by Rex Stout
The knife handle was brown plastic. I made another guess, as to why the weapon had been left in place this time, and to check it I crossed to an arch through which a refrigerator could be seen, and looked in. It was a nice little kitchenette. The second drawer I opened contained, among other items, two knives with brown plastic handles, one with a three-inch blade and one with a five-inch. The blade in Rennert’s chest was probably seven-inch. That supported my other guess. You don’t sneak a knife from your host’s kitchen drawer and take it to the living room to kill him with if his eyes are open and his muscles usable.
Having made two good guesses, I decided that would do for a Sunday morning. The idea of spending a couple of hours going over the place, even with rubber gloves, didn’t appeal to me. Being found in a man’s castle which you have entered illegally can be embarrassing, but if he is there with you with a knife in his chest, even if he has started to decompose, it can be really ticklish. I decided that I hadn’t really meant it when I thought it would be more interesting to be in jail. Besides, I had told Fritz I would be back in an hour or so.
I left. I used my handkerchief to wipe the only things I had touched with my bare fingers: the knob of the apartment door, the elevator door, and the button in the elevator. Before starting the elevator down I took off the rubber gloves and stuffed them in my pocket. Everything under control. I would wipe the button on the panel downstairs.
But I didn’t. When the elevator stopped at the bottom, naturally I took a look through the square of glass before I opened the door. No one was in view in the lobby, but in a tenth of a second there would be. The door to the vestibule was being pushed open from the outside by a little guy in his shirt sleeves, and towering behind him was the big square face of Sergeant Purley Stebbins. At a moment like that you don’t use your head because there isn’t time. You use your finger, to press the “2” button in the elevator. Which I did. Electricity is wonderful; the elevator started up. When it stopped at the second floor, I stepped out. When the door closed, the elevator started down, showing that someone had pushed the button in the lobby. Really wonderful.
I stood in the little hall. It was now a question of odds. There was one chance in a thousand trillion that Purley would get out at the second floor, but if he did all the gods in heaven obviously had it in for me and I was sunk no matter what I did. The elevator went on by, and I made for the stairs. There was one chance in a thousand that the shirt-sleeved guy, who had to be the janitor-I beg his pardon, building superintendent-had stayed in the lobby instead of going up with Purley to let him in Rennert’s apartment, but if so only a couple of minor gods were against me, and I could cope with them. I descended and found the lobby empty. Now the odds were the other way. It was fifty to one that there was a police car outside with a man in it, and ten to one that if I emerged to the sidewalk he would see me. That was simple; I didn’t emerge. I went to the vestibule and pressed the button by Rennert’s name and took the receiver from the hook. In a moment a voice came. “Who is it?”
I told the grill, “It’s Archie Goodwin, Mr Rennert. You may remember I was here ten days ago. You didn’t like the deal I offered, but I’ve got a new angle that makes it different. I think you ought to hear it. I’m pretty sure it will appeal to you.”
“All right, come on up.”
The buzz sounded, and I opened the door and entered, went to the elevator, and pushed the button to bring it down. That button wouldn’t have to be wiped now. When it came I stepped in and pushed the “4” button. When I got out at the fourth floor my face was ready with a friendly grin for Rennert, but at sight of Sergeant Stebbins my mouth opened in shocked surprise and I gawked.
“Not you ,” I said.
“This is just too goddam pat,” he said. He sounded a little hoarse. He whirled to Shirt-sleeves, who was in the doorway. Take a look at this man. Have you seen him hanging around?”
“No, Sergeant, I haven’t.” The building superintendent looked a little sick. “I never saw him before. Excuse me, I’ve got to-”
“Don’t touch anything in there!”
“Then I’ve got to-” He dashed to the stairs and was gone.
“I wish I had been hanging around,” I said. “I might have seen the murderer enter or leave, or both. How long has Rennert been dead?”
“How do you know he’s dead?”
“Now come. Not only you here and the mood you’re in, but also him looking for somewhere to puke. Was it today? Was he stabbed like the others?”
He advanced a step, to arm’s length. “I want to know exactly why you came here at exactly this time.” He was hoarser. “I had been at that Jacobs place five minutes, and there you came. I’ve been here three minutes, and here you come. You didn’t come to see Rennert. You’d ring his number first to see if he was here. You knew damn well it wasn’t him that asked you who it is. You knew it was me. You’re good on voices. And you’re good at lies, and I’ve had enough of ’em. You puke. Puke a little truth.”
“You would too,” I said.
“I would too what?”
“Ring his number first. And when you ring a number and get no answer, do you always assume that the ringee is dead and go to see? I should hope not. Why did you come here at exactly this time?”
His jaw worked. “Okay, I’ll tell you. The janitor got a phone call Friday from the people where Rennert was supposed to go for the weekend, and another one yesterday. He thought Rennert had just decided to go somewhere else, and he didn’t want to enter the apartment, but he phoned the Missing Persons Bureau. They thought it was just another false alarm, but this morning someone at the bureau remembered he had seen Rennert’s name on a report and called us. Now it’s your turn, and by God, I want it straight! And fast!”
I was frowning thoughtfully. “It’s too bad,” I said, “that I always seem to rub you the wrong way. As sore as you are, the best thing you could do would be to take me down and book me, but I don’t know what for. It’s not even a misdemeanor to ring a man’s doorbell. What I would like to do is help, since I’m here. If you’ve only been here three minutes you haven’t had time to try all the tests, and maybe he’s not dead. I’d be glad to-”
“Get going!” His hands were fists, and a muscle at the side of his neck was working. “Get!”
I didn’t take the elevator. Purley knew that the natural thing would be for me to find the janitor and pump him, so I took the stairs. He had made it all the way to the basement. I found him there, pale and upset. He was too sick to talk, or too scared, or he may have thought I was the murderer. I told him the best thing was strong hot tea, no sugar, found my way to the sidewalk, and headed for home. I walked, taking my time. There was no point in disturbing Wolfe in the plant rooms, since there was no emergency. Rennert’s belly had already turned green, and another half an hour wouldn’t matter.
I had returned the keys and rubber gloves to the drawers, and fixed myself a gin and tonic because I wanted to swallow something and the idea of milk or water didn’t seem to appeal to my stomach, and was looking at the sports section of the Times when Wolfe came down. We exchanged good mornings, and he went to the only chair in the world he really approved of, sat, rang for beer, and said I might as well go for a walk. He has some sort of an idea that my going for a walk is good for him.
“I already have,” I told him. “I found another corpse, this time in an advanced condition. Kenneth Rennert.”
“I’m in no mood for flummery. Take a walk.”
“No flummery.” I put the paper down. “I dialed Rennert’s number and got no answer. I walked to his address and rang the bell and got no answer. Happening to have keys and rubber gloves with me, and thinking I might find something interesting, I went in and up to his apartment. For three or four days he has been lying on a couch with a knife in his chest, and is still there. So is the knife. He was probably fed a dose in a drink before-”
I stopped because he was having a fit. He had closed his right hand to make a fis
t and was hitting the desk with it, and he was bellowing. He was roaring something in a language that was probably the one he had used as a boy in Montenegro, the one that he and Marko Vukcic had sometimes talked. He had roared like that when he heard that Marko had been killed, and on three other occasions over the years. Fritz, entering with beer, stopped and looked at me reproachfully. Wolfe quit bellowing as abruptly as he had started, glared at Fritz, and said coldly, “Take that back. I don’t want it.”
“But it will do-”
“Take it back. I shall drink no beer until I get my fingers around the creature’s throat. And I shall eat no meat.”
“But impossible! The squabs are marinating!”
“Throw them out.”
“Wait a minute,” I objected. “What about Fritz and Theodore and me? Okay, Fritz. We’ve had a shock. I shall eat no boiled cucumbers.”
Fritz opened his mouth, closed it again, turned, and went. Wolfe, his fists on the desk, commanded me, “Report.”
Six minutes would have been enough for it, but I thought it would be well to give him time to calm down a little, so I stretched it to ten, and when I ran out of facts I continued, “I would want full price, no discount, for my two guesses-that the knife came from his kitchen drawer, and that he was drugged, unconscious, when he was stabbed. I have another guess on which I’d allow five per cent off for cash, no more-that he had been dead eighty hours. Between eighty and eighty-five. He was killed late Wednesday night. X went straight to him after killing Jane Ogilvy. If he had put it off until after the news about Jane Ogilvy was out, Rennert would have been too much on his guard to let X put something in his drink. Rennert may or may not have suspected that X had killed Simon Jacobs, since nothing had been published connecting his death with the plagiarism charge he had made three years ago. But if Rennert had known about Jane Ogilvy too, he certainly would have suspected. Hell, he would have known. So X couldn’t wait, and he didn’t. He went to Rennert to discuss their claim against Mortimer Oshin, knowing that Rennert would offer him a drink. He offered me one before I had been in his place three minutes.”
I stopped for breath. Wolfe opened his fists and worked his fingers.
“Three comments,” I said. “First, one question is answered-whether Rennert’s operation was independent or was one of X’s string. X has answered that for us. I admit it doesn’t help any, with Rennert dead, but it makes it neater, and you like things neat. Second, with Rennert dead, his claim against Mortimer Oshin is dead too, and Oshin may want his ten grand back, and the committee may fire you tomorrow, and the Alice Porter surveillance is costing over three hundred bucks a day. Third, your beer and meat pledge. We’ll ignore it. You were temporarily off your nut. This is tough enough as it is, and with you starving and dying of thirst it would be impossible.” I left my chair. “I’ll bring the beer.”
“No.” He made fists again. “I have committed myself. Sit down.”
“God help us,” I said, and sat.
Chapter 14
We were in conference, off and on, all the rest of the day, with time out for meals. The meals were dismal. Squab marinated in light cream, rolled in flour seasoned with salt, pepper, nutmeg, clove, thyme, and crushed juniper berries, sauteed in olive oil, and served on toast spread with red currant jelly, with Madeira cream sauce poured over it, is one of Wolfe’s favourite tidbits. He ordinarily consumes three of them, though I have known him to make it four. That day I wanted to eat in the kitchen, but no. I had to sit and down my two while he grimly pecked away at his green peas and salad and cheese. The Sunday-evening snack was just as bad. He usually has something like cheese and anchovy spread or pвtй de foie gras or herring in sour cream, but apparently the meat pledge included fish. He ate crackers and cheese and drank four cups of coffee. Later, in the office, he finished off a bowl of pecans, and then went to the kitchen for a brush and pan to collect the bits of shell on his desk and the rug. He sure was piling on the agony.
In the state he was in now, he would have been willing to try one or more of the routine lines, even one the cops had already covered or were covering, if it had offered any hope at all. We discussed all of them, and I made a list:
Combing Rennert’s apartment and Jane Ogilvy’s cloister.
Trying to pry something out of Mrs Jacobs and Mr and Mrs Ogilvy.
Getting names of everybody who had known of the plan to go after Jacobs, analyzing them, and seeing those who were at all possible.
Trying to trace Jacobs to his meeting with X Monday evening, 25th May.
Trying to find someone who had seen a car parked in the lane back of the cloister Wednesday evening, 27th May.
Trying to find someone who had seen X, any stranger, entering the 37th Street building Wednesday night, 27th May.
Seeing a few hundred of the friends and associates of Jacobs, Jane Ogilvy, and Rennert, to find out if all three of them had been acquainted with a certain person or persons.
Trying to learn how Jacobs and Jane Ogilvy had disposed of the loot they got from Richard Echols and the estate of Marjorie Lippin; and supposing they had transferred a big share of it to X, trying to trace the transfers. Also the loot Alice Porter had got from Ellen Sturdevant.
Trying on Alice Porter the approach we had meant to try on Jane Ogilvy. Or trying to throw a scare into her. Or trying to get from Ellen Sturdevant and her publishers, McMurray & Co., an agreement not to prosecute or demand repayment if Alice Porter would identify X.
Get a membership list of the NAAD and go over it, name by name, with Cora Bollard.
Have a couple of hundred copies made of “There Is Only Love,” “What’s Mine Is Yours,” and “On Earth but Not in Heaven,” and send them to editors and book reviewers, with a letter citing the internal evidence that they had all been written by the same person, and asking if they knew of any published material, or, with editors, submitted material, apparently by that person.
During the discussion of this last item Wolfe had before him the manuscripts of the first two, and the copy of the third, they having been returned by Cramer Friday afternoon as agreed.
There were other suggestions that I didn’t bother to put down. To each of the items listed I could have added the objections and difficulties, but they’re so obvious, especially to the routine ones, the first eight, that I didn’t think it was necessary.
The stymie was the motive. In ninety-nine murder investigations out of a hundred it gets narrowed down before long to just a few people who had motives, often only two or three, and you go on from there. This time the motive had been out in full view from the start; the trouble was, who had it? It could be anyone within reach who could read and write and drive a car-say five million in the metropolitan area, and except for Alice Porter there was absolutely no pointer. She was still alive at midnight Sunday. Orrie Cather, phoning from Carmel at twelve-twenty-three to report that Saul Panzer had relieved him on schedule, said that the light in the house had gone out at ten-fifty-two and all had been quiet since. Wolfe had gone up to bed, leaving it that we would decide in the morning how to tackle Alice Porter.
In the kitchen at a quarter to nine Monday morning, as I was pouring a third cup of coffee, Fritz asked me what I was nervous about. I said I wasn’t nervous. He said of course I was, I had been jerky for the last ten minutes, and I was taking a third cup of coffee. I said everybody in that house was too damned observant. He said, “See? You’re very nervous”-and I took the coffee to the office.
I was nervous. Fred Durkin had phoned at seven-thirty-nine to say that he was on his way to relieve Saul, and Dol Bonner was with him, and Saul should have phoned by eight-twenty to report, certainly not later than eight-thirty, and he hadn’t. He still hadn’t at eight-forty-five. If it had been Fred or Orrie I would have thought it was probably some little snag like a flat tire, but Saul has never had a flat tire and never will. At nine o’clock I was sure there was some kind of hell to pay. At nine-fifteen I was sure that Alice Porter was dead. At nine-twenty
I was sure that Saul was dead too. When the phone rang at nine-twenty-five I grabbed it and barked at it, “Well?”-which is no way to answer a phone.
“Archie?”
“Yes.”
“Saul. We’ve got a circus up here.”
I was so relieved to hear that all he had was a circus that I grinned at him. “You don’t say. Did you get bit by a lion?”
“No. I got bit by a deputy sheriff and a state cop. Fred didn’t show, and at eight-fifteen I went to where my car was hid. He was there, refusing to answer questions being asked by a deputy sheriff of Putnam County. Standing by was an old friend of yours, Sergeant Purley Stebbins.”
“Oh. Ah.”
“Yeah. Stebbins told the DS that I was another one of Nero Wolfe’s operatives. That’s all Stebbins said the whole time. He was leaving it to the DS, who said plenty. Evidently Fred had shown his driving license and then clammed. I thought that was a little extreme, especially with Stebbins there, and I supplied some essential details, but that didn’t help any. The DS took both of us for trespassing and loitering, and then he added disturbing the peace. He used the radio in his car, and pretty soon a state cop came. On that dirt road it was a traffic jam. The state cop brought us to Carmel, and we are being held. This is my phone call to my lawyer. Apparently the DS is going to loiter near that house, and maybe Stebbins is too. On the way here we stopped for a couple of minutes on the blacktop where another state car was parked behind Dol Bonner’s car at the roadside. Where she had had it behind some trees I suppose she was trespassing. She and a state cop were standing there chatting. If they have brought her on to Carmel I haven’t seen her. I’m talking from a booth in the building where the sheriff’s office is. The number of the sheriff’s office is Carmel 53466.”
