by Rex Stout
“No. Get him.”
I sat and dialed WA 9-8241, Manhattan Homicide West, asked for Inspector Cramer, and got Sergeant Purley Stebbins. He said Cramer was in conference downtown and not approachable. I asked how soon he would be, and Purley said he didn’t know and what did I want.
Wolfe got impatient and picked up his receiver. “Mr. Stebbins? Nero Wolfe. Please tell Mr. Cramer that I shall greatly appreciate it if he will call on me this evening at half past nine-or, failing that, as soon as his convenience will permit. Tell him I have important information for him regarding the Eber and Brigham murders… No, I’m sorry, but it must be Mr. Cramer… I know you are, but if you come without Mr. Cramer you will not be admitted. With him you will be welcome… As soon as he can make it, then.”
As I hung up I spoke. “One thing, anyhow, there is no longer-”
I stopped because I had turned and seen that he had leaned back and shut his eyes, and his lips had started to go in and out. He was certainly desperate. It was only fifteen minutes until dinner time.
Chapter 13
I WOULD SAY THAT Inspector Cramer and Sergeant Stebbins weigh about the same, around one-ninety, and little or none of it is fat on either of them, so you would suppose their figures would pretty well match, but they don’t. Cramer’s flesh is tight-weave and Stebbins’ is loose-weave. On Cramer’s hands the skin follows the line of the bones, whereas on Stebbins’ hands you have to take the bones for granted, and presumably they are like that all over, though I have never played with them on the beach and so can’t swear to it. I’m not sure which of them would be the toughest to tangle with, but some day I may find out, even if they are officers of the law.
That was not the day, that Monday evening. They were there by invitation, to get a handout, and after greeting Wolfe and sitting-Cramer in the red leather chair and Purley near him, against the wall, on a yellow one-they wore expressions that were almost neighborly. Almost. Cramer even tried to be jovial. He asked Wolfe how he was making out with his acceptable process of reason.
“Not at all,” Wolfe said. He had swiveled to face them and wasn’t trying to look or sound cordial. “My reason has ceased to function. It has been swamped in a deluge of circumstance. My phone call, to tell you that I have information for you, was dictated not by reason but by misfortune. I am sunk and I am sour. I just returned a retainer of ten thousand dollars to a client. Otis Jarrell. I have no client.”
You might have expected Cramer’s keen gray eyes to show a gleam of glee, but they didn’t. He would swallow anything that Wolfe offered only after sending it to the laboratory for the works. “That’s too bad,” he rumbled. “Bad for you but good for me. I can always use information. About Eber and Brigham, you said.”
Wolfe nodded. “I’ve had it for some time, but it was only today, a few hours ago, that I was forced to acknowledge the obligation to disclose it. It concerns an event that occurred at Mr. Jarrell’s home last Wednesday, witnessed by Mr. Goodwin, who reported it to me. Before I tell you about it I need answers to a question or two. I understand that you learned from Mr. Jarrell that he had hired me for a job, and that it was on that job that Mr. Goodwin went there as his secretary under another name. I also understand that he declines to tell you what the job was, on the ground that it was personal and confidential and has no relation to your inquiry; and that the police commissioner and the district attorney have accepted his position. That you have been obliged to concur is obvious, since you haven’t been pestering Mr. Goodwin and me. Is that correct?”
“It’s correct that I haven’t been pestering you. The rest, what you understand, I can’t help what you understand.”
“But you don’t challenge it. I understand that too. I only wanted to make it clear why I intend to tell you nothing about the job Mr. Jarrell hired me for, though he is no longer my client. I assume that the police commissioner and the district attorney wouldn’t want me to, and I don’t care to offend them. Another question, before I-Yes, Mr. Stebbins?”
Purley hadn’t said a word. He had merely snarled a little. He set his jaw.
Wolfe resumed to Cramer. “Another question. It’s possible that my piece of information is bootless because your attention is elsewhere. If so, I prefer not to disclose it. Have you arrested anyone for either murder?”
“No.”
“Have you passable grounds for suspicion of anyone outside of the Jarrell family?”
“No.”
“Now a multiple question which can be resolved into one. I need to know if any discovered fact, not published, renders my information pointless. Was someone, presumably the murderer, not yet identified, seen entering or leaving the building where Eber lived on Thursday afternoon? The same for Brigham. According to published accounts, it is assumed that someone was with him in the backseat of his car, which was parked at some spot not under observation, that the someone shot him, covered the body with the rug, drove the car to Thirty-ninth Street near Seventh Avenue, from where the subway was easily and quickly accessible, parked the car, and decamped. Is that still the assumption? Has anyone been found who saw the car, either en route or while being parked, and can describe the driver? To resolve them into one: Have you any promising basis for inquiry that has not been published?”
Cramer grunted. “You don’t want much, do you? You’d better have something. The answer to the question is no. Now let’s hear it.”
“When I’m ready. I am merely taking every advisable precaution. My information carries the strong probability that the two murders were committed by Otis Jarrell, his wife, Wyman Jarrell, his wife, Lois Jarrell, Nora Kent, or Roger Foote. Or two or more of them in conspiracy. So another question. Do you know anything that removes any of those people from suspicion?”
“No.” Cramer’s eyes had narrowed. “So that’s what it’s like. No wonder you got from under. No wonder you gave him back his retainer. Let’s have it.”
“When I’m ready,” Wolfe repeated. “I want something in return. I want a cushion for my chagrin. You will be more than satisfied with what I give you, and you will not begrudge me a crumb of satisfaction for myself. After I give you my information I want some from you. I want a complete report of the movements of the seven people I named, and I want the report to cover a considerable period: from two o’clock Thursday afternoon to three o’clock Sunday afternoon. I want to know everywhere they went, with an indication of what has been verified by your staff and what has not. I’m not asking for-”
“Save it,” Cramer rasped. “You asking! You’re in a hell of a position to ask. You’ve been withholding material evidence, and it’s got too hot for you and you’ve got to let go. Okay, let go!”
He might not have spoken as far as Wolfe was concerned. He took up where he left off. “I’m not asking for much. You already have some of that and will now be getting the rest of it, and all you need to do is let Mr. Goodwin copy the reports of their movements. That will reveal no departmental secrets, and that’s all I want. I’m not haggling. If you refuse my request you’ll get what you came for anyway; I have no choice. I make the request in advance only because as soon as I give you the information you’ll be leaving. You’ll have urgent business and you wouldn’t wait to hear me. Will you oblige me?”
“I’ll see. I’ll consider it. Come on, spill it.”
Wolfe turned to me. “Archie?”
Since I had been instructed I didn’t have to ask him what to spill. I was to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about the gun, and that was all. I did so, beginning with Jarrell dashing into my room at 6:20 Wednesday afternoon, and ending twenty-four hours later in Wolfe’s office, with my report to him. When I finished Purley was on the edge of his chair, his jaw clamped, looking holes through me. Cramer was looking at Wolfe.
“Goddamn you,” he said. “Four days. You’ve had this four days.”
“Goodwin’s had it five days,” Purley said.
“Yeah.” Cramer transferred to me. “Okay,
go on.”
I shook my head. “I’m through.”
“Like hell you’re through. You’ll be surprised. If you-”
“Mr. Cramer,” Wolfe cut in. “Now that you have it, use it. Railing at us won’t help any. If you think a charge of obstructing justice will hold, get a warrant, but I advise against it. I think you’d regret it. As soon as the possibility became a probability I acted. And when it was merely a possibility I explored it. I had them all here, on Friday, including Mr. Brigham, and told them that the gun must be produced. Yesterday, when the news came about Brigham, it was touch and go. Today, when Mr. Goodwin learned about the bullets, it became highly probable, but I felt that I owed my client at least a gesture, and I had them here again. It was fruitless. I repaid Mr. Jarrell’s retainer, dismissed them, and phoned you. I will not be squawked at. I have endured enough. Either get a warrant, or forget me and go to work on it.”
“Four days,” Cramer said. “When I think what we’ve been doing those four days. What are you hanging on to? What else have you got? Which one was it?”
“No, sir. If I had known that I would have called you here, not to give it up but to deliver a murderer. I would have been exalted, not mortified. I haven’t the slightest notion.”
“It was Jarrell himself. It was Jarrell, and he was your client, and you cut him loose, but you wouldn’t deliver him on account of your goddamn pride.”
Wolfe turned. “Archie. How much cash is in the safe?”
“Thirty-seven hundred dollars in the reserve and around two hundred in petty.”
“Bring me three thousand.”
I went and opened the door of the safe, unlocked the cash drawer and opened it, counted three grand from the reserve sack, and stepped to Wolfe’s desk and handed it to him. With it in his fist he faced Cramer.
“The wager is that when this is over and the facts are known you will acknowledge that at this hour, Monday evening, I had no inkling of the identity of the murderer, except that I had surmised that it was one of the seven people I have named, and I have told you that. Three thousand dollars to three dollars. One thousand to one. You have three dollars? Mr. Stebbins can hold the stakes.”
Cramer looked at Stebbins. Purley grunted. Cramer looked at me. I grinned and said, “For God’s sake grab it. A thousand to one? Give me that odds and I’ll bet you I did it myself.”
“That’s not as funny as you think it is, Goodwin. You could have.” Cramer looked at Wolfe. “You know I know you. You know I never yet saw you open a bag and shake it out without hanging on to a corner that had something in it you were saving for yourself. If you’re backing clear out, if you’ve got no client and no fee in sight, why do you want the reports on their movements from two o’clock Thursday to three o’clock Sunday?”
“To exercise my brain.” Wolfe put the stack of bills on the desk and put a paperweight-a chunk of jade that a woman had once used to crack her husband’s skull-on top. “It needs it, heaven knows. As I said, I want a crumb of satisfaction for myself. Do you believe in words of honor?”
“I do when the honor is there.”
“Am I a man of honor?”
Cramer’s eyes widened. He was flabbergasted. He started to answer and stopped. He had to consider. “You may be, at that,” he allowed. “You’re tricky, you’re foxy, you’re the best liar I know, but if anybody asked me to name something you had done that was dishonorable I’d have to think.”
“Very well, think.”
“Skip it. Say you’re a man of honor. What about it?”
“Regarding the reports I have asked for, to exercise my brain on. I give you my word of honor that I have no knowledge, withheld from you, which can be applied to those reports; that when I inspect them I’ll have no relevant facts that you don’t have.”
“That sounds good.” Cramer stood up. “I was going home, and now this. I’ve heard you sound good before. Who’s at my desk, Purley? Rowcliff?”
“Yes, sir.” Stebbins was up too.
“Okay, let’s get started. Come on, Goodwin, get your hat if you’ve got one big enough.”
I knew that was coming. It would probably go on all night, and my style would be cramped because if they got exasperated Wolfe wouldn’t get the reports to exercise his brain on. I didn’t even remark that I didn’t wear a hat when I went slumming.
Chapter 14
THAT WAS TWENTY MINUTES past ten Monday night. At six o’clock Wednesday afternoon, when Wolfe came down from the plant rooms, I had just finished typing the last of the timetables and had them ready for him.
It had taken that long to fill his order, for three reasons. First, the city and county employees hadn’t got started on the trails of the Jarrells until Tuesday morning, and each of the subjects was given two sittings before Cramer got the results. Second, Cramer didn’t decide until Wednesday noon that he would let Wolfe have it, though I had known darned well he would, since it included nothing he wanted to save, and since he was curious to see what Wolfe wanted with it. And third, after I had been given permission to look at a selected collection of the reports, it took quite a job of digging to get what Wolfe wanted, not to mention my own contributions and the typing after I got home.
I can’t tell you what Wolfe did Tuesday and Wednesday because I wasn’t there to see, but if you assume that he did nothing whatever I won’t argue-that is, nothing but eat, sleep, read, drink beer, and play with orchids. As for me, I was busy. Monday night they kept me at 20th Street-Rowcliff and a Sergeant Coffey-until four o’clock in the morning, going over it back and forth and across and up and down, and when they got through they knew every bit as much as Cramer and Stebbins had already known when they took me down. Rowcliff could not believe that he wasn’t smart enough to maneuver me into leaking what I was at Jarrell’s for, and I didn’t dare to make it clear to him in words he would understand for fear he might see to it that Wolfe didn’t get what he wanted for brain exercise. So daylight was trying to break through at my windows when I turned in.
And Tuesday at noon, when I had just started on my fourth griddle cake and my second cup of coffee, the phone rang to tell me that I would be welcome at the DA’s office in twenty minutes. I made it in forty, and was there five solid hours, one of them with the DA himself present, and at the end they knew everything that Rowcliff did. There was one little spot where the chances looked good for my getting booked as a material witness, but I bumped through it without having to yell for help.
My intention was, if and when I left Leonard Street a free man, to stop in at Homicide West to see if Cramer had decided to let me look at the reports, but I was interrupted. After finally being dismissed by Mandelbaum, as I was on my way down the hall from his room to the front, a door on the right opened and one of the three best dancers I had ever stepped with came out. Seeing me, she stopped.
“Oh,” she said. “Hello.”
An assistant DA named Riley, having opened the door for her, was there shutting it. He saw me, thought he would say something, decided not to, and closed the door. The look Lois was giving was not an invitation to dance, far from it.
“So,” she said, “you’ve made it nice for us, you and your fat boss.”
“Then don’t speak to me,” I told her. “Give me an icy stare and flounce out. As for making it nice for you, wrong address. We held on till the last possible tenth of a second.”
“Hooray for you. Our hero.” We were moving down the hall. “Where are you bound for?”
“Home, with a stopover.”
We were in the anteroom, with people there on chairs. She waited until we were in the outer hall to say, “I think I want to ask you something. If we go where we can get a drink, by the time we get there I’ll know.”
I looked at my wrist. Ten minutes to six. We no longer had a client to be billed for expenses, but there was a chance she would contribute something useful for the timetables, and besides, looking at her was a pleasant change after the five hours I had just spent. So I said I
’d be glad to buy her a drink whether she decided to ask me something or not.
I took her to Mohan’s, which was in walking distance around the corner, found an empty booth at the far end, and ordered. When the drinks came she took a sip of her Bloody Mary, made a face, took a bigger sip, and put the glass down.
“I’ve decided to ask you,” she said. “I ought to wait until I’ve had a couple because my nerves have gone back on me. When I saw you there in the hall my knees were shaking.”
“After you saw me or before?”
“They were already shaking. I knew I’d have to tell about it, I knew that yesterday, but I was afraid nobody would believe me. That’s what I want to ask you, I want you to back me up and then they’ll have to believe me. You see, I know that nobody used my father’s gun to kill Jim Eber and Corey Brigham. I want you to say you were with me when I threw it in the river.”
I raised my brows. “That’s quite a want. God knows what you might have wanted if you waited till you had a couple. You threw your father’s gun in the river?”
“Yes.” She was making her eyes meet mine. “Yes, I did.”
“When?”
“Thursday morning. That’s how I know nobody could have used it, because Jim was killed Thursday afternoon. I got it the day before, Wednesday, you know how I got it, going in with that rug held up in front of me. I hid it-”
“How did you open the library door?”
“I had a key. Jim Eber let me have a duplicate made from his-about a year ago. Jim was rather warm on me for a while. I hid the gun in my room, under the mattress. Then I was afraid Dad might have the whole place searched and it would be found, so I got rid of it. Don’t you want to know why I took it?”
“Sure, that would help.”
“I took it because I was afraid something might happen. I knew how Dad felt about Susan, and I knew it was getting worse every day between him and Wyman, and I knew he had a gun in his drawer, and I hate guns anyway. I didn’t think any one thing-I didn’t think he would shoot Susan or Wyman would shoot him-I just thought something might happen. So Thursday morning I put it in my bag and went and got my car, and drove up the West Side Highway and onto George Washington Bridge, and stopped on the bridge and threw the gun in the river.”
