by Rex Stout
The first place to consider was Reams' house, but it only took five minutes to cross it off. The alley that led to it was walled on both sides, Mira had been parked at its mouth, and there was no other way to get from the house to the street. On the left of the alley was a walled-in lumber yard, and on the right was a dingy old two-story warehouse. On inspection neither of them seemed an ideal spot for cover, but across the street was a beaut. It was an open lot cluttered with blocks of stone scattered and piled around, some rough and some chiseled and polished. A whole company could have hid there, let alone one murderer and one victim. As you know, I was already on record that Mira hadn't killed her, but it was nice to see that stoneyard. If there had been no place to hide in easy distance . . . Three men were there, two discussing a stone
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and one chiseling, but they wouldn't be there at eight in the evening. I recrossed the street and entered the alley, and walked through.
By gum, Kearns had a garden, a sizable patch, say forty by sixty, with flowers in bloom and a little pool with a fountain, and a flagstone path leading to the door of a two-story brick house painted white. I hadn't known there was anything like it in Manhattan, and I thought I knew Manhattan. A man in a gray shirt and blue jeans was kneeling among the flowers, and half way up the path I stopped and asked him, "Are you Waldo Kearns?"
"Do I look it?" he demanded.
"Yes and no. Are you Morton?"
"That's my name. What's yours?"
"Goodwin." I headed for the house, but he called, "Nobody there," and I turned.
"Where's Mr. Kearns?"
"I don't know. He went out a while ago."
"When will he be back?"
"I couldn't say."
I looked disappointed. "I should have phoned. I want to buy a picture. I came last evening around half past eight and knocked, but nothing doing. I knocked loud because I heard the radio or TV going."
"It was the TV. I was watching it. I heard you knock. I don't open the door at night when he's not here. There's some tough ones around this neighborhood."
"I don't blame you. I suppose I just missed him. What time did he leave last evening?"
"What difference does it make when he left if he wasn't here?"
Perfectly logical, not only for him but for me. If Kearns hadn't been there when Mira arrived in the cab it didn't matter when he had left. I would have liked to ask Morton one more question, whether anyone had left with him, but from the look in his eye he would have used some more logic on me, so I skipped it, said I'd try again, and went.
There was no use hanging around because if Reams had gone to call at the District Attorney's office by request, which was highly
Method Three for Murder 93
probable, there was no telling when he would be back. I had got Gilbert Irving's business address from the phone book, on Wall Street, but there was no use going there at that early hour. However, I had also got his home address, on East y8th Street, and I might catch him before he left, so I hoofed it along Ferrell Street back to civilization and flagged a taxi.
It was 9:15 when I climbed out in front of the number on ySth Street, a tenement palace with a marquee and a doorman. In the lobby another uniformed sentry sprang into action, and I told him, "Mr. Gilbert Irving. Tell him a friend of Miss Holt." He went and used a phone, returned and said, "Fourteen B," and watched me like a hawk as I walked to the elevator and entered. When I got out at the fourteenth floor the elevator man stood and watched until I had pushed the button and the door had opened and I had been invited in.
The inviter was no maid or butler. She might have passed for a maid in uniform, but not in the long, flowing, patterned-silk number which she probably called a breakfast gown. Without any suggestions about my hat she said, "This way, please," and led me across the hall, through an arch into a room half as big as Reams' garden, and over to chairs near a corner. She sat on one of them and indicated another for me.
I stood. "Perhaps the man downstairs didn't understand me," I suggested. "I asked for Mr. Irving."
"I know," she said. "He isn't here. I am his wife. We are friends of Miss Holt, and we're disturbed about the terrible--about her difficulty. You're a friend of hers?" Her voice was a surprise because it didn't fit. She was slender and not very tall, with a round little face and a little curved mouth, but her deep strong voice was what you would expect from a female sergeant. Nothing about her suggested the claws Judy Bram had mentioned, but they could have been drawn in.
"A new friend," I said. "I've known her twelve hours. If you've read the morning paper you may have noted that she was sitting on the stoop of Nero Wolfe's house with a man named Archie Good win when a cop found the body in the taxi. I'm Goodwin, and she has hired me to find out things."
94 3 0* Wolfe's Door
She adjusted the gown to cover a leg better. "According to the radio she has hired Nero Wolfe. She was arrested in his house."
"That's a technical point. We're both working on it. I'm seeing people who might have some information, and Mr. Irving is on my list. Is he at his office?"
"I suppose so. He left earlier than usual." The leg was safe, no exposure above the ankle, but she adjusted the gown again. "What kind of information? Perhaps I could help?"
I couldn't very well ask if her husband had told her that Mira had told him she was going to drive Judy's cab. But she wanted to help. I sat down. "Almost anything might be useful, Mrs. Irving. Were you and your husband also friends of Phoebe Arden?"
"I was. My husband knew her, of course, but you couldn't say they were friends."
"Were they enemies?"
"Oh, no. It was just that they didn't hit it off."
"When did you see her last?"
"Four days ago, last Friday, at a cocktail party at Waldo Reams' house. I was thinking about it when you came. She was so gay. She was a gay person."
"You hadn't seen her since?"
"No." She was going to add something, but checked it.
It was so obvious that I asked, "But you had heard from her? A letter or a phone call?"
"How did you know that?" she demanded.
"I didn't. Most detective work is guessing. Was it a letter?"
"No." She hesitated. "I would like to help, Mr. Goodwin, but I doubt if it's important, and I certainly don't want any notoriety."
"Of course not, Mrs. Irving." I was sympathetic. "If you mean, if you tell me something will I tell the police, absolutely not. They have arrested my client."
'Well." She crossed her legs, glancing down to see that nothing was revealed. "I phoned Phoebe yesterday afternoon. My husband and I had tickets for the theater last evening, but about three o'clock he phoned me that a business associate from the West Coast had arrived unexpectedly, and he had to take him to dinner. So I phoned Phoebe and we arranged to meet at Morsini's at a
Method Three for Murder 95
quarter to seven for dinner and then go to the theater. I was there on time, but she didn't come. At a quarter past seven I called her number, but there was no answer. I don't like to eat alone at a place like Morsini's, so I waited a little longer and then left word for her and went to Schrafft's. She didn't come. I thought she might come to the theater, the Majestic, and I waited in the lobby until after nine, and then I left a ticket for her at the box office and went in. I would tell the police about it if I thought it was important, but it doesn't really tell anything except that she was at home when I phoned around three o'clock. Does it?"
"Sure it does. Did she agree definitely to meet you at Morsini's or was it tentative?"
"It was definite. Quite definite."
"Then it was certainly something that happened after three o'clock that kept her from meeting you. It was probably something that happened after six-thirty or she would have phoned you--if she was still alive. Have you any idea at all what it might have been?"
"None whatever. I can't guess."
"Have you any ideas about who might have kil
led her?"
"No. I can't guess that either."
"Do you think Mira Holt killed her?"
"Good heavens, no. Not Mira. Even if she had--"
"Even if she had what?"
"Nothing. Mira wouldn't kill anybody. They don't think that, do they?"
Over the years at least a thousand people have asked me what the police think, and I appreciate the compliment though I rarely deserve it. Life would be much simpler if I always knew what the police think at any given moment. It's hard enough to know what I think. After another ten minutes with her I decided that I thought that Mrs. Irving had nothing more to contribute, so I thanked her and departed. She came with me to the hall, and even picked up my hat from the chair where I had dropped it. I had yet to get a glimpse of her legs.
It was ten minutes to ten when I emerged to the sidewalk and turned left for Lexington Avenue and the subway, and a quarter
96
3 at Wolfe's Door
past when I entered the marble lobby of a towering beehive on Wall Street and consulted the building directory. Gilbert Irving's firm had the whole thirtieth floor, and I found the proper bank of elevators, entered one, and was hoisted straight up three hundred feet for nothing. In a paneled chamber with a thick conservative carpet a handsome conservative creature at a desk bigger than Wolfe's told me in a voice like silk that Mr. Irving was not in and that she knew not when he would arrive or where he was. If I cared to wait?
I didn't. I left, got myself dropped back down the three hundred feet, and went to another subway, this time the west side; and, leaving at Christopher, walked to Ferrell Street and on to its dead end and through the alley. Morton, still at work in the garden, greeted me with reserve but not coldly, said Kearns had not returned and there had been no word from him, and, as I was turning to go, suddenly stood up and asked, "Did you say you wanted to lyuy a picture?"
I said that was my idea but naturally I wanted to see it first, left him wagging his head, walked the length of Ferrell Street the fourth time that day, found a taxi, and gave the driver the address which might or might not still be mine. As we turned into 3jth Street from Eighth Avenue, at five minutes past eleven, there was another taxi just ahead of us, and it stopped at the curb in front of the brownstone. I handed my driver a bill, hopped out, and had mounted the stoop by the time the man from the other cab had crossed the sidewalk. I had never seen him or a picture of him, or heard him described, but I knew him. I don't know whether it was his floppy black hat or shoestring tie, or neat little ears or face like a squirrel, but I knew him. I had the door open when he reached the stoop.
"I would like to see Mr. Nero Wolfe," he said. "I'm Waldo Kearns."
Method Three for Murder
97
VII
Since Wolfe had suggested that I should bring Kearns there so we could look at him together, I would just as soon have let him think that I had filled the order, but of course that wouldn't do. So when, having taken the floppy black hat and put it on the shelf in the hall, I escorted him to the office and pronounced his name, I added, "I met Mr. Keams out front. He arrived just as I did."
Wolfe, behind his desk, had been pouring beer when we entered. He put the bottle down. "Then you haven't talked with him?" .
"No, sir."
He turned to Keams, in the red leather chair. "Will you have beer, sir?"
"Heavens, no." Kearns was emphatic. "I didn't come for amenities. My business is urgent. I am extremely displeased with the counsel you have given my wife. You must have hypnotized her. She refuses to see me. She refuses to accept the services of my lawyer, even to arrange bail for her. I demand an explanation. I intend to hold you to account for alienating the affection of my wife."
"Affections," Wolfe said.
"What?"
"Affections. In that context the plural is used." He lifted the glass and drank, and licked his lips.
Kearns stared at him. "I didn't come here," he said, "to have my grammar corrected."
"Not grammar. Diction."
Kearns pounded the chair arm. "What have you to say?"
"It would be futile for me to say anything whatever until you have regained your senses, if you have any. If you think your wife had affection for you until she met me twelve hours ago, you're an
98 3 at Wolfe's Door
ass. If you know she hadn't your threat is fatuous. In either case what can you expect but contempt?"
"I expect an explanation! I expect the truth! I expect you to tell me why my wife refuses to see me!"
"I can't tell you what I don't know. I don't even know that she has, since in your present state I question the accuracy of your reporting. When and where did she refuse?"
"This morning. Just now, in the District Attorney's office. She won't even talk to my lawyer. She told him she was waiting to hear from you and Goodwin." His head jerked to me. "You're Goodwin?"
I admitted it. His head jerked back. "It's humiliating! It's degrading! My wife under arrest! Mrs. Waldo Kearns in jail! Dishonor to my name and to me! And you're to blame!"
Wolfe took a breath. "I doubt if it's worth the trouble," he said, "but I'm willing to try. I presume what you're after is an account of our conversation with your wife last evening. I might consider supplying it, but first I would have to be satisfied of your bona fides. Will you answer some questions?"
"It depends on what they are."
"Probably you have already answered them, to the police. Has your wife wanted a divorce and have you refused to consent?"
"Yes. I regard the marriage contract as a sacred covenant."
"Have you refused to discuss it with her in recent months?"
"The police didn't ask me that."
"I ask it. I need to establish not only your loona fides, Mr. Kearns, but also your wife's. It shouldn't embarrass you to answer that."
"It doesn't embarrass me. You can't embarrass me. It would have been useless to discuss it with her since I wouldn't consider it."
"So you wouldn't see her?"
"Naturally. That was all she would talk about."
"Have you been contributing to her support since sherleft you?"
"She didn't leave me. We agreed to try living separately. She wouldn't let me contribute to her support. I offered to. I wanted to."
"The police certainly asked you if you killed Phoebe Arden. Did you?"
"No. Why in God's name would I kill her?"
Method Three for Murder 99
"I don't know. Miss Judith Bram suggested that she may have had a bad cold and you were afraid you would catch it, but that ' | seems farfetched. By the way--" | "Judy? Judy Bram said that? I don't believe it!" I "But she did. In this room last evening, in the chair you now f; occupy. She also called you a sophisticated ape." 1 ;. "You're lying!"
"No. I'm not above lying, or below it, but the truth will do now. I Also"
' "You're lying. You've never, seen Judy Bram. You're merely repeating something my wife said."
( "That's interesting, Mr. Kearns, and even suggestive. You are
willing to believe that your wife called you a sophisticated ape,
i but not that Miss Bram did. When I do lie I try not to be clumsy.
Miss Bram was here last evening, with Mr. Goodwin and me, for
half an hour or more; and that brings me to a ticklish point. I must
ask you about a detail that the police don't know about. Certainly
they asked about your movements last evening, but they didn't
know that you had arranged with Judith Bram to call for you in
> her cab at eight o'clock. Unless you told them?"
Kearns sat still, and for him it is worth mentioning. With many people sitting still is nothing remarkable, but with him it was. His sitting, like his face, reminded me of a squirrel; he kept moving or twitching something--a hand, a shoulder, a foot, even his head. Now he was motionless all over. "Say that again," he commanded.
Wolfe obeyed. "Have you told the
police that you had arranged with Miss Bram to call for you in her cab at eight o'clock last evening?"
"No. Why should I tell them something that isn't true?" "You shouldn't, ideally, but people often do. I do occasionally. Howevev'that's irrelevant, since it would have been the truth. Evidently Miss Bram hasn't told the police, but she told me. I mention it to ensure that you'll tell me the truth when you recount your movements last evening." "If she told you that she lied." "Oh, come, Mr. Kearns." Wolfe was disgusted. "It is established
L
TOO 3 at Wolfe's Door
that her cab stood at the mouth of the alley leading to your house for more than half an hour, having come at your bidding. If you omitted that detail in your statement to the police I may have to supply it. Haven't you spoken with Miss Bram since?"
"No." He was still motionless. "Her phone doesn't answer. She's not at home. I went there." He passed his tongue across his lower lip. I admit I have never seen a squirrel do that. "I couldn't tell the police her cab was there last evening because I didn't know it was. I wasn't there."
"Where were you? Consider that I know you had ordered the cab for eight o'clock and hadn't canceled the order."
"I've told the police where I was."
"Then your memory has been jogged."
"It didn't need jogging. I was at the studio of a man named Prosch, Carl Prosch. I went there to meet Miss Arden and look at a picture she was going to buy. I got there at a quarter to eight and left at nine o'clock. She hadn't come, and--"
"If you please. Miss Phoebe Arden?"
"Yes. She phoned me at half past seven and said she had about decided to buy a painting, a still life, from Prosch, and was going to his studio to look at it again, and asked me to meet her there to help her decide. I was a little surprised because she knows what I think of daubers like Prosch, but I said I would go. His studio is on Carmine Street, in walking distance from my house, and I walked. She hadn't arrived, and I had only been there two or three minutes when she phoned and asked to speak to me. She said she had been delayed and would get there as soon as she could, and asked me to wait for her. My thought was that I would wait until midnight rather than have her buy a still life by Prosch, but I didn't say so. I didn't wait until midnight, but I waited until nine o'clock. I discussed painting with Prosch a while, until he became insufferable, and then went down to the street and waited there. She never came. I walked back home."
