Nero Wolfe 16 - Even in the Best Families

by Rex Stout

  However, something had happened before that: my second talk with Barry Rackham. When I got home late Sunday night the phone-answering service reported that he had been trying to reach me, both at 1019 and at the office, and I gave him a ring and made a date for Monday at three o’clock.

  Usually I am on the dot for an appointment, but that day an errand took less time than I had allowed, and it was only twelve to three when I left the Churchill tower elevator at Rackham’s floor and walked to his door. I was lifting my hand to push the button, when the door opened and I had to step back so a woman wouldn’t walk into me. When she saw me she stopped, and we both stared. It was Lina Darrow. Her fine eyes were as fine as ever.

  “Well, hello,” I said appreciatively.

  “You’re early, Goodwin,” Barry Rackham said. He was standing in the doorway.

  Lina’s expression was not appreciative. It didn’t look like embarrassment, more like some kind of suspicion, though I had no notion what she could suspect me of so spontaneously.

  “How are you?” she asked, and then, to make it perfectly clear that she didn’t give a damn, went by me toward the elevator. Rackham moved aside, giving me enough space to enter, and I did so and kept going to the living room. In a moment I heard the door close, and in another moment he joined me.

  “You’re early,” he repeated, not reproachfully.

  He looked as if, during the seventy hours since I had last seen him, he had had at least seventy drinks. His face was mottled, his eyes were bloodshot, and his left cheek was twitching. Also his tie had a dot of egg yolk on it, and he needed a shave.

  “A week ago Saturday,” I said, “I think it was, one of my men described a girl you were out with, and it sounded like Miss Darrow, but I wasn’t sure. I’m not leading up to something, I’m just gossiping.”

  He wasn’t interested one way or the other. He asked what I would have to drink, and when I said nothing thank you he went to the bar and got himself a straight one, and then came and moved a chair around to sit facing me.

  “Hell,” I said, “you look even more scared than you did the other day. And according to my men, either you’ve started sneaking out side doors or you’ve become a homebody. Who said boo?”

  Nothing I had to say interested him. “I said I wanted to see you every day,” he stated. His voice was hoarse.

  “I know, but I’ve been busy. Among other things, I spent an hour yesterday afternoon with Arnold Zeck.”

  That did interest him. “I think you’re a goddam liar, Goodwin.”

  “Then I must have dreamed it. Driving into the garage, and being frisked, and the little vestibule, and fourteen steps down, and the two sentinels, and the soundproof door five inches thick, and the pinkish gray walls and chairs and rugs, and him sitting there drilling holes in things, including me, with his eyes, and—”

  “When was this? Yesterday?”

  “Yeah. I was driven up, but now I know how to get there myself. I haven’t got the password yet, but wait.”

  With an unsteady hand he put his glass down on a little table. “I told you before, Goodwin, I did not kill my wife.”

  “Sure, that’s out of the way.”

  “How did it happen? Your going to see him.”

  “He sent Max Christy for me.”

  “That son of a bitch.” Suddenly his mottled face got redder and he yelled at me, “Well, go on! What did he say?”

  “He said I may have a big career ahead of me.”

  “What did he say about me?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll tell you, Rackham. I think it’s about time I let my better judgment in on this. I had never seen Zeck before, and he made quite an impression on me.” I reached to my breast pocket. “Here’s your six thousand dollars. I hate to let go of it, but—”

  “Put that back in your pocket.”

  “No, really I—”

  “Put it back.” He wasn’t yelling now. “I don’t blame you for being impressed by Zeck—God knows you’re not the first. But you’re wrong if you think he can’t ever miss and I’m all done. There’s one thing you ought to realize: I can’t throw in my hand on this one; I’ve got to play it out, and I’m going to. You’ve got me hooked, because I can’t play it without you since you were there that night. All right, name it. How much?”

  I put the six grand on the little table. “My real worry,” I said, “is not Zeck. He is nothing to sneer at and he does make a strong impression, but I have been impressed before and got over it. What called my better judgment in was the New York statutes relating to accessories to murder. Apparently Zeck has got evidence that will convict you. If you—”

  “He has not. That’s a lie.”

  “He seems to think he has. If you want to take dough from a murderer for helping him beat the rap you must be admitted to the bar, and I haven’t been. So with my sincere regret at my inability to assist you in your difficulty, there’s your dough.”

  “I’m not a murderer, Goodwin.”

  “I didn’t mean an actual murderer. I meant a man against whom evidence has been produced in court to convince a jury. He and his accessory get it just the same.”

  Rackham’s bloodshot eyes were straight and steady at me. “I’m not asking you to help me beat a rap. I’m asking you not to help frame me—and to help me keep Zeck from framing me.”

  “I know,” I said sympathetically. “That’s the way you tell it, but not him. I don’t intend to get caught in a backwash. I came here chiefly to return your money and to tell you that it’s got beyond the point where I name a figure and you pay it and then we’re all hunky-dory, but I do have a suggestion to make if you care to hear it—strictly on my own.”

  Rackham started doing calisthenics. His hands, resting on his thighs, tightened into fists and then opened again, and repeated it several times. It made me impatient watching him, because it seemed so inadequate to the situation. By now the picture was pretty clear, and I thought that a guy who had had enough initiative to venture into the woods at night to stalk his wife, armed only with a steak knife, when she had her Doberman pinscher with her, should now, finding himself backed into a corner, respond with something more forceful than sitting there doing and undoing his fists.

  He spoke. “Look, Goodwin, I’m not myself. I know damn well I’m not. It’s been nearly five months now. The first week it wasn’t so bad—there was the excitement, all of us suspected and being questioned; if they had arrested me then I wouldn’t have skipped a pulse beat. I would have met it fair and square and fought it out. But as it stretched out it got tougher. I had broken off with Zeck without thinking it through—the way it looked then, I ought to get clean and keep clean, especially after the hearings in Washington, those first ones, and after the New York District Attorney took a hand. But what happened, every time the phone rang or the doorbell, it hit me in the stomach. It was murder. If they came and took me or sent for me and kept me, I could be damn sure it had been fixed so they thought it would stick. A man can stand that for a day or a week, or a month perhaps, but with me it went on and on, and by God, I’ve had about all I can take.”

  He had ended his calisthenics with the fists closed tight, the knobs of the knuckles the color of boils. “I made a mistake with Zeck,” he said fretfully. “When I broke it off he sent for me and as good as told me that the only thing between me and the electric chair was his influence. I lost my temper. When I do that I can never remember what I said, but I don’t think I actually told him that I had evidence of blackmailing against him personally. Anyhow, I said too much.” He opened his fists and spread his fingers wide, his palms flat on his thighs. “Then this started, stretching into months. Did you say you have a suggestion?”

  “Yeah. And brother, you need one.”

  “What is it?”

  “On my own,” I said.

  “What is it?”

  “For you and Zeck to have a talk.”

  “What for? No matter what he said I couldn’t trust him.”


  “Then you’d be meeting on even terms. Look straight at it. Could your wife trust you? Could your friends trust you—the ones you helped Zeck get at? Could I trust you? I warned you not to trust me, didn’t I? There are only two ways for people to work together: when everybody trusts everyone or nobody trusts no one. When you mix them up it’s a mess. You and Zeck ought to get along fine.”

  “Get along with Zeck?”

  “Certainly.” I turned a palm up. “Listen, you’re in a hole. I never saw a man in a deeper one. You’re even willing and eager to shell out to me, a double-crosser you can’t trust, to give you a lift. You can’t possibly expect to get out in the clear with no ropes tied to you—what the hell, who is? Your main worry is getting framed for murder, so your main object is to see that you don’t. That ought to be a cinch. Zeck has a new man, a guy named Roeder, came here recently from the coast, who has started to line up an operation that’s a beaut. I’ve been assigned to help on it, and I think I’m going to. It’s as tight as a drum and as slick as a Doberman pinscher’s coat. With the help of a man placed as you are, there would be absolutely nothing to it, without the slightest risk of any noise or a comeback.”

  “No. That’s what got—”

  “Wait a minute. As I said, this is on my own. I’m not going to tell you what Zeck said to me yesterday, but I advise you to take my suggestion. Let me arrange for you to see him. You don’t have to take up where you left off, a lot of dirty little errands; you’re a man of wealth now and can act accordingly. But also you’re a man who is suspected by thirty million people of killing his wife, and that calls for concessions. Come with me to see Zeck, let him know you’re willing to discuss things, and if he mentions Roeder’s operation let him describe it and then decide what you want to do. I told you why I don’t want to see you or anyone else framed for that murder, and I don’t think Zeck will either if it looks as though you might be useful.”

  “I hate him,” Rackham said hoarsely. “I’m afraid of him and I hate him!”

  “I don’t like him myself. I told him so. What about tomorrow? Say four o’clock tomorrow, call for you here at a quarter to three?”

  “I don’t—not tomorrow—”

  “Get it over with! Would you rather keep on listening for the phone and the doorbell? Get it over with!”

  He reached for his straight drink, which he hadn’t touched, swallowed it at a gulp, shuddered all over, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “I’ll ring you around noon to confirm it,” I said, and stood up to go. He didn’t come with me to the door, but under the circumstances I didn’t hold it against him.

  So that evening when Wolfe came to 1019 it appeared to be high time for getting the false bottom in the brief case ready, and we went on until midnight, discussing the program from every angle and trying to cover every contingency. It’s always worth trying, though it can never be done, especially not with a layout as tricky as that one.

  Then the next morning, Tuesday, a monkey wrench, thrown all the way from White Plains, flew into the machinery and stopped it. I had just finished breakfast, with Fritz, when the phone rang and I went to the office to get it. It was the Westchester DA’s office.

  The talk was brief. When I had hung up I sat a while, glaring at the phone, then with an exasperated finger dialed the Churchill’s number. That talk was brief too. Finished with it, I held the button down for a moment and dialed another number.

  There had been only two buzzes when a voice came through a nose to me. “Yes?”

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Roeder.”

  “Talking.”

  “This is Goodwin. I’ve just had a call from White Plains to come to the DA’s office at once. I asked if I could count on keeping a two o’clock appointment and was told no. I phoned the Churchill and left a message that I had been called out of town for the day. I hope it can be tomorrow. I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”

  Silence.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes. Good luck, Goodwin.”

  The connection went.

  Chapter 18

  I had once sat and cooled my heels for three hours on one of the wooden benches in the big anteroom of the DA’s office in the White Plains courthouse, but this time I didn’t sit at all. I didn’t even give my name. I entered and was crossing to the table in the fenced-off corner when a man with a limp intercepted me and said, “Come with me, Mr. Goodwin.”

  He took me down a long corridor, past rows of doors on either side, and into a room that I was acquainted with. I had been entertained there for an hour or so the evening of Sunday, April ninth. No one was in it. It had two big windows for the morning sun, and I sat and watched the dust dance. I was blowing at it, seeing what patterns I could make, when the door opened and Cleveland Archer, the DA himself, appeared, followed by Ben Dykes. I have never glanced at faces with a deeper interest. If they had looked pleased and cocky it would probably have meant that they had cracked the case, and in that event all our nifty plans for taking care of Arnold Zeck were up the flue and God help us.

  I was so glad to see that they were far from cocky that I had to see to it that my face didn’t beam. I responded to their curt greeting in kind, and when they arranged the seating with me across a table from them I said grumpily as I sat, “I hope this is going to get somebody something. I had a full day ahead, and now look at it.”

  Dykes grunted, not with sympathy and not with enmity, just a grunt. Archer opened a folder he had brought, selected from its contents some sheets of paper stapled in a corner, glanced at the top sheet, and gave me his eyes, which had swollen lids.

  “This is that statement you made, Goodwin.”

  “About what? Oh, the Rackham case?”

  “For God’s sake,” Dykes said gloomily. “Forget to try to be cute just once. I’ve been up all night.”

  “It was so long ago,” I said apologetically, “and I’ve been pretty busy.”

  Archer slid the statement across the table to me. “I think you had better read it over. I want to ask some questions about it.”

  I couldn’t have asked for a better chance to get my mind arranged, but I didn’t see that that would help matters any, since I hadn’t the vaguest notion from which direction the blow was coming.

  “May I save it for later?” I inquired. “If you get me up a tree and I need time out for study, I can pretend I want to check with what I said here.” I tapped the statement with a forefinger.

  “I would prefer that you read it.”

  “I don’t need to, really. I know what I said and what I signed.” I slid it back to him. “Test me on any part of it.”

  Archer closed the folder and rested his clasped hands on it. “I’m not as interested in what is in that statement as I am in what isn’t in it. I think you ought to read it because I want to ask you what you left out—of the happenings of that day, Saturday, April eighth.”

  “I can answer that without reading it. I left nothing out that was connected with Mrs. Rackham.”

  “I want you to read what you said and signed and then repeat that statement.”

  “I don’t need to read it. I left out nothing.”

  Archer and Dykes exchanged looks, and then Dykes spoke. “Look, Goodwin, we’re not trying to sneak up on you. We’ve got something, that’s all. Someone has loosened up. It looks like this is the day for it.”

  “Not for me.” I was firm. “I loosened up long ago.”

  Archer told Dykes, “Bring her in.” Dykes arose and left the room. Archer took the statement and returned it to the folder and pushed the folder to one side, then pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. The door opened and Dykes escorted Lina Darrow in. He pulled a chair up to the end of the table for her, to my left and Archers right, so that the window was at her back. She looked as if she might have spent the night in jail, with red eyes and a general air of being pooped, but judging from the clamp she had on her jaw, she was darn
ed determined about something. I got a glance from her but nothing more, not even a nod, as she took the chair Dykes pulled up.

  “Miss Darrow,” Archer told her, gently but firmly, “you understand that there is probably no chance of getting your story corroborated except through Mr. Goodwin. You haven’t been brought in here to face him for the purpose of disconcerting or discrediting him, but merely so he can be informed first-hand.” Archer turned to me. “Miss Darrow came to us last evening of her own accord. No pressure of any kind has been used with her. Is that correct, Miss Darrow? I wish you could confirm that to Mr. Goodwin.”

  “Yes.” She lifted her eyes to me, and though they had obviously had a hard night, I still insist they were fine. She went on, “I came voluntarily. I came because—the way Barry Rackham treated me. He refused to marry me. He treated me very badly. Finally—yesterday it was too much.”

  Archer and Dykes were both gazing at her fixedly. Archer prodded her. “Go on, please, Miss Darrow. Tell him the main facts.”

  She was trying the clamp on her jaw to make sure it was working right. Satisfied, she released it. “Barry and I had been friendly, a little, before Mrs. Rackham’s death. Nothing but just a little friendly. That’s all it meant to me, or I thought it was, and I thought it was the same with him. That’s how it was when we went to the country for the Easter weekend. She had told me we wouldn’t do any work there, answer any mail or anything, but Saturday at noon she sent for me to come to her room. She was crying and was so distressed she could hardly talk.”

  Lina paused. She was keeping her eyes straight at mine. “I can rattle this off now, Mr. Goodwin. I’ve already told it now.”

  “That always makes it easier,” I agreed. “Go right ahead.”