bills and the paper, but there was no point in adding
more, so I took care putting them in the safe. I asked
Wolfe if he had any instructions, and he said no, I knew
what the situation required. I got Hattie's bag and
gloves from the front room; she hadn't taken her coat
off. I thought I might as well try her pulse, but she
wouldn't let me. When I showed her to the lavatory to
look in the mirror she had to admit her face could stand
some attention, and when she came out the smudge was
gone and she had even tucked her hair in some.
Walking to Tenth Avenue for a taxi she limped a
little, but she said it was nothing, just that her hip had a
sore spot. When we were stopped by a red light at 38th
Street the sight of a harness bull on the sidewalk
prompted her to explain why she was so down on him
and his. I got it that her father had been shot by one
without provocation, but she seemed a little hazy about
the details, and I was more interested in something
else: what did she know of Tammy Baxter? She must be
involved somehow, since the T-man wanted her. Hattie
said no, it couldn't be Tammy, because she only had one
The Homicide Trinity 159
suit, two dresses, three blouses, and two skirts, and her
fur coat was rabbit, and if she were a counterfeiter she
would have more clothes. I conceded that that was
pretty decisive, but why was the T-man interested in
her? How long had she been living in Hattie's house?
Three weeks. What did Hattie know of her background
and history? Nothing. Hattie never asked for refer-
ences. When someone came and wanted a place to sleep
she just sized him up. Or her.
The other four current roomers had all been there
longer—one of them, Raymond Dell, more than three
years. In the thirties Dell had always had enough work
to lunch at Sardi's twice a week, and in the forties he
had done fairly well in Hollywood, but now he was down
to a few television crumbs.
Noel Farris, a year and a half. A year ago he had been
in a play which had folded in four days, and this season
in one which had lasted two weeks.
Paul Hannah, four months. A kid in his early twenties
with no Broadway record. He was rehearsing in a show
that was to open next month at an off-Broadway the-
ater, the Mushroom.
Martha Kirk, eleven months. Twenty years old. Was
in Short and Sweet for a year. Now studying at the
Eastern Ballet Studio.
That was what I had got when the taxi rolled to the
curb in 47th Street. Tammy Baxter had said the house
was a dump, and it was, like hundreds of others in that
part of town. The wind whirled some snow into the
vestibule when I pushed the door open. Hattie used her
key on the inner door and we entered. I had told her
that I would first take a look at the bookshelf, to see if
the dust situation could furnish any information as to
how long the package had been there, but as we were
taking off our coats in the hall a voice came booming
down the stairs.
"Is that you, Hattie?"
The owner of the voice was following it down. He was
a tall thin guy with a marvelous mane of wavy white
hair, in an ancient blue dressing gown with spots on it.
160 Rex Stout
He was rumbling, "Where on earth have you been, or
above it or beneath? Without you this house is a sepul-
cher! There are no oranges." He noticed me. "How do
you do, sir."
"Mr. Goodwin, Mr. Dell," Hattie said. I started to
offer a hand, but he was bowing, so I bowed instead. A
voice sounded behind me. "This way for oranges, Ray! I
got some. Good morning, Hattie—I mean good after-
noon."
Raymond Dell headed for the rear of the hall, where
a girl was standing in a doorway, and when Hattie
followed him I tagged along, on into the kitchen. On a
big linoleum-topped table in the center a large brass
bowl was piled high with oranges, and by the time I
entered Dell had taken one and started to peel it. There
was a smell of coffee.
"Miss Kirk, Mr. Goodwin," Hattie said.
Martha Kirk barely looked her twenty. She was or-
namental both above the neck and below, with match-
ing dimples. She gave me a glance and a nod, and asked
Hattie, "Do you know where Tammy is? Two phone
calls. A man, no name."
Hattie said she didn't know. Dell looked up from his
orange to rumble at me, "You're a civilian, Mr. Good-
win?"
It was a well-put question, since if I wasn't in show
business my reply would show whether I was close
enough to it to know that stage people call outsiders
civilians. But Hattie replied for me.
"You watch your tongue with Mr. Goodwin," she told
him. "He thinks he's going to do a piece for a magazine
about me and my house, and that's why he's here. We're
all going to be famous. There'll be a picture of us with
Carol Jasper. She lived here nearly a year."
"What magazine?" Dell demanded. Martha Kirk
skipped around the table to curtsy to me. "What would
you like?" she asked. "An omelet of larks' eggs? With
truffles?"
I was a little sorry I had suggested that explanation
of me to Hattie. It would be a shame to disappoint a girl
The Homicide Trinity 161
who could curtsy like that. "You'd better save it," I
said. "This egg not only hasn't hatched, it's not even laid
yet."
Raymond Dell was boring holes through me with
deep-set blue-gray eyes. "I wouldn't have my picture
taken with Carol Jasper," he said, "for all the gold of
Ormus and of Ind."
"You can squat down behind," Hattie said. "Come on
Mr. Goodwin." She moved. "He wants to see the house.
I hope the beds are made."
I said I'd see them later and followed her out. Half-
way down the hall she asked, not lowering her voice,
"How was that? All right?"
"Fine," I said, loud enough to carry back. "They're
interested and that'll help."
She stopped at a door on the left toward the front,
opened it, and went in. I followed and closed the door.
The window blinds were down and it was almost as
dark as night, but she flipped a wall switch and light
came from a cluster of bulbs in the ceiling. I glanced
around. A sofa, dark red plush or velvet, chairs to
match; a fireplace with a marble mantel; worn and
faded carpet; an upright piano against the wall on the
right, and beyond the piano shelves of books.
"Here," Hattie said, and went to the shelves. "I put
the books back like they were." As I moved to join her
the comer of my eye caught something, and I turned
my head; and, seeing it, I turned more and then froze. It
was Tammy Baxter, flat on the floor behind the sofa,
staring up at the ceiling; and, as if to show her where to
stare,
the handle of a knife at right angles to her chest
was pointing straight at the cluster of lights.
Chapter 3
To show you how freaky a human mind can be, as if
you didn't already know, the thought that
popped into mine was that Hattie had been right,
a counterfeiter would have more clothes; and what
brought it was the fact that Tammy's skirt was up
nearly to her waist, exposing her legs. That took the
first tenth of a second. The next thought was also of
Hattie, just as freaky but for men only, based on the
strictly male notion that women aren't tough enough to
take the sight of a corpse. I turned, and she was there at
my elbow, staring down at it.
"That's a knife," she said.
That plain statement of fact brought my mind to. I
went and squatted, lifted Tammy's hand, and pressed
hard on the thumbnail. When I released the pressure it
stayed white. The dead hand flopped back to the carpet
and I stood up. I glanced at my wrist; twelve minutes
past one. "You'll see the cops now," I said. "If you don't
want— Hands off! Don't touch her!"
"I won't," she said, and didn't. She only touched the
skirt, the hem, to pull it down, but it was bunched
underneath and would come only to the knees.
"It's your house," I said, "so you ought to phone, but
I will if you prefer."
"Phone for a cop?"
"Yes."
"Do you have to?"
"Certainly."
She went to a chair and sat. "This is the way it goes,"
she said. "It always has. When I want to think I can't.
But you can, Buster, that's your business. You ought to
be able to think of something better than calling a cop."
The Homicide Trinity 163
"I'm afraid I can't, Hattie." I stopped. I hadn't real-
ized she had become Hattie to me until I heard it come
out. I went on, "But first a couple of questions, in case
some thinking is called for later. When you came back
here this morning to sew on the button did you see
Tammy?"
"No."
"Did you see anyone?"
"No."
"The car that came up on the sidewalk and hit you.
Did you see the driver?"
"No, how could I? It came from behind."
"The man and woman who helped you up, and the
other man. Did they see the driver?"
"No, I asked them. They said they didn't. I can't think
about that, I'm thinking about this. We'll go up to my
room. Ray and Martha don't know we came in here.
We'll go up to my room and you'll think of something."
"I can't think her alive and I can't think her body
somewhere else. If you mean we forget we came in and
saw it, then what? You said nobody comes in here much.
Do you phone or do I?"
Her mouth worked. "You're no good, Buster. I wish I
hadn't sewed that button on." She got to her feet, none
too steady. "I'm going upstairs, and I'm not going to see
any cops." She moved, but not toward the door. She
stood and looked down at the corpse, and said, "It's not
your fault, Tammy. Your name won't ever be on a
marquee now." She moved again, stopped at the door to
say, "The phone's in the hall," and went.
I looked around. There was no sign of a struggle.
There was nothing to be seen that might not have
belonged to the room—Tammy's handbag, for instance.
I went and squatted by her for a look at the knife
handle; it was plain black wood, four inches long,
the kind for a large kitchen knife. It was clear in to the
handle and there was no blood. I got erect and went to
the hall, where I had noticed the phone on a stand under
the stairs. Voices were coming from the kitchen. That it
wasn't a coin phone, out in the open in that house, was
164 Rex Stout
worthy of remark; either Hattie's roomers could be
trusted not to take liberties, or she could afford not to
care if they did. Only now, evidently, one of them had
taken the liberty of sticking a knife in Tammy Baxter. I
dialed the number I knew best.
"Yes?"
I have tried to persuade Wolfe that that is no way to
answer the phone, with no success. "Me," I said. "Call-
ing from Miss Annis's house to report a complication.
We went in the parlor to look at the bookshelf and found
Tammy Baxter on the floor with a knife in her chest.
The girl that came this morning to ask if Miss Annis had
been there and that the T-man asked about. Miss Annis
won't call the police, so I have to. I am keeping my
voice low because this phone is in the hall and there are
people in the kitchen with the door open. I have my eye
on it. I need instructions. You told Miss Annis you
would return her property to her, and you like to
do what you say you'll do. So when I answer questions
what do I save?"
"Again," he growled.
"Again what?"
"Again you. Your talent for dancing merrily into a
bog is extraordinary. Why the deuce should you save
anything? Save for what?"
"I'm not dancing and I'm not merry. You sent me
here. In one minute, possibly two, it would occur to you
as it has to me that it would be a nuisance to have to
explain why we postponed reporting that counterfeit
money. I could omit the detail that I inspected it and
found it was counterfeit. If and when the question is put
I could deny it."
"Pfui. That woman."
"It would be two against one, if it came to that, but I
don't think it will. She says she's not going to see any
cops and has gone to her room. Of course she'll see
them, or they'll see her, but I doubt if they'll hear much.
Her attitude toward cops is drastic. One will get you
ten that she won't even tell them where she went this
morning. But if you would prefer to open the bag—"
The Homicide Trinity 165
"I would prefer to obliterate the entire episode. Con-
found it. Very well. Omit that detail."
"Right. I'll be home when I get there."
I cradled the phone and stood and frowned at it. A
citizen finding a dead body is supposed to report it at
once, and in addition to being a citizen I was a licensed
private detective, but another five minutes wouldn't
hang me. Raymond Dell's boom was still coming from
the kitchen. Hattie had said her room was the second
floor front. I went to the stairs, mounted a flight, turned
right in the upper hall, and tapped on a door.
Her voice came. "Who is it?"
"Goodwin. Buster to you."
"What do you want? Are you alone?"
"I'm alone and I want to ask you something."
The sound of footsteps, then of a sliding bolt that
needed oiling, and the door opened. I entered and she
closed the door and bolted it. "They haven't come yet,"
I said. "I phoned Mr. Wolfe to suggest that it would
simplify matters if we leave out one item, that we knew
the bills were co
unterfeit. Including you. That hadn't
occurred to us. If you admit you knew or suspected they
were phony, it will be a lot more unpleasant. So I
thought I'd—"
"Who would I admit it to?"
"The cops. Naturally."
"I'm not going to admit anything to the cops. I'm not
going to see any cops."
"Good for you." There was no point in telling her how
wrong she was. "If you change your mind, remember
that we didn't know the money was counterfeit. I'm
sorry I'm no good."
I went, shutting the door, and as I headed for the
stairs I heard the bolt slide home. In the lower hall
voices still came from the kitchen. I went to the phone,
dialed Watkins 9-8241, got it, gave my name, asked for
Sergeant Stebbins, and after a short wait had him.
"Goodwin? I'm busy."
"You're going to be busier. I thought it would save
time to bypass headquarters. I'm calling from the house
166 Rex Stout
of Miss Hattie Annis, Six-twenty-eight West Forty-
seventh Street. There's a dead body here in the
parlor—a woman with a knife in her chest. DOA—that
is, my arrival. I'm leaving to get a bite of lunch."
"You are like hell. You again. I needed this. This was
all I needed." He pronounced a word which it is a
misdemeanor to use on the telephone. "You're staying
there, and you're keeping your hands off. Of course you
discovered it."
Homicide Trinity Page 21
