Plot It Yourself

by Rex Stout

“I agree. But we don’t.”

  “I could scout around in the morning and probably find out. We have a lot of names of people he has borrowed money from.”

  He vetoed it. He said he wanted me at hand, and a call might come at any time of the day or night from Saul Panzer or Fred Durkin or Orrie Cather or Dol Bonner or Sally Corbett that would require immediate action. Also Philip Harvey had phoned twice, and Cora Ballard once, to ask if he could be present at a meeting of the NAAD council on Monday, and they would probably phone again tomorrow, and he didn’t want to listen to them. That settled, he went up to bed. At eleven-forty-two Saul Panzer called, from a booth in Carmel, to say that he was on his way to relieve Orrie Cather. At twelve-eighteen Orrie called, also from Carmel, to report that the light had gone out a little before eleven in Alice Porter’s house, and presumably she was safe in bed. I mounted two flights to mine.

  Friday morning I was pulling my pants on when Fred Durkin phoned that he was on his way to relieve Saul, and Dol Bonner was with him, to go on post near the junction of the blacktop and the dirt road. I was in the kitchen, pouring hot maple syrup on a waffle, with the Times propped on the rack, when Saul phoned to say that when he left at eight o’clock Alice Porter had been hoeing in the vegetable garden. I was in the office, re-reading copies of the statements I had given the two assistant DAs, when Cora Ballard phoned to ask if Wolfe would come to the NAAD council meeting, which would be held at the Clover Club on Monday at twelve-thirty. If Wolfe preferred to join them after lunch two o’clock would do, or even two-thirty. When I reminded her that he never left the house on business she said she knew that, but this was an emergency. I said it wasn’t much of an emergency that set a meeting three days off, and she said that with authors and dramatists two or three weeks was the best she could usually do, and anyway it was the Memorial Day weekend, and could she speak with Mr Wolfe. I told her he wasn’t available and it wouldn’t do any good even if he was, and what he would certainly say was that he would send me. If they wanted me, let me know.

  I was filing the copies of the statements in the folder marked PLAGIARISM, JOINT COMMITTEE ON when Inspector Cramer phoned to say that he would drop in for a few minutes about a quarter past eleven. I told him he would probably be admitted. I was listening to the ten-o’clock news broadcast when Lon Cohen phoned to say it was high time I loosened up. They had five different pictures of me in the morgue, and they would run the best one, the one that made me look almost human, as the discoverer of Jane Ogilvy’s body, if I would supply some interesting detail like why had two people who had collected damages on plagiarism charges been croaked within forty-eight hours. Any fool knew damn well it wasn’t coincidence, so what was it? I told him I would ask the DA and call him back.

  I was tearing yesterday’s page from Wolfe’s desk calendar when the president of the National Association of Authors and Dramatists phoned. His name was Jerome Tabb. I had read one of his books. Wolfe had read four of them, and all four were still on the shelves, none of them dog-eared. They had all been A’s. He was a VIP even by Wolfe’s standards, and Wolfe would undoubtedly have liked to speak with him, but the rule was never buzz the plant rooms for a phone call except in extreme emergency. Tabb had just had a call from Cora Ballard, and he wanted to tell Wolfe how important it was for him to be present at the council meeting on Monday. He was leaving town for the weekend, and he would like me to give Wolfe this message, that the officers and council of the NAAD would deeply appreciate it if he would arrange to meet with them.

  When Wolfe came down at eleven I reported the phone calls in chronological order, which put Tabb last. When I finished he sat and glared at me but said nothing. He was stuck. He knew that I knew he would like to speak with Jerome Tabb, but he couldn’t very well jump me for obeying the rules. So he took another tack. Glaring at me, he said, “You were too emphatic with Miss Ballard and Mr Tabb. I may decide to go to that meeting.” Absolutely childish. It called for a cutting reply, and one was on its way to my tongue when the doorbell rang and I had to skip it.

  It was Cramer. When I opened the door he marched by me with no greeting but an excuse for a nod, and on to the office. I followed. Wolfe told him good morning and invited him to sit, but he stood.

  “I’ve only got a minute,” he said. “So your theory was right.”

  Wolfe grunted. “My theory and yours.”

  “Yeah. It’s too bad that Ogilvy girl had to die to prove it.”

  He stopped. Wolfe asked, “Will you sit? As you know. I like eyes at a level.”

  “I can’t stay. The Ogilvy homicide was in the Bronx, but obviously it’s tied in with Jacobs’s, so it’s mine. You can save me a lot of time and trouble. If we have to we can find out from about fifty people how many of them you told that you were going to put the squeeze on Jane Ogilvy, and which ones, but it’s simpler to ask you. So I’m asking.”

  “Mr Goodwin has already answered that question several times. To the District Attorney.”

  “I know he has, and I don’t believe him. I think you bungled again. I think you picked certain people out of the bunch that had known you were going after Jacobs-I don’t know how you picked them, but you do-you picked certain ones and let them know you were going after Jane Ogilvy. Then you sent a man or men, probably Panzer and Durkin, to cover her, and they slipped up. Maybe they didn’t know about that lane in back. Maybe they didn’t even know about that building she called the cloister. Cloister my ass. I want to know who you told and why. If you won’t tell me I’ll find out the hard way, and when we get this cleared up and we know which one killed her, and we know he killed her because he knew you were going after her, and he knew because you or Goodwin had told him, this will be the time you lose a leg. I’ve got just one question: are you going to tell me?”

  “I’ll answer it in a moment.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “First I remind you that you are to return that stuff to me by seven o’clock this evening-less than eight hours from now. You haven’t forgotten that?”

  “No. You’ll have it.”

  “Good. As for your question, I don’t resent it. I blundered so lamentably with Simon Jacobs that it’s no wonder you suspect me of an even bigger blunder with Jane Ogilvy. If I had I would confess it, abandon the case, and close my office permanently. I didn’t. No one knew of our intention to tackle Jane Ogilvy but Mr Goodwin and me.”

  “So you’re not telling.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. Mr Goodwin has-”

  “Go to hell.” He turned and marched out. I went to the hall to see that when the door banged he was outside. As I stepped back in the phone rang. It was Mortimer Oshin, wanting to know if Philip Harvey had notified Wolfe that his arrangement with the committee was terminated. I said no, apparently that was to be discussed by the NAAD council on Monday. He said that if and when it was terminated he wanted to engage Wolfe personally, and I said it was nice to know that.

  Wolfe, not bothering to comment on Cramer, told me to take my notebook and dictated a letter to a guy in Chicago, declining a request to come and give a talk at the annual banquet of the Midwest Association of Private Inquiry Agents. Then one, a long one, to a woman in Nebraska who had written to ask if it was possible to fatten a capon so that its liver would make as good a pвtй as that of a fattened goose. Then others. I agree in principle with his notion that no letter should go unanswered, but of course he can always hand one to me and say, “Answer that,” and often does. We were on one to a man in Atlanta, saying that he couldn’t undertake to find a daughter who had left for New York a month ago and had never written, when Fritz announced lunch. As we were crossing the hall the phone rang, and I went back to get it. It was Fred Durkin.

  “I’m in Carmel.” He had his mouth too close to the transmitter, as usual. He’s a good operative, but he has his faults. “The subject left the house at twelve forty-two and got in her car and drove off. She had been wearing slacks, but she had changed to a dress. I had to wait till she was out of sight to le
ave cover, then I went to my car and followed, but of course she was gone. Dol Bonner’s car wasn’t at her post, so she picked her up. Neither of their cars is parked here in the centre of town. Shall I ask around to find out which way they went?”

  “No. Go back and hide your car again and take cover. Somebody might come and wait there for her.”

  “It’s a hell of a long wait.”

  “Yeah, I know. The first two weeks are the hardest. Study nature. There’s plenty of it around there.”

  I joined Wolfe in the dining room, took my seat, and relayed the news. He grunted and picked up his napkin.

  An hour and ten minutes later we were back in the office, finishing with the mail, when the phone interrupted; and when a soft but businesslike voice said, “This is Dol Bonner,” I motioned to Wolfe to get on.

  “Yes, Miss Bonner,” I said. “Where are you?”

  “In a phone booth in a drugstore. At twelve forty-nine the subject’s car came out of the dirt road and turned left on the blacktop. I followed. She went to the Taconic State Parkway, no stops, and headed south. At Hawthorne Circle she took the Saw Mill River. I nearly lost her twice but got her again. She left the West Side Highway at Nineteenth Street. She put her car in a parking lot on Christopher Street and walked here, five blocks. I found a space at the kerb.”

  “Where is here?”

  “This drugstore is at the corner of Arbor Street and Bailey Street. She went in the vestibule at Forty-two Arbor Street and pushed a button, and waited half a minute, and opened the door and entered. That was eight minutes ago. I can’t see the entrance from the booth, so if you want-”

  “Did you say Forty-two?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hold it.” I turned to Wolfe. “Amy Wynn lives at Forty-two Arbor Street.”

  “Indeed. This is Nero Wolfe, Miss Bonner. Can you see the entrance from where your car is parked?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then go to your car. If she comes out, follow her. Mr Goodwin will join you if you’re still there when he arrives. Satisfactory?”

  We hung up. We looked at each other. “Nonsense,” Wolfe growled.

  “Close to it,” I agreed. “But it’s possible. You told them Wednesday that it could be that one of them was it. If I had voted, Amy Wynn wouldn’t have been my choice, but it’s possible. Simon Jacobs was no athlete. If she had him in a car she could have sunk a knife in him. Certainly Jane Ogilvy would have been no problem. And for Alice Porter she has a double motive-not only to keep her from blabbing the Ellen Sturdevant operation but also to settle the claim Alice Porter has made against her . That’s one way to settle a claim out of court. I wouldn’t think she would pick her own apartment as the best place for it, but you said she was close to panic-only you said ‘he.’ Also she might have some original and nifty plan for getting rid of a body. She or he is quite a planner, you can’t deny that. I could go and drop in on her and say I’m making the rounds of the committee members, to ask them not to fire you. If I was too late to save Alice Porter’s life I would at least be in time to interfere with her body-disposal plan.”

  “Pfui.”

  “Cramer won’t think it’s phooey if Alice Porter is number three, another homicide in his jurisdiction, and he learns that you had Dol Bonner there in a car with her eye on the door. Your crack about closing your office permanently may turn out-”

  The phone rang, and I got it. It was Reuben Imhof. He asked for Wolfe, and Wolfe got on.

  “Something interesting,” Imhof said. “I just had a phone call from Amy Wynn. Alice Porter rang her this morning and said she wanted to come and see her. If Miss Wynn had told me about it, I would probably have advised her not to see her, but she didn’t. Anyway, Alice Porter is there with her now, in her apartment. She offers to settle her claim for twenty thousand dollars cash. Miss Wynn wants to know if I think she should accept the offer. I told her no. It looks to me as if the two murders have got Alice Porter scared. She suspects they were committed by the man who got her to make the claim on Ellen Sturdevant, and if he’s caught he may talk, and she’ll be sunk, and she wants to get what she can quick and clear out. What do you think?”

  “You are probably correct. My offhand opinion.”

  “Yes. That’s the way it looks. But after I hung up I wasn’t so sure I had given Miss Wynn good advice. Alice Porter would probably take half the amount she named, even less. If Miss Wynn can get a general release for, say, five thousand dollars perhaps that’s what she ought to do. If she doesn’t she may eventually have to pay ten times that, or more. On the other hand, if you or the police get the man you’re after and rip it open, she won’t have to pay anything. So I’m asking you. Shall I call Miss Wynn and advise her to make a deal if she can get one for ten thousand or less, or not?”

  Wolfe grunted. “You can’t expect me to answer that. Miss Wynn is not my client, and neither are you. As a member of the committee you may ask me if I expect to expose that swindler and murderer.”

  “All right, I do.”

  “The answer is yes. Soon or late, he is doomed.”

  “That suits me. Then I won’t call her.”

  Wolfe cradled the phone and gave me a look, with a corner of his mouth slanting up.

  “Okay.” I left my chair. “I only said it was possible. Would it be a good idea for me to help Dol Bonner tail her back to Carmel?”

  “No.”

  “Any special instructions for Miss Bonner?”

  “No. Presumably she will find Miss Corbett at her post.”

  I beat it.

  Chapter 13

  Forty-two hours later, at nine o’clock Sunday morning, as I put down my empty coffee cup, thanked Fritz for the meal, and headed for the office, I told myself aloud, “What a hell of a way to spend a Memorial Day weekend.” I had been invited to the country. I had been invited to a boat in the Sound. I had been invited to accompany a friend to Yankee Stadium that afternoon. And here I was. The only reason I was up and dressed was that the phone had roused me at twenty to eight, Fred calling to say that he was on his way to relieve Saul; and half an hour later Saul had reported that Alice Porter slept late on Sunday, which was the most exciting piece of news I had heard for quite a while. On Friday, tailed by Dol Bonner, she had driven from Arbor Street straight back to Carmel, done some shopping at a supermarket and a drugstore, and then home.

  Entering the office, I went to my desk and started to plow through the mountain of the Sunday Times -my copy; Wolfe’s was up in his room-for the section I looked at first. I yanked it out, scowled at it, said aloud, “Oh nuts,” and tossed it on the floor. Either I had meant it when I thought to myself last night, as I sat watching a cowboy take off his boots and wiggle his toes on TV, that it would be more interesting to be in jail, or I hadn’t. If I had it was up to me. I would be losing nothing if I got nabbed for a misdemeanor or even a minor felony. I went to the phone, dialed the number of Kenneth Rennert’s apartment, got no answer after thirteen rings, and hung up. I went to a cabinet and unlocked a drawer, took out six boxes of assorted keys, and spent twenty minutes making selections. From another drawer I got a pair of rubber gloves. I went to the kitchen and told Fritz I was going for a walk and would be back in an hour or so, and left the house. It was only a twenty-minute stroll.

  I was not actually determined to get tossed in the coop. I thought I might find something helpful in Rennert’s nice big room. I knew from past experience that Wolfe would have approved, but if I had told him in advance he would have been responsible, me being his agent, and it was fair for him to share the risk of my law-breaking when it was his idea, but not when it was mine. I wasn’t hoping to find evidence that Rennert was X, but there was a chance of digging up something to indicate that X had instigated his claim against Mortimer Oshin, or that he hadn’t. Either one would help a little, and I might get more.

  After pushing the Rennert button in the vestibule three times, with waits between, and getting no reaction, I started to work on the doo
r. My position on locks is about the same as on fingerprints-I couldn’t qualify as an expert witness, but I have picked up a lot of pointers. Of course I had noticed on my previous visit that the street-door lock and the one upstairs were both Hansens. Anywhere and everywhere you go you should always notice the kind of lock, in case it becomes necessary at some future time to get in without help.

  Hansens are good locks, but I had a good assortment. I was under no pressure; if someone had appeared from either direction, I was merely using the wrong key. In three minutes, maybe less, I got it and was inside. The elevator wasn’t there; I pushed the button to bring it down, entered, and pushed the “4” button. The door to the apartment took longer than the one downstairs because I was too stubborn in trying to make the same key do, but finally I had it I swung the door gently six inches and stood with my ear cocked. At that hour Sunday morning Rennert might have ignored the phone and the doorbell. Hearing nothing except traffic sounds from the street, I swung the door farther and entered the nice big room.

  He was lying on the nice big couch, on his back. One swift glance, even from a distance, was enough to show that he wasn’t asleep. His face was so swollen that no one would have dreamed of calling him handsome, and the handle of a knife was protruding from his chest, which was bare because the dressing gown he had on was open in front down to the belt. I crossed over. The skin of his belly was green. I pressed a finger on the skin at a couple of spots below the ribs; it was tight and rubbery. I put on the rubber gloves and removed one of his slippers and tried the toes; they were flabby. I bent over to get my nose an inch from his open mouth and inhaled; once was enough. He had been dead at least two days, and probably three or four.

  I looked around; no sign of a disturbance or search. On a stand near the head of the couch were a half-full bottle of bourbon, two tall glasses, a pack of cigarettes, a book of matches with the flap open, and an ashtray with nothing in it. Having made a guess, that a guy of Rennert’s build and condition wouldn’t lie quietly on his back while someone stuck a knife in him unless he had been somehow processed, which was sound, I stopped to smell the glasses, which was dumb. The best-known drug for a Mickey Finn has almost no taste or odor, and even if it had, it couldn’t be detected by the naked nose after three or four days.