by Rex Stout
The rest had been detailed in the newspapers many times. Thirty minutes later, on the fairway of the fourth hole, Barstow had suddenly collapsed on the ground, kicking and clutching the grass. He had been still alive when his caddy seized his arm, but by the time the others reached him he was dead. A crowd had collected, among them Dr. Nathaniel Bradford, an old Barstow family friend. Manuel Kimball had gone for the sedan and driven it along the edge of the fairway to the scene. The body had been lifted into the back of the sedan, Dr. Bradford had sat on the seat holding the head of his old friend on his lap, and Larry had taken the wheel.
Larry could remember nothing of the golf bag. Absolutely nothing. He knew the caddy���s story, that the bag had been placed in front leaning against the seat, but he could not remember seeing it there while driving or at any other time. He said that he had driven the six miles slowly and carefully, and that later, after getting home, he had found blood all along his lower lip where he had bit it. He was a better liar than his sister. If it had not been for her give-away I might have been fooled by his tale as he told it. I went after him from every angle I could think of, but he didn���t leak once.
I passed that up and asked him about the Kimballs. His story was the same as his sister���s. There had been no contact to speak of between the families; the only connection had been himself and Manuel, and the basis of that was Manuel���s convenience as owner and pilot of an airplane; Larry had intended to get one for himself as soon as he secured a license.
Then I asked the question that had started the fireworks with Mrs. Barstow before lunch. I asked both Larry and his sister, but not only was there no fireworks, there was nothing at all. They declared that they knew of no one who had a serious grievance against their father, or hatred or enmity for him, and that it was unthinkable that there ever should have been such a person. In his remarkable career-he had achieved the presidency of Holland University at forty-eight, ten years before-he had many times faced opposition, but he had always known the trick of melting it instead of crushing it. His private life had been confined to his own home.
His son, I gathered, had had deep respect for him and a certain affection; his daughter had loved him. They agreed that no one could have hated him; and as his daughter told me that, knowing what I had heard from her mother���s lips oniy three hours previously, her eyes challenged me and appealed to me at once.
Next Dr. Bradford. I turned to Miss Barstow oti that instead of her brother. The v~ av the thing seemed to shaping up excellently some hesitation at1 covering, but there certainly was no sign of it. She told me, simply, that Bradford had been a schoolmate at college with her father, that they had always been close friends, and that Bradford, who was a widower, had been almost like one of the family, especially during the summer since he was then also a neighbor. He had been the family physician, and it was on him they had chiefly relied to remove Mrs. Barstow���s difficulty, though he had called in specialists to assist.
“Do you like him?” I asked
“Like him?”
“Yes. Do you like Dr. Bradford?”
“Certainly. He is one of the best and finest men I know.
I turned to her brother. “Do you like him, Mr. Barstow?”
Larry frowned. He was tired; he had been pretty patient; I had been after him for two hours. “I like him well enough. He���s what my sister says all right, but he likes to preach. Not that he ever bothers me now, but when I was a kid I used to hide from him.”
“You arrived here from the university Saturday noon. Was Dr. Bradford here between that hour and Sunday at two?”
“I don���t know��� Oh yes, sure. He was here Saturday for dinner.”
“Do you think there is any chance that he killed your father?”
Larry stared. “Oh, for God���s sake. Is that supposed to shock me into something?”
“Do you, Miss Barstow?”
“Nonsense.”
“All right, nonsense. Anyhow, who suggested first that Bradford should certify it as a heart stroke? Which one of you? Him?”
Larry glared at me. His sister said quietly, “You said you wanted me here to see the agreement was observed. Well, Mr. Goodwin. I���ve been patient enough.”
“Okay. I���ll lay off of that.” I turned to her brother. “You���re sore again, Mr. Barstow. Forget it. People like you aren���t used to impertinence, but you���d be surprised how easy it is to let it slide and no harm done. There���s only a couple of things left. Where were you between seven o���clock and midnight on Monday evening, June fifth?”
He still glared. “I don���t know. How do I know?”
“You can remember. This isn���t another impertinence; I seriously request you to tell me. Monday, June fifth. Your father���s funeral was on Tuesday. I���m asking about the evening before the funeral.”
Miss Barstow said, “I can tell you.”
“I���d rather he would, as a favor.”
the servants, and the He did.
“There���s no reason I shouldn���t. Or should either. I was here, at home.”
“All evening?”
“Yes.”
“Who else was here?”
“My mother and sister, the Robertsons.”
“The Robertsons?”
“I said so.”
His sister spoke. “The Robertsons are old friends. Mr. and Mrs. Blair Robertson and two daughters.”
“What time did they come?”
“Right after dinner. We hadn���t finished. Around seven-thirty.”
“Was Dr. Bradford here?”
“No.”
“Wasn���t that peculiar?”
“Peculiar? Why? But yes, of course it was. He had to address a meeting in New York, some professional meeting.”
“I see. Thank you, Miss Barstow.” I turned back to her brother. “I have one more question. A request rather. Does Manuel Kimball have a telephone at his hangar?”
“Yes.”
“Will you telephone him that I am coming to see him and that you would like him to give me an interview?”
“No. Why should I?”
Miss Barstow told me, “You have no right to ask it. If you wish to see Mr. Kimball that is your business.”
“Correct.” I closed my notebook and got up. “Positively correct. But I have no official standing in this affair. If I call on Manuel Kimball on my own he���ll just kick me out on my own. He���s a friend of the family, anyway he thinks so. I need an introduction.”
“Sure you need it.” Larry had got up too and was brushing grass from the seat of his trousers. “But you won���t get it. Where���s your hat, in the house?”
I nodded. “We can get it when you go in to telephone. Look here, it���s like this. I���ve got to ask you to phone Manuel Kimball, and the Robertsons, and the Green Meadow Club. That���s all I have on my mind at present, but there may be more later. I���ve got to go around and see people and find out things, and the easier you make it for me the easier it will be for you. Nero Wolfe knew enough, and told the police enough, to make them dig up your father���s body. That was a good deal, but he didn���t tell them everything. Do you want to force me to go to the District Attorney and spill enough more beans so that he will give me a ticket that will let me in wherever I want to go? He���s sore at us now because he knows we���re holding out on him. I���d just as soon go and make a friend of him, I don���t mind, I like to make friends. You folks certainly don���t. If this strikes you as some more blackmail, Mr. Barstow, I���ll just get my hat and call it a day as far as you���re concerned.”
It was a crime, but I had to do it. The trouble with those two, especially the brother, was that they were so used to being safe and independent and dignified all their lives that they kept forgetting how scared they were and had to be reminded. But they we
re plenty scared when it came to the point, and if I had cared to make them a present of all my ideas that afternoon I would have had to admit that it looked to me as if they had reason to be scared.
They gave in, of course. We went into the house together, and Sarah Barstow telephoned the Robertsons and her brother phoned the club and Manuel Kimball. I had decided that there wasn���t a chance in a million that I would get anything out of any of the servants, particularly if they had been trained by that tall skinny butler, so as soon as the telephoning was over I got my panama from the hall and beat it.
Larry Barstow went with me out to the side terrace, I suppose to make sure that I didn���t sneak hack in and listen at keyholes. Just as we came to the steps a car rolled along the drive and stopped in front of us. A man got out, anol I had the pleasure of a good grin as I saw it was H. H. Corbett, the dick from Anderson���s office who had tried to crash the gate at Wolfe���s house the morning I was acting as doorman. I passed him a cheerful salute and was going on, but he called to me: “Hey, you!”
I stopped and turned. Larry Barstow stood on the terrace watching us. I said, “Did you address me, sir?”
Corhett was moving into my neighborhood. He paid no attention to niy fast one. “What the hell are you doing here?”
I stood and grinned at him a second and then turned to Larry Barstow on the terrace. “Since this is your home, Mr. Barstow, maybe it would he better if you would tell him what the hell I���m doing here.”
It was plain from the look on Larry���s face that although he might never send me a Christmas card, I would get one long before Corbett would. He said to the dick, “Mr. Goodwin has been here at my sister���s invitation, to consult with us. He will probably be here again. Would you like to investigate that?”
Corbett grunted and glared at me. “Maybe you���d like a trip to White Plains.”
“Not at all.” I shook my head. “I don���t like the town, it���s so slow you can���t get a bet down.” I started to move off. “So long, Corbett. I don���t wish you any bad luck, because even with good luck you won���t have much of a tombstone.”
Without bothering to think up an answer to the threats and warnings he tossed at my back, I went over to the roadster where it was parked, got in and turned around, and rolled off.
CHAPTER 10
I went to the Robertson’s first because I knew it wouldn���t take long and I might as well get it done. Mrs. Robertson and both ot the daughters were at home, and expecting me after Sarah Barstow���s phone call. They said they had been at the Barstow���s the evening of June fifth, the day before the funeral, arriving well before eight o���clock and leaving after midnight. They were certain that Larry and Sarah and Mrs. Barstow had been present the entire evening. I made sure there was no possibility of a mistake about the date, and then tried a few casual questions about the Barstow family but soon gave it up. The Robertsons weren���t discussing their old friends that afternoon with a stranger; they wouldn’t even let on that Mrs. Barstow was otherwise than completely all right, not aware of how much I knew.
I got to the Kimball place a little after five o���clock. It wasn���t as dressed up as the Barstow estate, but was much larger; I drove over half a mile after I entered their private road. It was mostly on low ground, with some of the old stone fences still running through the meadows and a couple of brooks wandering around. Some woods were at the left. The house was on a knoll in a park of evergreens, with a well-kept lawn not very large and no sign of flowers that I could see as I drove up. Not as big as the Barstows, the house was brand-new, wood with panels and a high steep slate roof, one of the styles that I lumped all together and called Queen William.
Back of the house, over the knoll, was an immense flat meadow. I was sent in that direction, along a narrow graveled drive, by a fat man in a butler���s uniform who came out of the house as I drove up. In the large meadow were no stone fences; it was level and clean and recently mowed and was certainly perfect for a private landing field. On the edge about halfway down its length was a low concrete building with a flat roof, and the graveled drive took me there. There was a wide and long concrete runway in front, and two cars were parked on it.
I found Manuel Kimball inside, washing his hands at a sink. The place was mostly full of airplane, a big one with black wings and a red body, sitting on its tail. In it tinkering with something was a man in overalls. Everything was neat and clean, with tools and oil cans and a lot of junk arranged on steel shelves that ran along one side. Beside the sink there was even a rack with three or four clean towels on it.
“My name���s Goodwin,” I said.
Kimball nodded. “Yes, I was expecting you. I���m through here for the day; we might as well go to the house and be comfortable.” He spoke to the man in overalls. “Let that wait till tomorrow if you want to, Skinner, I won���t be going up till afternoon.” When he had finished wiping his hands he led me out and took his car, and I got in the roadster and drove back to the house.
He was decent and polite, no doubt about that, even if he did look like a foreigner and had made me nervous at lunch. He took me into a large room in front and steered me to a big comfortable leather chair and told the fat butler to bring us some highballs. When he saw me looking around he said that the house had been furnished by his father and himself after their personal tastes, since there had been no women to consider and they both disliked decorators.
I nodded. “Miss Barstow told me your mother died a long time ago.”
I said it casually, without thinking, hut I always have my eye on whoever I���m talking to, and I was surprised at what went over his face. It was a spasm, you couldn���t call it anything else. It only lasted a fraction of a second, but for that moment something was certainly hurting him inside. I didn���t know whether it was just because I had mentioned his mother or he really had a pain; anyhow, I didn���t try it again.
He said, “I understand that you are investigating the death of Miss Barstow���s father.”
“Yes. At her request, in a way. Larry Barstow���s father too, and Mrs. Barstow���s husband, at the same time.”
He smiled and his black eyes swerved to me. “If that is your first question, Mr. Goodwin, it is neatly put. Bravo. The answer is no, I have no right to distinguish the dead man in that fashion. No right, that is, but my own inclination. I admire Miss Barstow-very much.”
“Good. So do I. It wasn���t a question, just a remark. What I really want to ask you about is what took place on the first tee that Sunday afternoon. I suppose you���ve told the story before.”
“Yes. Twice to a detective whose name is Corbett, I believe, and once to Mr. Anderson.”
“Then you ought to have it by heart. Would you mind telling it again?”
I sat back with my highball and listened without interrupting. I didn���t use my notebook because I already had Larry���s tale to check with and I could record any differences later. Manuel Kimball was precise and thorough. When he got through there was little left to ask, but there were one or two points I wasn���t satisfied on, particularly one on which he differed from Larry. Manuel said that after Barstow thought a wasp had stung him he had dropped his driver on the ground and his caddy had picked it up; Larry had said that his father had hung onto the driver with one hand when he was opening his shirt to see what had happened to him. Manuel said he felt sure he was right but didn���t insist on it if Larry remembered otherwise. It didn���t seem of great importance, since the driver had in any event got back into the bag, and in all other respects Manuel���s story tallied with Larry���s.
Encouraged by his sending for more highballs, I spread the conversation out a little. He didn���t seem to object. I learned that his father was a grain broker and went every day to his office in New York, on Pearl Street, and that he, Manuel, was co
nsidering the establishment of an airplane factory. He was, he said, a thoroughly skilled pilot, and he had spent a year at the Fackler works in Buffalo. His father had engaged to furnish the necessary capital, though he doubted the soundness of the venture and was entirely skeptical about airplanes. Manuel thought Larry Barstow showed promise of a real talent in structural design and hoped to be able to persuade him to take a share in the enterprise. He said: “Naturally Larry is not himself just at present, and I���m not trying to rush him. No wonder, first his father���s sudden death, and then the autopsy with its astonishing results. By the way, Mr. Goodwin, of course everybody around here is wondering how Nero Wolfe-that���s it, isn���t it?-how he was able to predict those results in such remarkable detail. Anderson, the District Attorney, hints at his own sources of information-he did so to me the other day, sitting in the chair you���re in now-but the truth of the matter is pretty generally known. At Green Meadow day before yesterday there were only two topics: who killed Barstow, and how Nero Wolfe found out. What are you going to do, disclose the answers to both riddles at the same dramatic moment?”
“Maybe. I hope so, Mr. Kimball. Anyway we won���t answer that last one first��� No, thanks, none for me. With another of your elegant highballs I might answer almost anything. They won���t come any better than that even after repeal.”
“Then by all means have one. Naturally, like everybody else, I���m curious. Nero Wolfe must be an extraordinary man.”
“Well, I���ll tell you.” I threw my head back to get the end of the highball, and with the slick ice-lumps sliding across my upper lip let the last rare drops tickle in, then suddenly came down with the glass and my chin at the same time. It was just one of my little tricks. All I saw was Manuel Kimball looking curious, and he had just said he was curious, so it couldn���t be said that I had made any subtle discovery. I said, “If Nero Wolfe isn���t extraordinary Napoleon never got higher than top-sergeant. I���m sorry I can���t tell you his secrets, but I���ve got to earn what he pays me somehow even if it���s only by keeping my mouth shut. Which reminds me.” I glanced at my wrist. “It must be about your dinner time. You���re been very hospitable, Mr. Kimball. I appreciate it, and so will Nero Wolfe.”
