Not Quite Dead Enough

by Rex Stout

  I took a taxi down to 35th Street, stopping on the way to pick up a couple of sandwiches and a bottle of milk, and found that luck was with me there too. All was serene. They had gone to bed. The house was dark. I would have liked to enjoy the sandwiches in the kitchen, but didn’t want the doorbell to ring, so I sneaked in and got a glass, turning on no light, and went back to the stoop, closing the door, and sat there on the top step to eat my dinner. Everything was going smooth as silk.

  They were pretty good sandwiches. As time wore on I began to get chilly. I didn’t want to stamp around on the stoop or pace the sidewalk, since Fritz slept in the basement and I didn’t know how soundly he slept during training, so I stood and flapped my arms to work up a circulation. Then I sat on the step again. I looked at my watch and it was 10:40. An hour later I looked again and it was 10:55. Having been afraid before I got there that some squad man might discover the note first thing, now I began to wonder if the damn laboratory was going to wait till morning to start the p.m. and keep me out all night. I stood up and flapped my arms some more.

  It was nearly midnight when a police car came zipping down the street and rolled to a stop right in front, and a man got out. I knew him before he hit the sidewalk. It was Sergeant Stebbins of the Homicide Squad. He crossed the sidewalk and started up the steps, and saw me, and stopped.

  I said cheerfully, “Hello, Purley. Up so late?”

  “Who are you?” he demanded. He peered. “Well, I’ll be damned. Didn’t recognize you in uniform. When did you get to town?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. How’s crime?”

  “Just fine. What do you say we go in and sit down and have a little conversation?”

  “Sorry, can’t. Don’t talk loud. They’re all asleep. I just stepped out for a breath of air. Gee, it’s nice to see you again.”

  “Yeah. I want to ask you a few questions.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Well—for instance. When did you last see Ann Amory?”

  “Aw, hell,” I said regretfully. “You would do that. Ask me the one question I’m not answering tonight. This is my night for not answering any questions whatever about anybody named Ann.”

  “Nuts,” he growled, his bass growl that I had been hearing off and on for ten years. “And I don’t mean peanuts. Is it news to you that she’s dead? Murdered?”

  “Nothing doing, Purley.”

  “There’s got to be something doing. She’s been murdered. You know damn well you’ve got to talk.”

  I grinned at him. “What kind of got?”

  “Well, to start with, material witness. You talk, or I take you down, and maybe I do anyway.”

  “You mean arrest me as a material witness?”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “Go ahead. It will be the first time I’ve ever been arrested in the city of New York. And by you! Go ahead.”

  He growled. He was getting mad. “Goddamn it, Archie, don’t be a sap! In that uniform? You’re an officer, ain’t you?”

  “I am. Major Goodwin. You didn’t salute.”

  “Well, for God’s sake—”

  “No good. Final. Regarding Ann Amory, anything about Ann Amory, I don’t open my trap.”

  “All right,” he said. “I’ve always thought you were cuckoo. You’re under arrest. Get in that car.”

  I did so.

  There was one little chore left before I could sit back and let nature take its course. Arriving at Centre Street, and asserting my right to make one phone call, I got a lawyer I knew out of bed and gave him some facts to relay to Bill Pratt of the Courier. At 3:45 in the morning, after spending three hours in the company of Inspector Cramer, two lieutenants, and some assorted sergeants and other riffraff, and still refusing to utter a syllable connected in any way with the life or death of Ann Amory, I was locked into a cell in the beautiful new city prison, which is not as beautiful inside as outside.

  Chapter 8

  It had cost me two bucks to get it smuggled in to me, but it was worth it. Wednesday noon I sat on the edge of my cot in my cell gazing admiringly at it, a front page headline in the early edition of the Courier:

  ARMY MAJOR HELD IN MURDER CASE

  NERO WOLFE’S FORMER ASSISTANT LOCKED UP

  As the schoolboy said to the teacher, good—hell, it’s perfect. The “Army Major” was plenty disgraceful, and the “Nero Wolfe’s Former Assistant” was superb. Absolutely degrading. As added attractions, there were pictures of both Wolfe and me on the second page. The article was good too. Bill Pratt hadn’t failed me. It gave me a good appetite, so I relinquished another two bucks to send out for a meal that would fit the occasion. After that was disposed of, I stretched out on the cot for a nap, having got behind on my sleep the last two nights.

  The opening of the cell door woke me up. I blinked at a guard as he gave me a sign to emerge, rubbed my eyes, stood up, shook myself, enjoyed a yawn, and followed the guard. He led me to an elevator, and, when we got downstairs, through the barrier out of the prison section, then along corridors and into an anteroom, and through that into an office. I had been there before. Except for one object it was familiar: Inspector Cramer at the big desk, Sergeant Stebbins standing nearby ready for anything that didn’t require mental activity, and a guy with a notebook at a little table at one side. The unfamiliar object, in those surroundings, was Nero Wolfe. He was in a chair by a corner of Cramer’s desk, and I had to compress my lips to keep from grinning with satisfaction when I saw that he was no longer dressed for training. He was wearing the dark blue cheviot with a pin stripe, with a yellow shirt and a dark blue tie. Really snappy. The suit didn’t fit him any more, but that didn’t bother me now.

  He looked at me and didn’t say a word. But he looked.

  Cramer said, “Sit down.”

  I sat, crossed my legs, and looked surly.

  Wolfe took his eyes from me and snapped, “Repeat briefly what you’ve told me, Mr. Cramer.”

  “He knows it all,” Cramer growled. He had fists on his desk. “At 7:10 last evening Mrs. Chack returned to her apartment at 316 Barnum Street and found her granddaughter, Ann Amory, there on the floor dead, strangled, with a scarf around her neck. A radio car arrived at 7:21, the squad at 7:27, the medical examiner at 7:42. The girl had been dead from one to three hours. The body was removed—”

  Wolfe wiggled a finger. “Please. The main points. About Mr. Goodwin.”

  “He knows them too. Found on the body, underneath the dress, was the note I have shown you, in Goodwin’s handwriting, signed ARCHIE. The paper had been torn from a notebook which was found on his person, now in my possession. Three sets of Goodwin’s fingerprints, fresh and recent, were on objects in the apartment. A strand of hair, eleven hairs, found behind the scarf which was around the body’s throat, with which she was strangled, has been compared with Goodwin’s hair and they match precisely. Goodwin was at that address Monday evening and had an altercation with Mrs. Chack, and took Ann Amory to the Flamingo Club, and left with her hastily on account of a scene with a woman whose name is—not an element in the case. He went to 316 Barnum Street again yesterday and made inquiries of a man named Furey, Leon Furey, and apparently he spent most of the afternoon snooping around the neighborhood. We’re still checking that. So the neighborhood is acquainted with him, and two people saw him walking east on Barnum Street, not far from Number 316, between six-thirty and seven o’clock, in company with a man named Roy Douglas, who lives at—”

  “That will do,” Wolfe snapped. His eyes moved. “Archie. Explain this at once.”

  “Confronted with this evidence,” Cramer rumbled, “Goodwin refuses to talk. He submitted to a search without protest, with that notebook in his pocket. He permitted us to make a microscopic comparison of the strand of hair with his. But he won’t talk. And by God,” he hit the desk with one of the fists, “you have the gall to come down here, the first time you have ever honored us with a visit, and threaten to have the police department abolished!”


  “I merely—” Wolfe began.

  “Just a minute!” Cramer roared. “I’ve been taking your guff for fifteen years, and Goodwin has been riding for a fall for at least ten. Here it is. He is not now charged with murder. He is detained as a material witness. But it’s going to take a lot of comedy to laugh off that strand of hair. It’s exactly the kind of thing that could have happened without him knowing it, the girl grabbing at him and seizing his hair, and then when he got the scarf around her, trying to get her fingers behind it to pull it away and leaving the hair there. You’re smart, Wolfe, as smart a man as I ever knew. All right, try to figure out any other conceivable way how Goodwin’s hair got behind that scarf. That’s why we’re prepared to oppose any application for release on bail.”

  Cramer pulled a cigar from his pocket, conveyed it to his mouth, and sank his teeth in it.

  “It’s all right, boss,” I told Wolfe, trying to smile as if I were trying to smile bravely. “I don’t think they’ll ever convict me. I’m pretty sure they can’t. I’ve got a lawyer coming to see me. You go on home and forget about it. I don’t want you to break training.”

  Wolfe’s lips moved faintly but no sound came out. He was speechless with rage.

  He took a deep breath.

  “Archie,” he said, “you have the advantage over me. There is nothing I can do to you. I can’t dismiss you, since you are no longer in my employ.” His eyes moved. “Mr. Cramer, you are an ass. Leave Mr. Goodwin alone with me for an hour, and I’ll get you all the information you want.”

  “Alone with you?” Cramer grunted derisively. “Not that big an ass I’m not.”

  Wolfe grimaced. He was having all he could do to control himself.

  I said in a manly tone, “It’s like this, boss. I’m in a bad hole. I admit it. I am innocent, but my honor is involved. A good lawyer may pull me through. I had to grit my teeth last night to keep from waking you up to tell you about it. I knew you didn’t want—”

  “Apparently, Archie,” he said grimly, “you forget how well I know you. Enough of this flummery. What are your terms?”

  He had me flustered for a second. I stammered, “My what? Terms?”

  “Yes. For the information I’ll have to have to clean up this mess. First to get you out of here. Do you realize, when Fritz brought me that paper and I saw that headline—”

  “Yes, sir, I realize. As for terms, it’s not me, it’s the Army. I’m in it, and I’m on duty. We ask your assistance—”

  “You’re going to get it. I am preparing for it—”

  “Sure you are. You’re preparing to dry up and die. We respectfully request an appointment for Colonel Ryder to call on you at the earliest opportunity. We request you to remove your brain from the cedar chest and give me back my sweater, which is stretched out of shape, and go to work.”

  “Confound you—”

  “What the hell,” Cramer barked, “is all this?”

  “Please be quiet,” Wolfe snapped. He folded his arms and shut his eyes, and his lips pushed out and then in again, and out and in. Cramer and I had both seen that before, on various occasions. This time it went on for quite a while. Finally Wolfe heaved a deep sigh and his eyes opened.

  “Very well,” he muttered at me. “Talk.”

  I grinned at him. “May I phone Colonel Ryder to come tomorrow at eleven?”

  “How do I know? I’ve got a job to do.”

  “As soon as it’s finished?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.” I turned to Cramer. “Tell Stebbins to phone Fritz to dust and air the office and to get things in and have dinner at eight, as before—let’s see—pan-broiled young turkey and what goes with it. And beer. Three cases of beer.”

  Purley uttered a grunt of indignation, but Cramer made it an order by nodding at him, and he left the room.

  “Also,” I told Cramer cheerfully, “before I pull the zipper I want a passport from you. I’ve got—”

  “Save it,” he rasped. “It’s your turn now. If I like it well enough—”

  “Nothing doing.” I shook my head firmly. “You’re not going to like it at all. Short of murder there’s practically nothing you couldn’t wrap around me if you felt like it. So I’ve got terms for you too. You can have the satisfaction of salting me away for ten years—five anyhow. Or you can have the facts. But you’re not going to get both satisfaction and facts. Now say you lock me up and Mr. Wolfe totters home without me. How long do you think it would take you to find out how a lock of my hair got under that scarf? And so forth. If you want the facts, give me a passport. In advance. And get set to restrain yourself, because I freely admit that in my enthusiasm I—”

  “In your what?”

  “Enthusiasm. Zeal.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yes, sir. I admit that I acted somewhat arbitrarily and when I tell you about it you will be inclined to take offense. In fact—”

  “Don’t talk so damn much. What do you want?”

  “Fresh air. Short of murder, I’m clear. Not a signed statement, just verbal will do.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Suit yourself.” I shrugged. “You can’t possibly tag me for murder. I know the facts and you don’t. It would take you three thousand years to find out about that lock of hair, let alone—”

  “Shut up!”

  I did so. Cramer glowered at me, and I gazed at him composedly but inflexibly. Wolfe was leaning back with his eyes closed.

  “Okay,” he said. “Short of murder you’re clear. Shoot.”

  I stood up. “May I use your phone, please?”

  Cramer shoved the phone across and I put in a person-to-person call to Lily Rowan at the Worthington at Greenwich. Evidently she wasn’t out leading Roy a chase, for I got her right away. She was inclined to be cantankerous, but I told her all conversation would have to be postponed until I saw her, which would be that very afternoon if she would take the next train to New York and go straight from the station to Wolfe’s office. Then I asked her to return me to the hotel switchboard and when I got it asked to speak to Roy Douglas. In a couple of minutes I had him. His voice sounded as if he had the jitters, and he began sputtering about the papers saying he had run away and was being searched for, but I calmed him down and told him the same thing I had told Lily, to return to New York and go to Wolfe’s office. When I put the receiver back on the cradle Cramer was regarding me with a mean eye. He reached for the phone and got somebody and growled into it:

  “Send four men to Nero Wolfe’s place on 35th Street. Lily Rowan and Roy Douglas will be showing up there in a couple of hours, maybe sooner. Let ‘em go in Wolfe’s house if that’s what they do, and keep it covered. If they do anything else, follow them.” He hung up and turned to me. “So you had ‘em on ice, did you? Both of ‘em, huh?” He pointed the cigar at me. “You’re wrong about one thing, bud. You won’t be seeing any Lily Rowan at Wolfe’s office this afternoon, because you’re not going to be there. Now let’s hear you.”

  Wolfe muttered, “Talk, Archie.”

  Chapter 9

  I talked. One thing I know how to do is to report current events which I have witnessed, and they both knew it, so there were no interruptions. It didn’t present any great difficulties, since all I had to do was open the bag and dump it, as I would have done if I had been alone with Wolfe. I saw no reason to try to hide any cards from Cramer. I gave them the crop, with only one exception. My modesty wouldn’t permit me to suggest that reading aloud to me was an essential ingredient in Lily Rowan’s life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness, so I skipped any hint of that. I merely said we met by accident on the plane to New York, and she told me about Ann Amory being in trouble, and I decided to try to use that in my effort to bring Nero Wolfe back to his senses. Of course I had to tell about the object of my trip to New York, since otherwise there would have been no way to explain my planting the note and the hair and my fingerprints, and various other details, and anyhow Wolfe already knew it, as he had shown when he
asked me what were my terms.

  “So,” I ended, looking straight at Wolfe, “here I am. I have disgraced the uniform. A million people are at this moment reading the headline, Nero Wolfe’s Former Assistant Locked Up, and snickering. Even if Cramer believes my story, he still has a lock of my hair. If he doesn’t believe it, he may get me electrocuted. And it’s all on account of you! If you—”

  Cramer was regarding me sourly, mangling his third cigar, and massaging the back of his neck. “I had a headache,” he said cutting me off, “and now it’s worse. My son’s in Australia with the Air Corps. He’s a bombardier.”

  “I was aware of it,” I said politely. “Have you heard from him recently?”

  “Go to hell. As you know damn well, Goodwin, I’ve been wanting to teach you a lesson for years. Here’s my chance. Five years would be about right. But short of murder you’re clear. I said so, and what I say sticks. If it wasn’t for that I’d hang it on you, don’t think I wouldn’t. Anyway you’re wearing the same uniform my son’s wearing, and I have more respect for it than you seem to have. And I guess you’ll be court-martialed. There was a Colonel Ryder here to see you about an hour ago and I wouldn’t let him.”

  “That’ll be all right,” I said reassuringly. “As soon as Mr. Wolfe finds the murderer everything will be rosy.”

  “You don’t say. Wolfe’s going to find the murderer, is he? That’s damn kind of him.”

  “Archie.” Wolfe had found his tongue. “You admit that the sole purpose of this grotesque performance was to bring pressure on me? To coerce me?”