by Rex Stout
That didn’t tell me much. When, at six o’clock, I said I had to wash and change for a date with Lois, and he totaled the score, fast and accurate, he turned it around for me to check. “At the moment,” he said, “I haven’t got ninety-two cents, but you can make it ninety-two dollars. More. Peach Fuzz in the fifth at Jamaica Thursday will be eight to one. With sixty dollars I could put forty on his nose. Three hundred and twenty, and half to you. And ninety-two cents.”
I told him it sounded very attractive and I’d let him know tomorrow. Since Jarrell had said to let him have fifty or a hundred I could have dished it out then and there, but if I did he probably wouldn’t be around tomorrow, and there was an off chance that I would want him for something. He took it like a gentleman, no shoving.
When, that morning on the terrace, I had proposed dinner and dance to Lois, I had mentioned the Flamingo Club, but the experience at Rusterman’s with Trella had shown me it wouldn’t be advisable. So I asked her if she would mind making it Colonna’s in the Village, where there was a good band and no one knew me, at least not by name, and we weren’t apt to run into any of my friends. For a second she did mind, but then decided it would be fun to try one she had never been to.
Jarrell had said she was particular about her dancing partners, and she had a right to be. The rhythm was clear through her, not just from her hips down, and she was right with me in everything we tried. To give her as good as she gave I had to put the mind away entirely and let the body take over, and the result was that when midnight came, and time for champagne, I hadn’t made a single stab at the project I was supposed to be working on. As the waiter was pouring I was thinking. What the hell, a detective has to get the subject feeling intimate before he can expect her to discuss intimate matters, and three more numbers ought to do it. Actually I never did get it started. It just happened that when we returned to the table again and finished the champagne, she lifted her glass with the last thimbleful, said, “To life and death,” and tossed it down. She put the glass on the table and added, “If death ever slept.”
“I’m with you,” I said, putting my empty glass next to hers, “or I guess I am. What does it mean?”
“I don’t know. I ought to, since I wrote it myself. It’s from that poem I wrote. The last five lines go:
“Or a rodent kept
High and free on the twig of a tree,
Or a girl who wept
A bitter tear for the death so near,
If death ever slept!”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I like the sound of it, but I’m still not sure what it means.”
“Neither am I. That’s why I’m sure it’s a poem. Susan understands it, or says she does. She says there’s one thing wrong with it, that instead of ‘a bitter tear’ it ought to be ‘a welcome tear.’ I don’t like it. Do you?”
“I like ‘bitter’ better. Is Susan strong on poems?”
“I don’t really know. I don’t understand her any better than I understand that poem. I think she’s strong on Susan, but of course she’s my sister-in-law and her bedroom is bigger than mine, and I’m fond of my brother when I’m not fighting with him, so I probably hate her. I’ll find out when I get analyzed.”
I nodded. “That’ll do it. I noticed last evening the males all gathered around except your father. Apparently he didn’t even see her.”
“He saw her all right. If he doesn’t see a woman it’s because she’s not there. Do you know what a satyr is?”
“More or less.”
“Look it up in the dictionary. I did once. I don’t believe my father is a satyr because half the time his mind is on something else-making more money. He’s just a tomcat. What’s that they’re starting? ‘Mocajuba?’”
It was. I got up and circled the table to pull her chair back.
To be fair to Wednesday, it’s true that it was more productive than Tuesday, but that’s not saying I got any further along. It added one more to my circle of acquaintances. That was in the morning, just before noon. Having turned in around two and stayed in bed for my preferred minimum of eight hours, as I went downstairs I was thinking that breakfast would probably be a problem, but headed for the dining room anyway just to see, and in half a minute there was Steck with orange juice. I said that and coffee would hold me until lunch, but no, sir. In ten minutes he brought toast and bacon and three poached eggs and two kinds of jam and a pot of coffee. That attended to, in company with the morning Times, I went to the library and spent half an hour not chatting with Nora Kent. She was there, and I was willing to converse, but she either had things to do or made things to do, so after a while I gave up and departed. She did say that Jarrell’s plane would be due at La Guardia at 3:05 p.m.
Strolling along the corridor toward the front and seeing that my watch said 11:56, I thought I might as well stop in at the studio for the twelve o’clock news. The door was closed, and I opened it and entered, but two steps in I stopped. It was inhabited. Susan was in a chair, and standing facing her was a stranger, a man in a dark gray suit with a jaw that looked determined in profile. Evidently he had been too occupied to hear the door opening, for he didn’t wheel to me until I had taken the two steps.
“Sorry,” I said, “I’m just cruising,” and was going, but Susan spoke.
“Don’t go, Mr. Green. This is Jim Eber. Jim, this is Alan Green. You know he-I mentioned him.”
My predecessor was still occupied, but not too much to lift a hand. I took it, and found that his muscles weren’t interested. He spoke, not as if he wanted to. “I dropped in to see Mr. Jarrell, but he’s away. Nothing important, just a little matter. How do you like the job?”
“I’d like it fine if it were all like the first two days. When Mr. Jarrell gets back, I don’t know. I can try. Maybe you could give me some pointers.”
“Pointers?”
You might have thought it was a word I had just made up. Obviously his mind wasn’t on his vocabulary or on me; it was working on something, and not on getting his job back or I would have been a factor.
“Some other time,” I said. “Sorry I interrupted.”
“I was just going,” he said, and, with his jaw set, marched past me and on out.
“Oh dear,” Susan said.
I looked down at her. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can help with?”
“No, thank you.” She shook her head and her little oval face came up. Then she left the chair. “Do you mind? But of course you don’t-only I don’t want to be rude. I want to think something over.”
I said something polite and she went. Eber had closed the door behind him and I opened it for her. She made for the rear and turned a corner, and in a moment I heard the elevator. With that settled, that she hadn’t set out after Eber, I turned on the radio and got the tail end of the newscast.
That was the new acquaintance. The only other contribution that Wednesday made worth mentioning came six hours later, and though, as I said, it got me no further along, it did add a new element to the situation. Before reporting it I should also mention my brief exchange with Wyman. I was in the lounge with a magazine when he appeared, stepped out to the terrace, came back in, and approached.
“You’re not overworked, are you?” he asked.
There are several possible ways of asking that, running from the sneer to the brotherly smile. His was about in the middle. I might have replied, “Neither are you,” but didn’t. He was too skinny, and too handicapped by his tight little ears and thin straight nose, to make a good target, and besides, he thought he was trying. He had produced two shows on Broadway, and while one had folded after three days, the other had run nearly a month. Also his father had told me that in spite of the venomous influence of the snake he was still trying to teach him the technique of making money grow.
So I humored him. “No,” I said.
The creases in his brow deepened. “You’re not very talkative, either.”
“You’re wrong there. When I get started I can talk y
our head off. For example. An hour ago I went into the studio to catch the newscast, and a man was there speaking with your wife, and she introduced me to him. It was Jim Eber. I’m wondering if he’s trying to get his job back, and if so, whether he’ll succeed. I left a good job to come here, and I don’t want to find myself out on a limb. I don’t want to ask your wife about it, and I’d appreciate it if you would ask her and let me know.”
His lips had tightened, and he had become aware of it and had loosened them. “When was this? An hour ago?”
“Right. Just before noon.”
“Were they talking about the-uh, about the job?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t know they were there and I opened the door and went in. I thought he might have said something that would show if he’s trying to get it back.”
“Maybe he did.”
“Will you ask her?”
“Yes. I’ll ask her.”
“I’ll appreciate it a lot.”
“I’ll ask her.” He turned, and turned back. “It’s lunch time. You’re joining us?”
I said I was.
There were only five of us at the table-Trella, Susan, Wyman, Roger, and Alan. Lois didn’t show, and Nora lunched from a tray in the library. When, afterward, Roger invited me up to his room, I thought the two hours before Jarrell arrived might as well be spent with him as with anyone. He won $2.43, and I deducted 92 cents and paid him $1.51. Wanting to save him the trouble of bringing up the Peach Fuzz project, I brought it up myself and told him the sixty bucks would be available that evening after dinner.
I was in the library with Nora when Jarrell returned, shortly after four o’clock. He breezed in, tossed his bag under a table, told Nora, “Get Clay,” and went to his desk. Apparently I wasn’t there. I sat and listened to his end of three phone conversations which I would have paid closer attention to if my name had been Alan Green. I did attend, with both ears, when I heard Nora, reporting on events during his absence, tell him that Jim Eber had called that morning.
His head jerked to her. “Called? Phoned?”
“No, he came. He got some papers he had left in his desk. He said that was what he came for. That was all. I looked at the papers; they were personal. Then he was with Susan in the studio; I don’t know whether it was by appointment or not. Mr. Green was there with them when he left.”
Evidently everybody knew everything around there. The fact that Eber had been there had been mentioned at the lunch table, but Nora hadn’t been present. Of course any of the others might have told her, including Steck.
Jarrell snapped at me, “You were with them?”
I nodded. “Only briefly. I was going to turn on the radio for the news, and opened the door and went in. Your daughter-in-law introduced me to him and that was about all. He said he was just going, and he went.”
He opened his mouth and closed it again. Questions he might have asked Archie Goodwin could not properly be asked Alan Green with the stenographer there. He turned to her. “What else did he want? Besides the papers?”
“Nothing. That was all, except that he thought you would be here and wanted to see you. That’s what he said.”
He licked his lips, shot me a glance, and turned back to her. “All right, hand me the mail.”
She got it from a drawer of her desk and took it to him. If you think it would have been natural for it to be on his desk waiting for him you’re quite right, but in that case it would have been exposed to the view of the new secretary, and that wouldn’t do. After sticking around a while longer I asked Jarrell if I was wanted, was told not until after dinner, and left them and went up to my room.
I can’t tell you the exact minute that Jarrell came dashing in, yelling at me, but I can come close. It was a quarter to six when I decided to shower and shave before going down to the lounge for cocktails, and my par for that operation when I’m not pressed is half an hour, and I was pulling on my pants when the door flew open and he was there yapping, “Come on!” Seeing me, he was off down the hall, yapping again. “Come on!” It seemed that the occasion was informal enough not to demand socks and shoes, so I merely got my shirttail in, and fastened my belt and closed my zipper en route. I could hear him bounding down the stairs, and made for them and on down, and turned the corner just as he reached the library door. As I came up he tried the knob and then stood and stared at it.
“It’s locked,” he said.
“Why not?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Horland’s phoned. He said the signal flashed and the screen showed the door opening and a blanket or rug coming in. He’s sending a man. There’s somebody in there. There must be.”
“Then open the door.”
“Horland’s said to wait till his man got here.”
“Nuts. I will.” Then I realized I couldn’t. My key, along with my other belongings, was up on the dresser. “Give me your key.”
He got out his key fold and handed it to me, and I picked one and stuck it in the slot. “It’s just possible,” I said, “that we’ll be rushed. Move over.” He did so. I got behind the jamb, turned the key and the knob, pushed on the door with my bare toes, and it swung open. Nothing happened. I said, “Stay here,” and stepped inside. Nothing and no one. I went and took a look, behind desks, around corners of cabinets and shelves, in the closet, and in the bathroom. I was going to call to him to come on in when the sound came of footsteps pounding down the corridor, and I reached the door in time to see the reinforcement arrive-a middle-aged athlete in a gray uniform. He wasn’t one that I knew. He was panting, and he had a gun in his hand.
“At ease,” I commanded. “False alarm. Apparently. What’s this about a blanket or a rug?”
“It’s not a false alarm,” Jarrell said. “I turned the switch on myself when I left, and the light didn’t flash when you opened the door. Someone went in and turned the switch off. What was it you saw?”
Horland’s didn’t answer. He was looking at the floor at our feet. “By God, that’s it,” he said. He pointed. “That’s it right there.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Jarrell blurted.
“That rug. That’s what came in. The signal flashed and I looked at the screen, and in came that rug, hanging straight down, that was all I could see. Then it was gone, and in about two seconds the screen was dead. You get it? Someone came in holding that rug in front of him, and went and turned the switch off, and when he came out he put the rug back here where he got it. That’s how I know he’s not still in there; if he was, the rug wouldn’t be here.” He sounded as pleased as if he had just done a job of brain work that would be hard to match.
Thinking a little pruning wouldn’t hurt him, I asked, “How do you know it was this rug?”
“Why, the pattern. The squares, the lines crossing. I saw it.”
“It might be one of a pair. He might be in there now, in the closet or the bathroom.”
“Oh.” He squared his shoulders. “Stand aside.”
“Don’t bother, I looked. He’s gone. He didn’t stay long.” I turned to Jarrell. “You might try the switch. Go and turn it on and we’ll enter.”
He did so. After he was in I shut the door, and when he called to us I pushed it open, and the blaze of light came. I swung the door shut, and the light went, and we crossed to his desk.
“After you saw it on the screen, the rug coming in,” I asked Horland’s, “how long was it before you phoned?”
“Right away. No time at all. I didn’t phone, the other man did, I told him to.”
“How long did it take the call to get through?”
“It got through right away. I was putting on my cap and jacket and getting my gun, and I wasn’t wasting any time, and he had Mr. Jarrell when I left.”
“Then say thirty seconds. Make it a minute, not to skimp. Even two minutes. You answered the phone in your room, Mr. Jarrell?”
“Yes.”
“How long were you on the phone?”
“Only long
enough for him to tell me what had happened. Not more than a minute.”
“And you came on the run immediately? Only stopping at my door on the way?”
“You’re damn right I did.”
“Then add another minute. That makes four minutes from the time the rug came in to the time we got here, and probably less, and he was gone. So he didn’t have time for much more than turning off the switch.”
“We ought to find out who it was,” Horland’s said. “While it’s hot.”
He certainly worked his brain, that bird. Obviously it had been a member of the household, and how and when to find out who it was was strictly a family affair. Jarrell didn’t bother to tell him so. He merely gave him a chore, to unlock and open the door of a metal box that was set in the wall facing the entrance. Its door had a round hole for the lens to see through, and inside was the camera. Horland’s took the camera out, extracted the film and put in a new one, returned the camera and locked the door, and departed.
Jarrell regarded me. “You realize it could have been anybody. We may know more when we see the picture. But with that rug in front of her, she could have held it up high with her hands not showing, nothing at all showing, and you couldn’t tell.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “she could. Anybody could. One pronoun is as good as another. As I said, she didn’t have time for much more than turning off the switch, but you might look around. Is any little item missing?”
He moved his head from side to side, got up, went and tried the knobs of the safes, crossed to the battery of cabinets and pulled at the handles of the drawers in the two end tiers, which had locks on them, went and opened the top drawer of Nora Kent’s desk and took a look, and then came back to his own desk and opened the top drawer of it. His face changed immediately. He pulled the drawer wide open, moved things around, and pushed it shut. He looked at me.
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “Let me guess.”
He took a breath. “I keep a gun in there, a Bowdoin thirty-eight. It’s gone. It was there this afternoon.”
“Loaded?”
“Yes.”
“Whoever got it knew you had it. He-I beg your pardon-she came straight to the desk, turned off the switch, grabbed the gun, and ran. That’s all there was time for.”
