The Mother Hunt

by Rex Stout

  Not wanting her to know I had spotted it, I headed for the door she had left by and went through to the kitchen. At the sink with the faucet running, she filled a glass and offered it, and I took it and drank. "Good water," I said. "A deep well?"

  She didn't answer. Probably she hadn't heard my question, since she had one of her own on her mind. She asked it: "How did you find out I make buttons?"

  Worded wrong and too late. If she had asked it sooner, and if I hadn't seen the object on the table, I would have had to answer it as I had intended. I emptied the glass and put it down and said, "Thank you very much. Wonderful water. How I found out is kind of complicated, and it doesn't matter, does it? May I see some of them?"

  "I told you, I only have seventeen."

  "I know, but if you don't mind …"

  "What did you say your name is?"

  "Goodwin. Archie Goodwin."

  "All right, you've had your drink of water, now you can go."

  "But Miss Tenzer, I've driven sixty miles just to—"

  "I don't care if you've driven six hundred miles. I'm not going to show you any buttons and I'm not going to talk about them."

  That suited me fine, but I didn't say so. Some time in the future, the near future, I hoped, developments would persuade her to talk about buttons at length, but it would be a mistake to try to crowd her until I knew more. For the sake of appearances I insisted a little, but she didn't listen. I thanked her again for the water and left. As I got the Heron turned around and headed out I was thinking that if I had the equipment in the car, and if it was dark, and if I was willing to risk doing a stretch, I would tap her telephone, quick.

  A telephone was what I wanted, quick, and I had noticed one, an outdoor booth, as I had passed a filling station after turning right at the church. Within five minutes after leaving Ellen Tenzer I was in it and was giving the operator a number I didn't have to get from my notebook. It was after eleven, so Wolfe would probably answer it himself.

  He did. "Yes?" He has never answered a telephone right and never will.

  "Me. From a booth in Mahopac. Has Saul phoned in?"

  "No."

  "Then he will around noon. I suggest that you send him up here. The niece can wait. The aunt knows who put the overalls on the baby."

  "Indeed. She told you so?"

  "No. Three points. First, she didn't ask the right questions. Second, she got nervous and bounced me. Third, yesterday's Times was there on a table. She doesn't know I saw it. It was folded and there was a bowl of fruit on it, but at the top of the page that showed was a headline that started with the words 'JENSEN REFUSES'. The ad was on that page. So she had seen the ad, but when I dropped in and said I was interested in the horsehair buttons she made she didn't mention it. When she got around to the right question she put it wrong. She asked how I found out she made buttons. She might as well have asked how did Nero Wolfe get results from his ad so soon. Then she realized she wasn't handling it right and bounced me. One will get you twenty that she's not the mother. If she's not sixty she's close. But one will get you forty that she knows what the baby was wearing, that's the least she knows. Am I being impetuous?"

  "No. Do you want to turn her over to Saul?"

  "I do not. If he could crack her I could. I don't think anybody could until we know more about her. She may be phoning someone right now, but that can't be helped. I'm going back and stake out. If she's phoning, someone may come, or she may go. We can cover her around the clock if you get Fred and Orrie. You'll send Saul?"

  "Yes."

  "He'll need directions and you need a pencil."

  "I have one."

  "Okay." I gave the directions, not forgetting to mention the fork. "Three-tenths of a mile from where he hits the gravel there's a wide spot where he can pull off and sit in his car. If I don't show within an hour I'm not around, she has left and so have I, and he'd better go to a phone and call you to see if you've heard from me. He could go to the house first for a look. She might have a visitor and I might have my head stuck in a window trying to hear. Have you any suggestions?"

  "No. I'll get Fred and Orrie. When will you eat?"

  I told him tomorrow maybe. Returning to the Heron and climbing in, and deciding that as the day wore on it might not be so funny, I headed for Main Street, found a market, and got chocolate bars, bananas, and a carton of milk. I should have told Wolfe I would. He can't stand the notion of a man skipping a meal.

  Driving back, I was considering where to leave the car. There were spots not too far from the mailbox where I could ease it in among the trees, but if she went for a ride I would have to get it out to the road in a hurry, and she might go the other way; I didn't know where the gravel road went over the hill. I decided that getting it into the woods far enough to hide it was out, and therefore it might as well be handy. Anyway she had seen it, and if and when it tailed her in broad daylight she would know it. I could only hope she would stay put until Saul came with a car she hadn't seen. I left the Heron in the open, less than a hundred yards from the mailbox, where a gap between trees left enough roadside room, and took to the woods. I am neither an Indian nor a Boy Scout, but if she had been looking out a window I don't think she would have seen me as I made my way to where I had a view of the house from behind a bush. Also a view of the garage.

  The garage was empty.

  It called for profanity, and I used some, out loud. I don't apologize for either the profanity or the situation. I would have done it again in the same circumstances. If we were going to keep her covered I had to leave sooner or later to get to a phone, and right away, while she was looking it over and perhaps making a phone call, and deciding what to do, was not only as good a time as any, it was the best—until the empty garage showed me that it had been the worst.

  All right, my luck was out. I dodged through the trees to the clearing, crossed it, went to the door, and banged on it. There might be someone else in the house, though no one had been visible when I was in it. I waited half a minute and banged again, louder, and bellowed, "Anybody home?" After another half a minute I tried the doorknob. Locked. There were two windows to the right, and I went and tried them. Also locked. I went around the corner of the house, taking care not to step in flower beds, which was damn good manners in the circumstances, and there was a window wide open. She had left in a hurry. I didn't have to touch the window. All I had to do was stick a leg in, wiggle my rump onto the sill, and pull the other leg in, and I had broken and entered.

  It was a bedroom. I sang out good and loud, "Hey, the house is on fire!" and stood and listened. Not a sound, but to make sure I did a quick tour—two bedrooms, bathroom, living room, and kitchen. Nobody, not even a cat.

  She might have merely gone to the drugstore for aspirin and be back any minute. If so, I decided, let her find me in the house. I would tackle her. Almost certainly she was an accessory to something. I don't know all the New York statutes by heart, but there must be a law about leaving babies in people's vestibules, so I wouldn't bother to keep an ear cocked for the sound of a car coming up the hill.

  The most likely find was letters or phone numbers, or maybe a diary, and I started in the living room. The Times was still on the table under the bowl of fruit. I unfolded it to see if she had clipped the ad; it was intact. There was no desk, but the table had a drawer, and there were three drawers in the stand in a corner that held the telephone. In one of the latter was a card with half a dozen phone numbers, but they were all local. No letters anywhere. There were bookshelves at one wall, some with books and some with magazines and knick-knacks. Going through books takes time, so I left that for the second time around and moved to a bedroom, the one that was obviously hers.

  That was where I rang the bell, in the bottom drawer of the bureau. A once-over isn't very thorough and I nearly missed it, but at the bottom, underneath a winter-weight nightgown, there it was—or rather, there they were. Not one, two—two pairs of blue corduroy overalls, each with four white horsehair bu
ttons. The same size as those in the glove compartment of the Heron. A week ago I wouldn't have thought it possible that I would ever get so much pleasure from looking at baby clothes. After gloating a full minute I put them back in the drawer and went and opened a door to a closet. I wanted more.

  Eventually I got more, but not in the closet. Not even in the house, strictly speaking, but in the cellar. It was a real cellar, not just a hole for an oil-burning furnace. The space for the furnace was partitioned off, and the rest was what a cellar ought to be, with cupboards and shelves with canned goods. There was even a rack with bottles of wine. Also there were some metal objects propped against the wall in a corner, and I didn't have to assemble them to tell that they were a baby's crib. Also there were three suitcases and two trunks, and one of the trunks contained diapers, rubber pants, bibs, rattles, balloons (not inflated), undershirts, T-shirts, sweaters, and various other garments and miscellaneous items.

  With my hankering for baby clothes fully satisfied, and with the house still to myself, I started over again, in the living room. There must be something somewhere that would give a hint on where and who the baby had come from. But there wasn't. I'll skip the next hour and a half, except to say that I know how to look for something that isn't supposed to be found, and I did a job on that house. It takes more time when you leave everything the way it was, but I did a job. All I had when I finished was a few names and addresses, from letters and envelopes in a drawer in the bedroom, and a few phone numbers, and none of them looked promising.

  I was hungry, and since I was there uninvited it would have been vulgar to help myself from her kitchen. Also it was twenty minutes to three and Saul had probably come some time ago, so I left, through the window I had entered by, took the driveway to the road and turned right, and when I rounded the bend saw Saul's car, off the road at the wide spot. When he saw me he flopped over on the seat, and when I arrived he was snoring. He isn't much to look at, with his big nose and square chin and wide sloping brow, and snoring with his mouth open he was a sight. I reached in the open window and twisted his nose, and in a millionth of a second he had my wrist and was twisting it. There you are. He knew I would go for his nose before I did.

  "Uncle," I said.

  He let go and sat up. "What day is it?"

  "Christmas. How long have you been here?"

  "An hour and twenty minutes."

  "Then you should have left twenty minutes ago. Follow instructions."

  "I'm a detective. I saw the Heron. Would you care for a sandwich and raisin cake and milk? I've had mine."

  "Would I." There was a carton on the back seat and I got in and opened it. Corned beef on rye, two of them. As I unwrapped one I said, "She skipped while I was gone to phone for you. She's been gone over three hours." I took a bite.

  "That's life. Anyone else there?"

  "No."

  "Did you find anything?"

  Not had I entered; that was taken for granted. I swallowed and got the carton of milk. "If any of your girl friends has twins there's enough stuff in the cellar, in a trunk, for both of them. And in a drawer upstairs are two pairs of blue corduroy overalls with white horsehair buttons. Of course that's why they're not in the trunk, the buttons. Also in the cellar is the crib the baby slept in."

  When I briefed him Thursday evening I had given him the whole picture. With him we nearly always do. He took half a minute to look at this addition to it. "The clothes could be explained," he said, "but the crib settles it."

  "Yeah." My mouth was full.

  "So the baby was there and she knows the answer. She may not know who the mother is, but she knows enough. How tough is she?"

  "She's the kind that might surprise you. I think she would clam up. If she came and found me there I was going to tackle her, but now I don't know. Your guess is as good as mine. Probably the best bet is to cover her for at least a couple of days."

  "Then we shouldn't be sitting here in my car. She knows your car, doesn't she?"

  I nodded and took a swig of milk. "Okay." I put the milk and the rest of the sandwich in the carton. "I'll go and finish this little snack, which is saving my life, in the Heron. Stick your car in the woods and then join me. If she comes before I leave you can duck. I'll go home and report. If he decides on the cover, either Fred or Orrie will be here by nine o'clock. You decide how you want him to make contact and tell me. If he decides he wants her brought in so he can tackle her himself, I'll come instead of Fred or Orrie, and I may need your help."

  I climbed out, with the carton. Saul asked, "If she comes before I join you?"

  "Stay with your car. I'll find it." I started up the road.

  Chapter 6

  SAUL PANZER AND FRED DURKIN and Orrie Cather, in shifts, had Ellen Tenzer's house, or the approach to it, under surveillance for twenty hours—Saul from three p.m. to nine p.m. Friday, Fred from nine p.m. Friday to six a.m. Saturday, and Orrie from six a.m. to eleven a.m. Saturday. And nobody came.

  When Wolfe came down to the office at eleven o'clock Saturday morning, a glance at my face answered his question before he asked it. I had no news. In his hand, as always, were the orchids he had picked for the honor of a day in the office. He put them in the vase on his desk, got his bulk adjusted in his chair, and went through the morning mail which I had opened. Finding nothing interesting or useful in it, he shoved it aside and frowned at me.

  "Confound it," he growled, "that woman has skedaddled. Hasn't she?"

  I got a quarter from my pocket, tossed it onto my desk, and looked at it. "Heads," I said. "No."

  "Pfui. I want an opinion."

  "You do not. Only a damn fool has an opinion when he can't back it up, and you know it. You are merely reminding me that if I had stayed there instead of going to phone you I would have been on her tail."

  "That was not in my mind."

  "It's in mine. It was just bad luck, sure, but luck beats brains. My getting in the house and finding things doesn't square it. We would only have had to inquire around for an hour or so to learn that she had had a baby there. I hate bad luck. Saul phoned."

  "When?"

  "Half an hour ago. The niece didn't have a baby in December, January, or February. He has checked on her for that whole period and will report details. He is now finding out if the aunt has been to the niece's apartment since yesterday noon. It's nice to have brains and luck. He'll phone around noon to ask if he is to relieve Orrie and—"

  The phone rang and I swiveled to get it.

  "Nero Wolfe's off—"

  "Orrie Cather speaking. A booth in Mahopac."

  "Well?"

  "No. Not well at all. At ten-fifty-five a car came, state police, and turned in. Three men got out, a trooper, and one I suppose was a county dep, and Purley Stebbins. They went and tried the door and then they went around the corner and the dep climbed in that open window and Stebbins and the trooper went back to the door. Pretty soon it opened and they went in. It didn't look like I could help any so I dusted. Do I go back?"

  "How sure are you it was Purley?"

  "Nuts. I didn't say I thought it was, I said it was. I'm reporting."

  "You certainly are. Come in."

  "If I went back maybe I—"

  "Damn it, come in!"

  I cradled the phone gently, took a breath, and turned. "That was Orrie Cather speaking, a booth in Mahopac. I told him to come in because the aunt won't be coming home. She's dead. Three men came in a state police car and are in the house, and one of them is Purley Stebbins. It doesn't take luck or brains to know that a New York Homicide sergeant doesn't go to Putnam County looking for white horsehair buttons."

  Wolfe's lips were pressed so tight he didn't have any. They parted. "A presumption is not a certainty."

  "I can settle that." I turned and lifted the phone and dialed the Gazette number, and when Wolfe heard me ask for Lon Cohen he pulled his phone over and got on. Lon is on one of his phones at least half of the time and usually you have to wait or leave a message
, but I caught him in between and had him right away. I asked him if I still had a credit balance, and he said on poker no, on tips on tidings yes.

  "Not much of a tip this time," I told him. "I'm checking on a rumor I just heard. Have you got anything on a woman named Tenzer? Ellen Tenzer?"

  "Ellen Tenzer."

  "Right."

  "We might have. Don't be so damned roundabout, Archie. If you want to know how far we have got on a murder just say so."

  "So."

  "That's more like it. We haven't got very far unless more has come in the last hour. Around six o'clock this morning a cop glanced in a car, a Rambler sedan, that was parked on Thirty-eighth Street near Third Avenue and saw a woman in the back, on the floor. She had been strangled with a piece of cord that was still around her throat and had been dead five or six hours. She has been tentatively identified as Ellen Tenzer of Mahopac, New York. That's it. I can call downstairs for the latest and call you back if it's that important."

  I told him no, thanks, it wasn't important at all, and hung up. So did Wolfe. He glared at me and I glared back.

  "This makes it nice," I said. "Talk about ifs."

  He shook his head. "Futile."

  "One particular if. If I had stuck and gone to work on her then and there I might have opened her up and she would be here right now and we would be wrapping it up. To hell with intelligence guided by experience."

  "Futile."

  "What isn't, now? We couldn't have asked for anything neater than white horsehair buttons, and now we've got absolutely nothing, and we'll have Stebbins and Cramer on our necks. Thirty-eighth Street is in Homicide South."

  "Homicide is their problem, not ours."

  "Tell them that. The niece will tell them that a button merchant named Archie Goodwin got her to give him her aunt's address Thursday afternoon. The guy at the filling station will describe the man who wanted directions to her place Friday morning. They'll find thousands of my fingerprints all over the house, including the cellar, nice and fresh. I might as well call Parker now and tell him to get set to arrange bail when I'm booked as a material witness."