by Rex Stout
There were stirrings and little noises. Leeds ignored them.
“So,” he said, not so loud now, “you’re actually accusing me before witnesses of murdering my cousin?”
“I’m accusing you of that, yes, sir, but also I’m accusing you of something much worse than that.” Wolfe spat it at him. “I’m accusing you of deliberately and ruthlessly, to protect yourself from the consequences of your murder of your cousin for the money you would inherit from her, thrusting that knife into the belly of a dog that loved you and trusted you!”
Leeds started up, but hadn’t got far when my hands were on his shoulders, and with plenty of pressure. He let down. I moved my hands to the back of his chair.
Wolfe’s voice was cold and cutting. “No one could have done that but you, Mr. Leeds. In the woods at night, that trained dog would not have gone far from its mistress. Someone else might possibly have killed the dog first and then her, but it wasn’t done that way, because the knife was left in the dog. And if someone else, permitted to get close to her, had succeeded in killing her with a sudden savage thrust and then defended himself against the dog’s attack, it is not believable that he could have stopped so ferocious a beast by burying the knife in its side without himself getting a single toothmark on him. You know those dogs; you wouldn’t believe it; neither will I.
“No, Mr. Leeds, it could have been only you. When Mr. Goodwin went on to your house and you stayed out at the kennels, you joined your cousin on her walk in the woods. I doubt if the dog would have permitted even you to stab her to death in its presence; I don’t know; but you didn’t have to. You sent the dog away momentarily, and, when the knife had done its work on your cousin, you withdrew it, stood there in the dark with the knife in your hand, and called the dog to come. It came, and despite the smell of fresh blood, it behaved itself because it loved and trusted you. You could have spared it; you could have taken it home with you; but no. That would have put you in danger. It had to die for you, and by your hand.”
Wolfe took a breath. “To this point I know I am right; now conjecture enters. You stabbed the dog, of course, burying the blade in its belly, but did you leave the knife there intentionally, to prevent a gush of blood on you, or did the animal convulsively leap from you at the feel of the prick, jerking the knife from your grasp? However that may be, all you could do was make for home, losing no time, for you must show yourself to Mr. Goodwin as soon as possible. So you did that. You said good night and went to bed. I don’t think you slept; you may even have heard the dog’s whimpering outside the door, after it had dragged itself there; but maybe not, since it was beneath Mr. Goodwin’s window, not yours. You pretended sleep, of course, when he came for you.”
Leeds was keeping his head up, but I could see his hands gripping his legs just above the knees.
“You used that dog,” Wolfe went on, his voice as icy as Arnold Zeck’s had ever been, “even after it died. You were remorseless to your dead friend. To impress Mr. Goodwin, you were overcome with emotion at the thought that, though you had given the dog to your cousin two years ago, it had come to your doorstep to die. It had not come to your doorstep to die, Mr. Leeds, and you knew it; it had come there to try to get at you. It wanted to sink its teeth in you just once. I say you knew it, because when you squatted beside the dog and put your hand on it, it snarled. It would not have snarled if it had felt your hand as the soothing and sympathetic touch of a trusted friend in its last agony; indeed not; it snarled because it knew you, at the end, to be unworthy of its love and trust, and it scorned and hated you. That snarl alone is enough to convict you. Do you remember that snarl, Mr. Leeds? Will you ever forget it? Your old friend Nobby, his last words for you—”
Leeds’ head went forward, dropping, and his hands came up to cover his face.
He made no sound, and no one else did either. The silence darted around us and into us, coming out from Leeds. Then Lina Darrow took in a breath with a sighing, sobbing sound, and Annabel got up and went to her.
“Take him, Mr. Archer,” Wolfe said grimly. “I’m through with him, and it’s about time.”
Chapter 22
I’m sitting at a window overlooking a fiord, typing this on a new portable I bought for the trip. In here it’s pleasant. It’s late in the season for outdoors in Norway, but if you run hard to keep your blood going you can stand it.
I got a letter yesterday which read as follows:
Dear Archie:
The chickens came from Mr. Haskins Friday, four of them, and they were satisfactory. Marko came to dinner. He misses Fritz, he says. I have given Fritz a raise.
Mr. Cramer dropped in for a talk one day last week. He made some rather pointed comments about you, but on the whole behaved himself tolerably.
I am writing this longhand because I do not like the way the man sent by the agency types.
Vanda peetersiana has a raceme 29 in. long. Its longest last year was 22 in. We have found three snails in the warm room. I thought of mailing them to Mr. Hewitt but didn’t.
Mr. Leeds hanged himself in the jail at White Plains yesterday and was dead when discovered. That of course cancels your promise to Mr. Archer to return in time for the trial, but I trust you will not use it as an excuse to prolong your stay.
We have received your letters and they were most welcome. I have received an offer of $315 for the furniture in your office but am insisting on $350. Fritz says he has written you. I am beginning to feel more like myself.
My best regards,
NW
I let Lily read it. “Darn him anyhow,” she said. “No message, not a mention of me. My Pete! Huh. Fickle Fatty.”
“You’d be the last,” I told her, “that he’d ever send a message to. You’re the only woman that ever got close enough to him, at least in my time, to make him smell of perfume.”
The World of Rex Stout
Now, for the first time ever, enjoy a peek into the life of Nero Wolfe’s creator, Rex Stout, courtesy of the Stout Estate. Pulled from Rex Stout’s own archives, here are rarely seen, never-before-published memorabilia. Each title in “The Rex Stout Library” will offer an exclusive look into the life of the man who gave Nero Wolfe life.
In the Best Families
On June 6, 1950—mere days after Rex Stout had finished writing In the Best Families—Merwin Hart appeared before the House’s Select Committee to Investigate Lobbying Activities and alleged that Stout was a Communist. Stout’s letter to the committee chair, clarifying the situation, is reproduced here. The same year, Senator Joe McCarthy would begin making widespread allegations of Communist infiltration in the United States. Stout, through both Freedom House and the Author’s League, would become an outspoken critic of McCarthyism.
This edition contains the complete text
of the original hardcover edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.
IN THE BEST FAMILIES
A Bantam Crime Line Book / published by arrangement with
The Viking Press, Inc.
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Viking Press edition published September 1950
Dollar Mystery Guild edition published January 1951
Bantam edition published October 1953
New Bantam edition / September 1962
Bantam reissue edition / February 1995
This book appeared in condensed form in the
MONTREAL STANDARD and the NEWARK EVENING NEWS
CRIME LINE and the portrayal of a boxed “cl” are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1950 by Rex Stout.
Introduction copyright © 1995 by Patricia Sprinkle.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.
/> eISBN: 978-0-307-75601-5
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, New York, New York.
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