by Rex Stout
It was up to me, since it was my case and Wolfe was merely helping, but he had many times asked for my opinion and it wouldn't hurt to reciprocate, so I stepped to the office door and said, "Cramer and Judy Bram. Shall I--"
"Judy!" Mira cried. "She's here?"
I ignored her. "Shall I scoot with Miss Holt and leave them to you?"
He closed his eyes. In three seconds he opened them. "I would say no. The decision is yours."
"Then we stick. I want to meet Judy anyhow. Sit tight, Miss Holt. Never drop a simple basic lie until it drops you."
As I turned the bell rang again. I went to the front, put the chain bolt on, opened the door the two inches the chain allowed, and spoke through the crack. "Do you want me, Inspector?"
"I want in. Open up."
"Glad to for you, but not for strangers. Who is the lady?"
"Her name is Judith Bram. She's the owner and driver--"
"I want to see Mira Holt!" the lady said, meaning it. "Open the door!"
I removed the chain, but didn't have to swing the door because she saved me the trouble. She came with it and darted down the
Method Three for Murder 83
hall. Seeing that Cramer, after her, would brush me, I stiffened to make the brush a bump, and he wobbled and lost a step, giving me time to shut the door and reach the office at his heels. When we entered Judy was sitting on the arm of the red leather chair with her arm across Mira's shoulders, jabbering. Cramer grabbed her arm and barked at her, but she ignored him.
"--and I said yes, the cab might have still been there in front when you left, but I was sure you wouldn't take it, and anyway--"
Cramer yanked her up and around, and as she came she swung with her free hand and smacked him in the face. There was too much of him to be staggered by it, but the sound effect was fine. She jerked loose and glared at him. Her big, brown, well-spaced eyes were ideal for glaring. I had a feeling that I had seen her before, but I hadn't. It was just an old memory: a seventh-grade classmate out in Ohio whom I had been impelled to kiss, and she had socked me on the ear with her arithmetic. She is now married, with five children.
"That's not advisable, Miss Bram," Cramer stated. "Striking a police officer." He moved, got a yellow chair, and swung it around. "Here. Sit down."
"I'll sit where I please." She perched again on the red leather arm. "Is it advisable for a police officer to manhandle a citizen? When I got a hack license I informed myself about laws. Am I under arrest?"
"No."
"Then don't touch me." Her head swung around. "You're Nero Wolfe? You're even bigger." She didn't say bigger than what. "I'm Judy Bram. Are you representing my friend Mira Holt?"
His eyes on her were half closed. "'Representing' is not the word, Miss Bram. I'm a detective, not a lawyer. Miss Holt has hired Mr. Goodwin, and he has hired me as his assistant. You call her your friend. Are you her friend?"
"Yes. And I want to know. She left my place around half past seven, and about an hour later I went out to keep a date. I had left my cab out front and it wasn't there, but I supposed--"
"Hold it," Cramer snapped. He was on the yellow chair, and I was at my desk. "I'll do the talking--"
84 3 �* Wolfe's Door
She merely raised her voice. "--I supposed a man from the garage had come and got it, I have that arrangement--"
"Shut up!" Cramer roared. "Or I'll shut you up!"
"How?" she asked.
It was a question. He had several choices: clamp his paw on her mouth, or pick her up and carry her out, or call in a couple of big strong men from out front, or hit her with a blunt instrument, or shoot her. All had drawbacks.
"Permit me," Wolfe said. "I suggest, Mr. Cramer, that you have bungled it. The notion of suddenly confronting Miss Holt with Miss Bram was of course tempting, but your appraisal of Miss Bram's temperament was faulty. Now you're stuck. You won't get the contradictions you're after. Miss Holt would be a simpleton to supply particulars until she knows what Miss Bram has said. As you well know, that does not necessarily imply culpability for either of them."
Cramer rasped, "You're telling Miss Holt not to answer any questions."
"Am I? If so, unwittingly. Now, of course, you have made it plain. It would appear that you have only two alternatives: either let Miss Bram finish her account, or remove her."
"There's a third one I like better. I'll remove Miss Holt." Cramer got up. "Come on, Miss Holt. I'm taking you down for questioning in connection with the murder of Phoebe Arden."
"Is she under arrest?" Judy demanded.
"No. But if she doesn't talk she will be. As a material witness."
"Can he do that, Mr. Wolfe?"
"Yes."
"Without a warrant?"
"In the circumstances, yes."
"Come on, Miss Holt," Cramer growled.
I was sitting with my jaw set. Wolfe would rather miss a meal than let Cramer or any other cop take a client of his from that office into custody, and over the years I had seen and heard him pull some fancy maneuvers to prevent it But this was my client, and he wasn't batting an eye. I admit that it would have had to be something extra fancy, and it was up to me, not him, but I had
Method Three for Murder 85
split the fee with him. So I sat with my jaw set while Mira left the chair and Judy jabbered and Cramer touched Mira's arm and they headed for the door. Then I came to, scribbled on my memo pad formerly my memo pad--tore the sheet off, and made for the hall. Cramer had his hand on the knob.
"Here's the phone number," I told her. "Twenty-four-hour service. Don't forget method three."
She took the slip, said, "I won't," and crossed the sill, with Cramer right behind. I noted that the floodlights and the taxi were still there before I shut the door.
Back in the office, Wolfe was leaning back with his eyes closed and Judy Bram was standing scowling at him. She switched the scowl to me and demanded, 'Why don't you put him to bed?"
"Too heavy. How many people did you tell that Mira was going to drive your cab to her husband's house?"
She eyed me, straight, for two breaths, then went to the red leather chair and sat. I took the yellow one, to be closer.
"I thought you were working for her," she said.
"I am."
"You don't sound like it. She didn't drive my cab."
I shook my head. "Come on down. Would I be working for her if she hadn't opened up? You told her yesterday that Kearns had phoned you to call for him at eight o'clock today, and she asked you to let her go instead of you. She wanted to have a talk with him about a divorce. How many people did you tell about it?"
"Nobody. If she opened up what's the rest of it?"
"Ask her when you see her. Did you kill Phoebe Arden?"
From the flash in her eye she would have smacked me if I had been close enough. "Oh, for God's sake," she said. "Get a club. Drag me by the hair."
"Later maybe." I leaned to her. "Look, Miss Bram. Give your temperament a rest and use your brain. I am working for Mira Holt. I know exactly where she was and what she did, every minute, from seven o'clock this evening on, but I'm not going to tell you. Of course you know that the dead body of a woman named Phoebe Arden was found in your cab. I am certain that Mira didn't kill her, but she is probably going to be charged. I am not
86
3 at Wolfe's Door
certain that the murderer tried to get her tagged for it, but it looks like it. I would be a fathead to tell the murderer about her movements. Wouldn't I? Answer with your brain."
"Yes." She was meeting my eyes.
"Okay. Give me one good reason why I should cross you off. One you would accept if you were in my place. Mira has, naturally, but why should I?"
"Because there's not the slightest--" She stopped. "No. You don't know that. All right. But don't try twisting my arm. I know some tricks."
"I'll keep my distance if you will. Did you kill Phoebe Arden?"
"No."
"Do you know wh
o did?"
"No."
"Have you any suspicions? Any ideas?"
'Tes. Or I would have if I knew anything--where and when it happened. Did Phoebe come out to the cab with Waldo Kearns?"
"No. Kearns didn't show up. Mira never saw him."
"But Phoebe came?"
"Not alive. When Mira saw her she was dead. In the cab."
"Then my idea is Waldo. The sophisticated ape. You know, you're not any too bright. If I killed her in my own cab while Mira was driving it, I already know everything you do and more. Why not tell me?"
I looked at Wolfe, who had opened his eyes off and on. He grunted. "You told her to use her brain," he muttered.
I returned to Judy. "You certainly would know this: Mira got there before eight o'clock and parked in front. When Kearns hadn't showed at eight-thirty she went to the house and spent ten minutes knocking and looking in windows. When she returned to the cab the dead body was in it. She neyer saw Keams."
"But my God." Her brows were up. She turned her hands over. "All she had to do was dump it out!"
"She hasn't got your temperament. She--"
"She drove here with it? To consult with you?"
"She might have done worse. In fact, she tried to. She phoned you, and got no answer. What's your idea about Kearns?"
Method Three for Murder 87
"He killed Phoebe."
Then that's settled. Why?"
"I don't know. He tried to shake her and she hung on. Or she cheated on him. Or she had a bad cold and he was afraid he would catch it. He put the body in the cab to fix Mira. He hates her because she told him the truth about himself once."
"Did you know Phoebe well? Who and what was she?"
"Well enough. She was a widow at thirty, roaming around. I might have killed her, at that. About a year ago she started scattering remarks about me, and I broke her neck. Almost. She spent a week in a hospital."
"Did it cure her? I mean of remark-scattering?"
"Yes."
"We might as well finish with you. You told Mr. Wolfe Mira left your place around half past seven and about an hour later you went out to keep a date. So you might have left at a quarter after eight."
"I might, but I didn't. I walked to Mitchell Hall on Fourteenth Street to make a speech at a cab drivers' meeting, and I got there at five minutes to nine. After the meeting I walked back home, and two cops were there waiting for me. They were dumb enough to ask me first where my cab was, and I said I supposed it was in the garage. When they said no, it was parked on Thirty-fifth Street, and asked me to come and identify it, naturally I went. I also identified a dead body, which they hadn't mentioned. Is that Inspector Cramer dumb?"
"No."
"I thought not. When he asked me if I knew Mira Holt of course I said yes, and when he asked when I last saw her I told him. Since I had no idea what had happened I thought that was safest, but I said I hadn't told her she could take the cab and I knew she wouldn't take it without asking me. Does that finish with me?"
"It's a good start. How well do you know Gilbert Irving?"
That fazed her. Her mouth opened and she gawked with her big, brown, well-spaced eyes. "Are my ears working?" she demanded. "Did you say Gilbert Irving?"
"That's right."
'1
88 3 o* Wolfe's Door
"Who let him in?"
"Mira mentioned him. How well do you know him?"
"Too well. I dream about a lion standing on a rock about to spring at me, and I suspect it's him. If my subconscious is yearning for him it had better go soak its head, because first he's married and his wife has claws, and second, when he looks at Mira or hears her voice he has to lean against something to keep from trembling. Did she tell you that?"
"No. Who is he? What does he do?"
"Something in Wall Street, but he doesn't look it. Why did Mira mention him?"
"Because I made her. She phoned him last evening and told him she was going to drive your cab and why. She wanted to know what he thought of it. I want to know what motive he might have for killing Phoebe Arden."
She opened her mouth to reply, then decided to laugh instead. It was a real laugh, no giggle.
I raised a brow. "Your subconscious taking over?" I inquired.
"No." She sobered. "I couldn't help it. It struck me, of course Gil killed her. He couldn't bear the thought of Mira's husband being unfaithful to her, it was an insult to her womanhood, so he killed Phoebe. Do you blame me for laughing?"
"No. I'll laugh too when I get around to it. Does anything else strike you? A motive for him you wouldn't laugh at?"
"Of course not. It's ridiculous. You're just floundering around. Have you finished with me?"
I looked at Wolfe. His eyes were closed. "For now, yes," I told her, "unless Mr. Wolfe thinks I skipped something."
"How can he? You can talk in your sleep, but you can't think." She stood up. "What are you going to do?"
"Find a murderer and stick pins in him. Or her."
"Not sitting here you aren't. Don't bother, I know the way out. Why don't you go and tackle Wally Kearns? I'll go with you."
"Thanks, I'll manage."
"Where did he take Mira?"
"Either to Homicide West, two-thirty West Twentieth, or to the
Method Three for Murder 89
District Attorney's office, one-fifty-five Leonard. Try Twentieth Street first."
"I will." She turned and was off. I followed, to let her out, but she was a fast walker and I would have had to trot to catch up. When I reached the door she had it open. I stepped out to the stoop and watched her descend to the sidewalk and turn west. The floodlights and ropes and police cars were gone, and so was Judy's cab. My wrist watch said five minutes past midnight as I went in and shut the door. I returned to the office and found Wolfe on his feet with his eyes open.
"I assumed," I said, "that if you wanted something from her I hadn't got you would say so."
"Naturally."
"Have you any comments?"
"No. It's bedtime."
"Yeah. Since you're with me on this, which I appreciate, perhaps I'd better sleep here. If you don't mind."
"Certainly. You own your bed. I have a suggestion. I presume you intend to have a look at that place in the morning, and to see Mr. Kearns. It might be well for me to see him too."
"I agree. Thank you for suggesting it. If they haven't got him downtown I'll have him here at eleven o'clock." I made it eleven because that was his earliest hour for an appointment, when he came down from his two-hour session up in the plant rooms with the orchids.
"Make it a quarter past eleven," he said. "I will be engaged until then with Mr. Anderson."
I opened my mouth and closed it again. "Didn't you phone him not to come?"
"On the contrary, I phoned him to come. On reflection I saw that I had been hasty. In my employ, as my agent, you had made a commitment, and I was bound by it. I should not have repudiated it. I should have honored it, and then dismissed you if I considered your disregard of the rules intolerable."
"I see. I can understand that you'd rather fire me than have me quit."
90
3 at Wolfe's Door
"I said'if.'"
I lifted my shoulders and dropped them. "It's a little complicated. If I have quit you can't fire me. If I haven't quit I am still on your payroll, and it would be unethical for me to have Miss Holt as my client. It would also be wrong for you to accept pay from me for helping me with the kind of work you are paying me to do. If you return the twenty-five to me and I return the fifty to Miss Holt, I will be deserting an innocent fellow being in a jam whom I have accepted as a client, and that would be inexcusable. It looks to me as if we have got ourselves in a fix that is absolutely hopeless, and I can't see--"
"Confound it," he roared, "go to bed!" and marched out.
VI
By 8:15 Tuesday morning I was pretty well convinced that Mira Holt was in the coop, since I had got it from three d
ifferent sources. At 7:20 Judy Bram phoned to say that Mira was under arrest and what was I going to do. I said it wouldn't be practical to tell a suspect my plans, and she hung up on me. At 7:40 Lon Cohen of the Gazette phoned to ask if it was true that I had quit my job with Nero Wolfe, and if so what was I doing there, and was Mira Holt my client, and if so what was she doing in the can, and had she killed Phoebe Arden or not. Since Lon had often been useful and might be again, I explained fully, off the record, why I couldn't explain. And at eight o'clock the radio said that Mira Holt was being held as a material witness in the murder of Phoebe Arden.
Neither Lon nor the radio supplied any items that helped, nor did the morning papers. The Star had a picture of the taxi parked in front of Wolfe's house, but I had seen that for myself. It also had a description of the clothes Phoebe Arden had died in, but what I needed was a description of the clothes the murderer had killed in. And it gave the specifications of the knife--an ordinary kitchen knife with a five-inch blade and a plastic handle--but if the answer was going to come from any routine operation like tracing
Method Three for Murder 91
the knife or lifting prints from the handle, it would be darner's army who would get it, not me.
I made one phone call, to Anderson, to ask him to postpone his appointment because Wolfe was busy on a case, and he said sure, it wasn't urgent; and, since Fritz takes Wolfe's breakfast to his room and I seldom see him before he comes down to the office at eleven, I put a note on his desk. I wanted to make another call, to Nathaniel Parker, the lawyer, but vetoed it. For getting Mira out on bail he would have charged about ten times what she had paid me, and there was no big hurry. It would teach her not to drive a hack without a license.
At a quarter past eight I left the house and went to Ninth Avenue for a taxi, and at half past I dismissed it at the corner of Carmine and Ferrell, and walked down Ferrell Street to its dead end. There were only two alternatives for what had happened during the period--call it ten minutes--when Mira had been away from the cab: either the murderer, having already killed Phoebe Arden, had carried or dragged the body to the cab and hoisted it in, or he had got in the cab with her and killed her there. I preferred the latter, since you can walk to a cab with a live woman in much less time than you can carry her to it dead, and also since, even in a secluded spot like that and even after dark, there is much less risk of being noticed. But in either case they had to come from some place nearby.
