If Death Ever Slept

by Rex Stout

  “Toss it back in the river,” Orrie said. “What good is it? It never was much good anyway.”

  “Okay,” I said, not through my nose. “Now I know. May I please speak to Mr. Wolfe?”

  “I’ll see. He’s reading a book. Hold it.”

  I did so, and in a moment got a growl. “Yes?”

  “I went for a walk and am in a booth. Reporting: the bed is good and the food is edible. I have met the family and they are not mine, except possibly the daughter, Lois. She shot a squirrel and wrote a poem about it. I’m glad you’ve got Orrie in to answer the phone and do the chores because that may simplify matters. You can stop my salary as of now. Jarrell has offered me sixty grand and expenses, me personally, to get the goods on his daughter-in-law and bounce her. I think his idea is that the goods are to be handmade, by me, but he didn’t say so in so many words. If it takes me twelve weeks that will be five grand a week, so my salary would be peanuts and you can forget it. I’ll get it in cash, no tax to pay, and then I’ll probably marry Lois. Oh yes, you’ll get your fee too.”

  “How much of this is flummery?”

  “None of the facts. The facts are straight. I am reporting.”

  “Then he’s either a nincompoop or a scalawag or both.”

  “Probably but not necessarily. He said he would give a million dollars to get rid of her and consider it a bargain. So it’s just possible he has merely got an itch he can’t reach and is temporarily nuts. I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt because he’s your client.”

  “And yours.”

  “No, sir. I didn’t accept. I decided an advance for expenses. I turned him down, but with a manner and a tone of voice that sort of left it hanging. He thinks I’m just being cagey. What I think, I think he expects me to fix up a stew that will boil her alive, but I have been known to think wrong. I admit it’s conceivable that she has it coming to her. One thing, she attracts men without apparently trying to. If a woman gathers them around by working a come-on, that’s okay, they have a choice, they can play or not as they please. But when they come just because she’s there, with no invitation visible to the naked eye, and I have good eyes, look out. She may not be a snake, in fact she may be an angel, but angels can be more dangerous than snakes and usually are. I can stick around and try to tag her, or you can return the ten grand and cross it off. Which?”

  He grunted. “Mr. Jarrell has taken me for a donkey.”

  “And me for a goop. Our pride is hurt. He ought to pay for the privilege, one way or another. I’ll keep you informed of developments, if any.”

  “Very well.”

  “Please remind Orrie that the bottom drawer of my desk is personal and there’s nothing in it he needs.”

  He said he would, and even said good night before he hung up. I bought a picture postcard at the rack, and a stamp, addressed the card to Fritz, and wrote on it, “Having wonderful time. Wish you were here. Archie,” went and found a mailbox and dropped the card in, and returned to the barracks.

  In the tenth-floor vestibule I gave my key a try, found that it worked, and was dazzled by no flash of light as I entered, so the thing hadn’t been turned on for the night. As I crossed the reception hall I was thinking that the security setup wasn’t as foolproof as Jarrell thought, until I saw that Steck had appeared from around a corner for a look at me. He certainly had his duties.

  I went to him and spoke. “Mr. Jarrell gave me a key.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is he around?”

  “In the library, sir, I think.”

  “They’re playing cards?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If you’re not tied up I cordially invite you to my room for some gin. I mean gin rummy.”

  He batted an eye. “Thank you, sir, but I have my duties.”

  “Some other time. Is Mrs. Wyman Jarrell on the terrace?”

  “I think not, sir. I think she is in the studio.”

  “Is that on this floor?”

  “Yes, sir. The main corridor, on the right. Where you were with Mrs. Jarrell this afternoon.”

  Now how the hell did he know that? Also, was it proper for a butler to let me know he knew it? I suspected not. I suspected that my gin invitation, if it hadn’t actually crashed the sound barrier, had made a dent in it. I headed for the corridor and for the rear, and will claim no credit for spotting the door because it was standing open and voices were emerging. Entering, I was in semi-darkness. The only light came from the corridor and the television screen, which showed the emcee and the panel members of “Show Your Slip.” The voices were theirs. Turning, I saw her, dimly, in a chair.

  “Do you mind if I join you?” I asked.

  “Of course not,” she said, barely loud enough. That was all she said. I moved to a chair to her left, and sat.

  I have no TV favorites, because most of the programs seem to be intended for either the under-brained or the over-brained and I come in between, but if I had, “Show Your Slip” wouldn’t be one of them. If it’s one of yours, you can assume you have more brains than I have, and what I assume is my own affair. I admit I didn’t give it my full attention that evening because I was conscious of Susan there within arm’s reach, and was keeping myself receptive for any sinister influences that might be oozing from her, or angelic ones either. I felt none. All that got to me was a faint trace of a perfume that reminded me of the one Lily Rowan uses, but it wasn’t quite the same.

  When the windup commercial started she reached to the chair on her other side, to the control, and the sound stopped and the picture went. That made it still darker. The pale blur of her face turned to me. “What channel do you want, Mr. Green?”

  “None particularly. Mr. Jarrell finished with me, and the others were playing cards, and I heard it going and came in. Whatever you want.”

  “I was just passing the time. There’s nothing I care for at ten-thirty.”

  “Then let’s skip it. Do you mind if we have a little light?”

  “Of course not.”

  I went to the wall switch at the door, flipped it, and returned to the chair, and her little oval face was no longer merely a pale blur. I had the impression that she was trying to produce a smile for me and couldn’t quite make it.

  “I don’t want to intrude,” I said. “If I’m in the way-”

  “Not at all.” Her low voice, shy or coy or wary or demure, made you feel that there should be more of it, and that when there was you would like to be present to hear it. “Since you’ll be living here it will be nice to get acquainted with you. I was wondering what you are like, and now you can tell me.”

  “I doubt it. I’ve been wondering about it myself and can’t decide.”

  The smile got through. “So to begin with, you’re witty. What else? Do you go to church?”

  “I don’t know because I don’t know you yet. I don’t go as often as I should. I noticed you didn’t eat any salad at dinner. Don’t you like salad?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aha!” A tiny flash came and went in her eyes. “So you’re frank too. You didn’t like that salad. I have been wanting to speak to my mother-in-law about it, but I haven’t dared. I think I’m doing pretty well. You’re witty, and you’re frank. What do you think about when you’re alone with nothing to do?”

  “Let’s see. I’ve got to make it both frank and witty. I think about the best and quickest way to do what I would be doing if I were doing something.”

  She nodded. “A silly question deserves a silly answer. I guess it was witty too, so that’s all right. I would love to be witty-you know, to sparkle. Do you suppose you could teach me how?”

  “Now look,” I protested, “how could I answer that? It makes three assumptions-that I’m witty, that you’re not, and that you have something to learn from me. That’s more than I can handle. Try one with only one assumption.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize. But I do think you could teach me-Oh!” She looked at her wristwatch.
“I forgot!” She got up-floated up-and was looking down at me. “I must make a phone call. I’m sorry if I annoyed you, Mr. Green. Next time, you ask questions.” She glided to the door and was gone.

  I’ll tell you exactly how it was. I wasn’t aware that I had moved until I found myself halfway to the door and taking another step. Then I stopped, and told myself, I will be damned, you might think she had me on a chain. I looked back at the chair I had left; I had covered a good ten feet before I realized I was being pulled.

  I went and stood in the doorway and considered the situation. I started with a basic fact: she was a little female squirt. Okay. She hadn’t fed me a potion. She hadn’t stuck a needle in me. She hadn’t used any magic words, far from it. She hadn’t touched me. But I had come to that room with the idea of opening her up for inspection, and had ended by springing up automatically to follow her out of the room like a lapdog, and the worst of it was I didn’t know why. I am perfectly willing to be attracted by a woman and to enjoy the consequences, but I want to know what’s going on. I am not willing to be pulled by a string without seeing the string. Not only that; my interest in this particular specimen was supposed to be strictly professional.

  I had an impulse to go to the library and tell Jarrell he was absolutely right, she was a snake. I had another impulse to go find her and tell her something. I didn’t know what, but tell her. I had another one, to pack up and go home and tell Wolfe we were up against a witch and what we needed was a stake to burn her at. None of them seemed to be what the situation called for, so I found the stairs and went up to bed.

  Chapter 4

  BY WEDNESDAY NIGHT, forty-eight hours later, various things had happened, but if I had made any progress I didn’t know it.

  Tuesday I took Trella to lunch at Rusterman’s. That was a little risky, since I was well known there, but I phoned Felix that I was working on a case incognito and told him to pass the word that I mustn’t be recognized. When we arrived, though, I was sorry I hadn’t picked another restaurant. Evidently everybody, from the doorman on up to Felix, knew Mrs. Jarrell too, and I couldn’t blame them for being curious when, working on a case incognito, I turned up with an old and valued customer. They handled it pretty well, except that when Bruno brought my check he put a pencil down beside it. A waiter supplies a pencil only when he knows the check is going to be signed and that your credit is good. I ignored it, hoping that Trella was ignoring it too, and when Bruno brought the change from my twenty I waved it away, hoping he wouldn’t think I was setting a precedent.

  She had said one thing that I thought worth filing. I had brought Susan’s name into the conversation by saying that perhaps I should apologize for being indiscreet the day before, when I had mentioned the impression I had got that Jarrell felt cool about his daughter-in-law, and she said that if I wanted to apologize, all right, but not for being indiscreet, for being wrong. She said her husband wasn’t cool about Susan, he was hot. I said okay, then I would switch from cool to hot and apologize for that. How about what?

  “What do you think?” Her blue eyes widened. “About her. She slapped him. Oh, for God’s sake, quit trying to look innocent! Your first day as his secretary, and spending the morning on the terrace with Lois and taking me to Rusterman’s for lunch! Secretary!”

  “But he’s away. He said to mark time.”

  “He’ll get a report from Nora when he comes back, and you know it. I’m not a fool, Alan, really I’m not. I might be fairly bright if I wasn’t so damn lazy. You probably know more about my husband than I do. So quit looking innocent.”

  “I have to look innocent, I’m his secretary. So does Steck, he’s his butler. As for what I know, I didn’t know Susan had slapped him. Were you there?”

  “Nobody was there. I don’t mean slapped him with her hand, she wouldn’t do that. I don’t know how she did it, probably just by looking at him. She can look a man on or look him off, either way. I wouldn’t have thought any woman could look him off, I’d think she’d need a hatpin or a red-hot poker, but that was before I had met her. Before she moved in. Has she given you a sign yet?”

  “No.” I didn’t know whether I was lying or not. “I’m not sure I’m up with you. If I am, I’m innocent enough to be shocked. Susan is his son’s wife.”

  “Well. What of it?”

  “It seems a little undignified. He’s not an ape.”

  She reached to pat the back of my hand. “I must have been wrong about you. Look innocent all you want to. Certainly he’s an ape. Everybody knows that. Since I’m in walking distance I might as well do a little shopping. Would you care to come along?”

  I declined with thanks.

  On my way uptown, walking the thirty blocks to stretch my legs, I had to decide whether to give Wolfe a ring or not. If I did, and reported the development, that Trella said our client had made a pass at his daughter-in-law and had been looked off, and that therefore it seemed possible he had hired Wolfe and tried to suborn me only to cure an acute case of pique, I would certainly be instructed to pack and come home; and I preferred to hang on a while, at least long enough to expose myself to Susan once more and see how it affected my pulse and respiration. And if I rang Wolfe and didn’t report the development, I had nothing to say, so I saved a dime.

  Mrs. Wyman Jarrell was out, Steck said, and so was Miss Jarrell. He also said that Mr. Foote had asked to be informed when I returned, and I said all right, inform him. Thinking it proper to make an appearance at my desk before nightfall, I left my hat and topcoat in the closet around the corner and went to the library. Nora Kent was at Jarrell’s desk, using the red phone, and I moseyed over to the battery of filing cabinets and pulled out a drawer at random. The first folder was marked PAPER PRODUCTION BRAZIL, and I took it out for a look.

  I was fingering through it when Nora’s voice came at my back. “Did you want something, Mr. Green?”

  I turned. “Nothing special. It would be nice to do something useful. If the secretary should be acquainted with these files I think I could manage it in two or three years.”

  “Oh, it won’t take you that long. When Mr. Jarrell gets back he’ll get you started.”

  “That’s polite, and I appreciate it. You might have just told me to keep hands off.” I replaced the folder and closed the drawer. “Can I help with anything? Like emptying a wastebasket or changing a desk blotter?”

  “No, thank you. It would be a little presumptuous of me to tell you to keep hands off since Mr. Jarrell has given you a key.”

  “So it would. I take it back. Have you heard from him?”

  “Yes, he phoned about an hour ago. He’ll return tomorrow, probably soon after noon.”

  There was something about her, her tone and manner, that wasn’t just right. Not that it didn’t fit a stenographer speaking to a secretary; of course I had caught on that calling her a stenographer was like calling Willie Mays a bat boy. I can’t very well tell you what it was, since I didn’t know. I only felt that there was something between her and me, one-way, that I wasn’t on to. I was thinking a little more conversation might give me an idea, when a phone buzzed.

  She lifted the receiver of the black one, spoke and listened briefly, and turned to me. “For you. Mr. Foote.”

  I went and took it. “Hello, Roger?” I call panhandlers by their first names. “Alan.”

  “You’re a hell of a secretary. Where have you been all day?”

  “Out and around. I’m here now.”

  “So I hear. I understand you’re a gin player. Would you care to win a roll? Since Old Ironsides is away and you’re not needed.”

  “Sure, why not? Where?”

  “My room. Come on up. From your room turn right, first left, and I’ll be at my door.”

  “Right.” I hung up, told Nora I would be glad to run an errand if she had one, was assured that she hadn’t, and left. So, I thought, Roger was on pumping terms with the butler. It was unlikely that Steck had volunteered the information that I had invited him to
a friendly game.

  Foote’s room was somewhat larger than mine, with three windows, and it was all his. The chairs were green leather, and the size and shape of one of them, over by a window, would have been approved even by Wolfe. Fastened to the walls with Scotch tape were pictures of horses, mostly in color, scores of them, all sizes. The biggest one was Native Dancer, from the side, with his head turned to see the camera.

  “Not one,” Roger said, “that hasn’t carried my money. Muscle. Beautiful. Beautiful! When I open my eyes in the morning there they are. Something to wake up to. That’s all any man can expect, something to wake up to. You agree?”

  I did.

  I had supposed, naturally, that the idea would be something like a quarter a point, maybe more, and that if he won I would pay, and if I won he would owe me. But no, it was purely social, a cent a point. Either he gambled only on the beautiful muscles, or he was stringing me along, or he merely wanted to establish relations for future use. He was a damn good gin player. He could talk about anything, and did, and at the same time remember every discard and every pickup. I won 92 cents, but only because I got most of the breaks.

  At one point I took advantage of something he had said. That reminds me,” I told him, “of a remark I overheard today. What do you think of a man who makes a pass at his son’s wife?”

  He was dealing. His hand stopped for an instant and then flipped me a card. “Who made the remark?”

  “I’d rather not say. I wasn’t eavesdropping, but I happened to hear it.”

  “Any names mentioned?”

  “Certainly.”

  He picked up his hand. “Your name’s Alfred?”

  “Alan.”

  “I forget names. People’s. Not horses’. I’ll tell you, Alan. For what I think about my brother-in-law’s attitude on money and his wife’s brother, come to me anytime. Beyond that I’m no authority. Anyone who thinks he ought to be shot, they can shoot him. No flowers. Not from me. Your play.”