-twos."

  He gave it a look, and darned if he didn't sniff it. As I

  said, that's automatic. Also he flipped the cylinder open

  for a glance.

  "It was fired yesterday," Wolfe said, "by Mr. Good-

  win, to get a bullet. The bullet I gave you."

  Cramer nodded. "Yeah. There's nothing on God's

  earth you wouldn't do. It could have been . . . What

  the hell, it wasn't. Okay, let's hear you."

  Wolfe unloaded. He didn't enjoy it and neither did I,

  118 Rex Stout

  spilling it, but we had to know about the gun and it

  might have taken us days. He skipped the details, in-

  cluding no quotes, but gave it straight, both parts,

  before the news came over the radio and after. He

  didn't include my reasons for deciding that she hadn't

  shot her husband, but I didn't mind; it might have got

  Cramer confused and that would have been a pity. He

  was a little confused anyhow; toward the end he was

  frowning, pulling at his lip now and then, a wary look in

  his eyes. When Wolfe finished he sat looking at it before

  he spoke.

  "What have you left out?" he demanded.

  Wolfe shook his head. "Nothing material. You said

  you wanted the substance; you have it. How long will it

  take to trace the gun?"

  "I don't get it. After she came to you with that fairy

  tale, and the news came about her husband, and you

  learned that we were holding her, you took her for a

  client? I don't get it. I have never known you to take a

  murderer for a client. Whether it's just your goddamn

  luck, or what, I don't know, but you haven't. Why did

  you take her?"

  A corner of Wolfe's mouth turned up. "I asked Mr.

  Goodwin's opinion and he said she was innocent. His

  judgment of women under thirty is infallible. How long

  will it take to trace the gun?"

  "Nuts." Cramer stood up. "Maybe an hour, maybe a

  week. I'm taking Goodwin. They'll take his statement

  at the District Attorney's office, a complete report of

  the conversation. I'll have a man here at two o'clock to

  take yours. If I took you down you'd only—"

  "I shall sign no statement. I am not obliged to. If you

  send a man he won't be admitted. If you have questions,

  ask them."

  Cramer's round red face got redder. But that was as

  far as it went; his memory of what had happened on the

  three occasions he had taken Wolfe downtown was

  presumably what stopped him. He stuck the gun in his

  pocket and turned to me. "Come on, Goodwin. We'll

  see."

  The Homicide Trinity 119

  As I arose the phone rang and I reached to get it. It

  was Nathaniel Parker. He was upset. "Archie? Nat

  Parker. Mrs. Hazen is being held on a charge of homi-

  cide, of course without bail. I want to see Wolfe before I

  see her. I have to know what she told him yesterday. I'll

  be there in twenty minutes."

  "Fine," I said. "He's in a perfect mood for it. Come

  ahead." I hung up, told Wolfe, "Parker will be here in

  twenty minutes," and went to the hall for my coat and

  hat, with Cramer at my heels.

  Chapter 8

  During the next nine hours I had various oppor-

  tunities to try to sort it out. En route in a police

  car to the DA's office, later from there to Homi-

  cide West on 20th Street, and several waiting periods

  while assorted officers of the law, including the DA

  himself at one point, decided what to do next.

  It was complicated enough even before an assistant

  DA kindly permitted me to use a phone, around three

  o'clock, and I called Wolfe. Of course the game was

  button, button, who had the gun when and where?

  Either gun. If Lucy Hazen had lied, how much? Had the

  gun that the maid had seen in the drawer Tuesday

  morning been the one that had shot Hazen or the one

  she had brought to Wolfe? If the former, Lucy was a liar

  and also either was a murderer or could name him. If

  the latter, who had put it in the drawer and when? And

  why? It wasn't that there were no possible answers;

  there were too many. And too many of them made it too

  likely that Lucy had made a monkey of me and there-

  fore were not acceptable.

  The first hour or so I was entertained by an assistant

  DA named Mandel, who was not a stranger to me, and a

  120 Rex Stout

  Homicide Bureau lieutenant, and it was obvious that

  the gun puzzle was as tough for them as it was for me,

  though they didn't say so. Then, while we were having

  sandwiches and coffee, no recess called, at Mandel's

  desk, a phone call came for him, and he took the lieuten-

  ant to another room, and when they returned their

  attitude was quite different. Apparently they were no

  longer interested in guns; they concentrated on what

  Lucy had said to Wolfe and me, her exact words; and

  finally, a little before three o'clock, Mandel called a

  stenographer in and told me to start dictating my state-

  ment. Of course the room was wired for sound, and they

  would have fun later comparing my dictated statement

  with what I had told them. It was then that I insisted on

  making a phone call and was escorted to a booth.

  I got Wolfe. "Me. In a booth at the DA's office, and it

  may be tapped. They should be finished with me by the

  end of the week. They were curious about guns, and

  then a phone call came and they weren't. I thought you

  might like to know."

  "I already know." He didn't sound depressed. "Mr.

  Cramer phoned shortly after one. The gun we gave him

  had been traced without difficulty. It was purchased by

  Mrs. Hazen's father, Titus Postel, in 1953, and he com-

  mitted suicide with it five years ago, in 1955."

  "And she had it?"

  "Not established. I have told Mr. Parker to ask her

  when he sees her this afternoon. Meanwhile I have got

  Saul and given him an errand."

  I would have liked to ask him what errand, but that

  wasn't advisable since we might have company on the

  line. Saul Panzer, the first and best man on our list

>   when we need help, charges more than any other free-

  lance operative in New York, and is worth five times as

  much. I told Wolfe I might or might not be home for

  dinner.

  Dictating my statement to the stenographer, I had to

  keep jerking my mind back to it. The gun puzzle was

  okay now for the cops, since they had tagged Lucy; now

  The Homicide Trinity 121

  they didn't have to buy it that she had been nutty

  enough to take the gun home after she shot him and put

  it in the drawer, and the next day get it and take it back

  to the car. It was much neater. She had got the gun from

  the drawer Monday, put the one she had, that had been

  her father's, in its place, and left it in the car after she

  shot him. And Tuesday she had got the gun from the

  drawer and brought it to Wolfe as a prop for her fairy

  tale, evidently not knowing that guns have numbers

  that can be traced. What better could you ask for?

  But for me, unless I was ready to give Lucy up as a

  bad job, it was what worse could I ask for. Before, there

  had been too many answers; now there weren't any. I

  had to file it while I dictated my statement, in which I

  was supposed to include everything Lucy had said to us

  in Wolfe's office, and while I went over it after it was

  typed, and it wasn't easy. Then I was taken to the office

  of the DA himself, and he and Mandel pecked at me for

  an hour; and when they finished, around 6:30, and I

  supposed that was all for the day, I was informed that

  Cramer wanted me at Homicide West. If I had balked

  they would have booked me as a material witness and

  Parker couldn't come to the rescue until morning, so I

  took it.

  In one respect it was an improvement. The dick at

  Homicide West whom Cramer sent for sandwiches hap-

  pened to be civilized enough to think that even a dog

  has a right to eat what he likes, and I got what I asked

  for, corned beef on rye and milk. Except for that, it was

  just more of the same, for more than two hours with

  Cramer and Sergeant Purley Stebbins. I didn't even

  have the satisfaction of getting a chance to break my

  record with Lieutenant Rowcliff. I once got him stut-

  tering in two minutes and twenty seconds, and I have a

  bet with Saul Panzer that I can do it in two minutes flat

  with three more tries.

  Cramer and Stebbins finally decided they had had

  enough of me. It was 9:32 by my watch, and 9:34 by the

  clock on the wall, which was wrong, as I crossed the

  reception room of the precinct house to the door, and on

  122 Rex Stout

  out. I stood on the sidewalk for three good breaths of

  the cold fresh air, giving my lungs a treat and deciding

  which way to turn. If right, toward Eighth Avenue, it

  would be for a taxi; if left, toward Ninth, it would be for

  a fifteen-minute walk. Voting for the walk, I moved,

  and had taken three steps when my shoulder was

  grabbed and yanked from behind and a voice came,

  with feeling: "You dirty rat!"

  The yank had turned me some and I turned myself

  the rest of the way. It was Theodore Weed. His hands

  were fists, and the right one was back a foot, with the

  elbow bent. His eyes were blazing and his bony jaw was

  set.

  "Not here, you damn fool," I said. "Even if you drop

  me with one swing, which is doubtful, I'll yell police as I

  go down and here they'll come. Besides, I have a right

  to know why I'm a rat while I'm still conscious. Why?"

  "You know why. You're a filthy stool, and Nero

  Wolfe too. You're working for Lucy? You are like hell.

  You gave the police the gun."

  "How do you know we did?"

  "Things they asked me. Do you deny it?"

  My brain was a little tired after the long day, but it

  was doing its best. This character was by no means

  crossed off. We only had his word for it that he would

  give both arms to help Lucy; he had said himself that

  she didn't know how he felt about her. A chat with him

  wouldn't hurt and might help, but I couldn't take him

  home with me until I knew what Wolfe had on his

  program, if anything.

  He still had fists. "I'll tell you what," I said. "We'll go

  around the comer to Jake's and I'll buy you a drink and

  we'll discuss it. Then if you still want to take a poke at

  me Jake will let us use the back room provided we let

  him watch. Afterwards you can comb your hair if you're

  up to it. It needs it."

  It didn't appeal to him, but what would have? A

  couple of passersby, noticing his stance and his fists,

  had stopped to see, and a harness bull, emerging from

  the station, had also stopped. So he came.

  The Homicide Trinity 123

  At Jake's, when we had sat at a table by the wall and

  given our orders to the white apron, and I said I had to

  make a phone call, he got up and came along to the

  booth. Very bad manners, but I didn't correct him. I

  even let him stand in the door of the booth so I couldn't

  close it. I dialed a number and got it.

  "Me. In a booth on Eighth Avenue. Theodore Weed is

  here at my elbow. He stopped me on the sidewalk to tell

  me that you and I are filthy stools because we gave the

  gun to the cops. When I asked him how he knew we did

  he said from things they asked him, which is possible

  since he had just come from Homicide West, probably

  from a session with Rowcliff, and you know Rowcliff.

  I'm buying him a drink, but I thought you might like to

  apologize to him personally for tossing our client to the

  wolves. He has blood in his eye."

  "No. Come home at once."

  "You have Saul."

  "Not here. I need you. Mrs. Oliver and Mr. Perdis are

  in the front room. Mrs. Oliver has been here since seven

  o'clock. Mr. Khoury will arrive at any moment. I have

  been pestered by this confounded telephone all day.

  Mrs. Talbot called for the fifth time half an hour ago to

  say that she hopes to be here by ten o'clock, and it's

  nearly that now. On second thought, bring Mr. Weed. I

  have a question for him."

  "You'll have to bulldog him first."

  "Pfui. Bring him. How soon will you be here?"

  I told him fifteen minutes, and hung up. "No time for

  a drink," I told Weed. "Nor for a floor show, with me on

  the floor. Mr. Wolfe wants me. You may came along if

  you care to."

  "I was going there," he said grimly, "when I saw

  you."

  "Good. But take it easy. He has a knife in his belt that

  he uses to stab people in the back."

  On the way out I handed the white apron, whose

  name was Gil, a couple of ones. Outside, we flagged a

  taxi, and as it rolled uptown I undertook to straighten

  him out. "Look at it," I said. "If we're stools and selling

  124 Rex Stout

  her to the cops there's not much of anything you can do

  but shoot us, and even that wouldn't help her any. The


  fact is, we're with her and you're not. We know she

  didn't kill her husband. Either you thought she had and

  probably still do, or you killed him yourself. If the

  former, your feeling for her has got a smudge. If

  the latter, you did a swell job, handling it so that she

  gets the credit for it. Go soak your head."

  "Why did you give the police the gun?"

  "Soak your head some more. We're working for her,

  not you."

  No comment until the cab was turning into 35th

  Street, then: "I don't think she killed him."

  "Good for you. We appreciate it."

  "And I didn't."

  "That's not so important, but we'll keep it in mind."

  At the curb in front of the old brownstone there was

  a black limousine with a chauffeur in it. That would be

  Mrs. Oliver's. Mounting the seven steps to the stoop, I

  used my key, but the chain bolt was on and I had to ring

  for Fritz. As he took Weed's coat and I disposed of

  mine, he said, "Thank God, Archie, thank God," and I

  asked him what for, and he said, "For you. It has been

  very bad. Three phone calls during dinner, and that

  woman was in the front room."

  "I can imagine. How many are in there now?"

  "Three. Her and two men."

  So Khoury had come. I took Weed to the office. Wolfe

  was at his desk with a book. Weed headed for him,

  talking. "I want to know why—"

  "Shut up!" Wolfe bellowed.

  Wolfe's bellow would stop a tiger ready to spring.