by Rex Stout
All was in order. Lament Otis was in the big chair by a window, the one Ann Paige had left by, and she was on one side of him and Edey on the other. Jett’s chair was tilted back against the wall to the right. On the couch facing me was Heydecker, in between Fred Durkin and Orrie Gather. Saul Panzer stood in the center of the room. Their faces all came to me and Edey started to speak.
I cut him off. “If you talk,” I said, “you won’t hear, and even if you don’t want to hear, others do. You can talk later. As Mr. Wolfe told you, a speaker behind the couch is wired to a mike in his office, and he is there talking with someone. Since you’ll recognize her voice I don’t need to name her. Okay, Saul.”
Saul, who had moved to the rear of the couch, flipped the switch and Wolfe’s voice sounded.
“��� and she described her problem to Mr. Goodwin before he came up to me. She said that on Monday evening of last week she saw a member of the firm in a booth in a lunchroom in secret conference with you;
that she had concluded that he was betraying the interest of one of the firm’s clients to you, the client being your husband; that for reasons she thought cogent she would not tell another member or members of the firm;
that she had finally, yesterday afternoon, told the one she was accusing and asked for an explanation, and got none; that she refused to name him until she had spoken with me; and that she had come to engage my services. Mr. Goodwin has of course reported this to the police.”
MRS. SORELL: “She didn’t name him?”
WOLFE: “No. As I said, Mrs. Sorell, this discussion should be frank and unreserved. I am not going to pretend that you have named him and are committed. You told Mr. Goodwin on the phone today that you were with a man in a booth in a lunchroom last Monday evening, and you said his name is Gregory Jett; but you could have been merely scattering dust, and at will you can deny you made the call.”
Jett had caused a slight commotion by jerking forward in his tilted chair, but not enough to drown the voice, and a touch on his arm by me had stopped him.
MRS. SORELL: “What if I don’t deny it? What if I repeat it, it was Gregory Jett?”
WOLFE: “I wouldn’t advise you to. If in addition to scattering dust you were gratifying an animus you’ll have to try again. It wasn’t Mr. Jett. It was Mr. Heydecker.”
Heydecker couldn’t have caused any commotion even if he wanted to, with Fred at one side of him and Orrie at the other. The only commotion came from Lamont Otis, who moved and made a choking noise, and Ann Paige grabbed his hand.
MRS. SORELL: “That’s interesting. Mr. Goodwin said I would find it interesting and I do. So I sat in a booth with a man and didn’t know who he was? Really, Mr. Wolfe!”
WOLFE: “No, madam. I assure you it won’t do. I’ll expound it. I assumed that one of three men-Edey, Heydecker, or Jett-had killed Bertha Aaron. In view of what she told Mr. Goodwin it was more than an assumption, it was a conclusion. But three hours ago I had to abandon it, when I learned that those three were in conference together in Mr. Edey’s office at 5:45. It was 5:39 when Mr. Goodwin left Miss Aaron to come up to me. That they were lying, that they were in a joint conspiracy, was most unlikely, especially since others on the premises could probably impeach them. But though none of them could have killed her, one of them could have provoked her doom, wittingly or not. Of the three, only Mr. Heydecker was known to have left around the same time as Miss Aaron-he had said on a personal errand, but his movements could not be checked. My new assumption, not yet a conclusion, was that he had followed her to this address and seen her enter my house, had sought a phone and called you to warn you that your joint intrigue might soon be ex-Eosed, and then, no doubt in desperation, had scurried ack to his office, fifteen minutes late at the conference.”
It was Edey’s turn to make a commotion and he obliged. He left his chair, moved to the couch, and stood staring down at Heydecker. Saul and I were there, but apparently he had no brilliant idea beyond the stare.
WOLFE: “Now, however, that assumption is a conclusion, and I don’t expect to abandon it. Mr. Heydecker does not believe, and neither do I, that upon receiving his phone call you came here determined to murder. Indeed, you couldn’t have, since you could have no expectation of finding her alone. Mr. Heydecker believes that you merely intended to salvage what you could-at best to prevent the disclosure, at worst to leam where you stood. You called this number and she answered and agreed to admit you and hear you. Mr. Heydecker believes that when you entered and found that she was alone and that she had not seen me, it was on sudden impulse that you seized the paperweight and struck her. He believes that when you saw her sink to the floor, unconscious, and saw the necktie on this desk, the impulse carried you on. He believes that you-”
MRS. SORELL: “How do you know what he believes?”
That would have been my cue if I were needed. I had been instructed to use my judgment. If Heydecker’s reaction made it doubtful I was to get to the office with a signal before Wolfe had gone too far to hedge. It was no strain at all on my judgment. Heydecker was hunched forward, his elbows on his knees and his face covered by his hands.
WOLFE: “A good question. I am not in his skull. I should have said, he says he believes. You might have known, madam, that he couldn’t possibly stand the pressure. Disclosure of his treachery to his firm will end his professional career, but concealment of guilty knowledge of a murder might have ended his life. You might have known-”
MRS. SORELL: “If he says he believes I killed that woman he’s lying. He killed her. He’s a rat and a liar. He phoned me twice yesterday, first to tell me that we had been seen in the lunchroom, to warn me, and again about an hour later to say that he had dealt with it, that our plan was safe. So he had killed her. When Goodwin told me there had been developments I knew what it was, I knew he would lose his nerve, I knew he would lie. He’s a rat. That’s why I came. I admit I concealed guilty knowledge of a murder, and I know that was wrong, but it’s not too late. Is it too late?”
WOLFE: “No. A purge can both clean your conscience and save your skin. What time did he phone you the second time?”
MRS. SORELL: “I don’t know exactly. It was between five and six. Around half past five.”
WOLFE: “What was the plan he had made safe?”
MRS. SORELL: “Of course he has lied about that too. It was his plan. He came to me about a month ago and said he could give me information about my husband that I could use to make-that I could use to get my rights. He wanted-”
Heydecker jerked his head up and yapped, “That’s a lie! I didn’t go to her, she came to me!” That added to my knowledge of human nature. He hadn’t uttered a peep when she accused him of murder. Edey, who was still there staring down at him, said something I didn’t catch.
Mrs. Sorell was going on: “He wanted me to agree to pay him a million dollars for it, but I couldn’t because I didn’t know how much I would get, and I finally said I would pay him one-tenth of what I got. That was that evening at the lunchroom.”
WOLFE: “Has he given you the information?”
MRS. SORELL: “No. He wanted too much in advance. Of course that was the difficulty. We couldn’t put it in writing and sign it.”
WOLFE: “No indeed. A signed document is of little value when neither party would dare to produce it. I presume you realize, Mrs. Sorell, that your purge will have to include your appearance on the stand at a murder trial. Are you prepared to testify under oath?”
MRS. SORELL: “I suppose I’ll have to. I knew I would have to when I decided to come to see you.”
Wolfe (in a new tone, the snap of a whip): “Then you’re a dunce, madam.”
Again that would have been my cue if I were needed. The whole point of the set-up, having the four members of the firm in the front room listening in, was to get Heydecker committed before witnesses. If his nerve had held it would have been risky for Wolfe to crack the whip. But he was done for. He hadn’t written out a confession and signed i
t, but he might as well have.
MRS. SORELL: “Oh, no, Mr. Wolfe. I’m not a dunce.”
WOLFE: “But you are. One detail alone would sink you. After you rang this number yesterday afternoon, and Miss Aaron answered, and you spoke with her, you got here as quickly as possible. Since you were not then contemplating murder, there was no reason for you to use caution. I don’t know if you have a car and chauffeur, but even if you have, to send for it would have meant delay, and minutes were precious. There is no crosstown subway. Buses, one downtown and one crosstown, would have been far too slow. Unquestionably you took a cab. In spite of the traffic that would have been much faster than walking. The doorman at the Churchill probably summoned one for you, but even if he didn’t, it will be a simple matter to find it. I need only telephone Mr. Cramer, the police inspector who was here this afternoon, and suggest that he locate the cab driver who picked you up at or near the Churchill yesterday afternoon and drove you to this address. In fact, that is what I intend to do, and that will be enough.”
Ann Paige stood up. She was in a fix. She wanted to go to Gregory Jett, where her eyes already were, but she didn’t want to leave Lamont Otis, who was slumped in his chair, his head sagging and his eyes shut. Luckily Jett saw her difficulty and went to her and put an arm around her. It scored a point for romance that he could have a thought for personal matters at the very mo-ment his firm was getting a clout on the jaw.
WOLFE: “I shall also suggest that he send a man here to take you in hand until the cab driver is found. If you ask why I don’t proceed to do this, why I first announce it to you, I confess a weakness. I am savoring a satisfaction. I am getting even with you. Twenty-five hours ago, in this room, you subjected me to the severest humiliation I have suffered for many years. I will not say it gives me pleasure, but I confess it-”
There was a combination of sounds from the speaker:
a kind of cry or squeal, presumably from Mrs. Sorell, a sort of scrape or flutter, and what might have been a grunt from Wolfe. I dived for the connecting door and went with it as I swung it open, and kept going, but two paces short ofWolfe’s desk I halted to take in a sight I had never seen before and never expect to see again:
Nero Wolfe with his arms tight around a beautiful young woman in his lap, pinning her arms, hugging her close to him. I stood paralyzed.
“Archie!” he roared. “Confound it, get her!”
I obeyed.
Chapter 9
I would like to be able to report that Wolfe got somewhere with his effort to minimize the damage to the firm, but I have to be candid and accurate. He tried but there wasn’t much he could do, since Heydecker was the chief witness for the prosecution at the trial and was cross-examined for six hours. Of course that finished him professionally. Wolfe had bet-ter luck with another effort; the DA finally conceded that I was competent to identify Exhibit C, a brown silk necktie with little yellow curlicues, and Wolfe wasn’t
68 Rex Stout
called. Evidently the jury agreed with him, since it only took them five hours to bring in a verdict of guilty.
At that, the firm is still doing business at the old stand, and Lament Otis still comes to the office five days a week, and I hear that since Gregory Jett’s marriage to Ann Paige he has quit being careless about the balance between income and outgo. I don’t know if his eleven-percent cut has been boosted. That’s a confidential matter.
DEATH OF A DEMON
Chapter 1
The red leather chair was four feet away from the end of Nero Wolfe’s desk, so when she got the gun from her handbag she had to get up and take a step to put it on the desk. Then she returned to the chair, closed the bag, and told Wolfe, “That’s the gun I’m not going to shoot my husband with.”
Sitting facing her with my back to my desk, which was at right angles to Wolfe’s, I raised my brows. I hadn’t expected her to put on an act. When she had phoned the previous afternoon to ask for an appointment she had of course sounded a little jumpy, as most people do when they call the office of a private detective, but she had been quite matter-of-fact in giving the details. Her name was Lucy Hazen, Mrs. Barry Hazen. She gave her address, on East 37th Street between Park and Lexington. All she wanted was thirty minutes with Nero Wolfe, to tell him something confidential. She didn’t want him to do anything, not even give her advice; she merely wanted to tell him something; and she would pay one hundred dollars for the half-hour. She could and would pay more if she had to, but she hoped the hundred would be enough. In November or December, when Wolfe’s income has reached a point where out of a hundred received he can keep only twenty bucks, he will make an appointment only for someone or something very special, but this was January, no big fee was in prospect, and even a measly C would help in the upkeep of his old brownstone on West 35th Street, including staff, particularly since he wouldn’t have to work for it. So it was set for 11:30 the following morning, Tuesday.
When the doorbell rang at 11:30 on the dot and I went to let her in, she gave me a smile and said, “Thank you for getting him to see me.” Handshakes can be faked and usually are, but smiles can’t. It isn’t often that a man gets a natural, friendly, straightforward smile from a young woman who has never seen him before, with no come-on, no catch, and no dare, and the least he can do is return it if he has that kind in stock. As I took her to the office and helped her off with her coat, which was mink, I was thinking that you never know, even the good-looking wife of a well-known public relations operator like Barry Hazen could have her feelings on straight. I was pleased to meet her.
So I was disappointed when she put on an act. It is not natural for a woman to open a conversation with a stranger by taking a revolver from her bag and saying that’s the gun she isn’t going to shoot her husband with. I must have been wrong about the smile, and since I don’t like to be wrong I was no longer pleased to meet her. I raised my brows and tightened my lips.
Wolfe, in his oversized chair behind his desk, darted a glance at the gun, returned his eyes to her, and grunted. “I am not impressed,” he said, “by histrion-ics.”
“Oh,” she said, “I’m not trying to impress you, I’m only telling you. That’s what I came for, just to tell you. I thought it would be more-more definite, I guess-if I brought the gun and showed it to you.”
“Very well, you have done so.” Wolfe was frowning. “I understand that you intend to ask me for no service or advice; you wish only to tell me something in confidence. I should remind you that I am not a lawyer or a priest; a communication from you to me will not be privileged. If you tell me about a crime I can’t engage not to disclose it. I mean a serious crime, not some petty offense such as carrying a deadly weapon for which you have no permit.”
“I hadn’t thought of that, carrying a weapon.” She dismissed it with a little gesture. “That’s all right. There hasn’t been any crime and there isn’t going to be, that’s just the point. That’s what I came to tell you, that I’m not going to shoot my husband.”
Wolfe’s eyes were narrowed at her. He is convinced that all women are dotty or devious, or both, and here was more evidence to support it. “Just that?” he demanded. “You wanted half an hour.”
She nodded. She set her teeth on her lip, nice white teeth, and in a moment released it. “Because I thought it would be better if I told you something about��� why. If you will regard it as confidential.”
“With the reservation I have made.”
“Of course. You know who my husband is? Barry Hazen, Public Relations?”
“Mr. Goodwin has informed me.”
“We were married two years ago. I was the secretary of a client of his, Jules Khoury, the inventor. My father, Titus Postel, was also an inventor, and he was associated with Mr. Khoury until his death five years ago. That’s where I met Barry, at Mr. Khoury’s office. I thought I really was in love with him. I have tried and tried to decide what was the real reason why I married him, I mean the real one, whether it was only because I wante
d to have-”
She stopped and put her teeth on her lip. She shook her head, with energy, as if to chase a fly. “There you are,” she said. “I mean there I am. You don’t need to know all that. I’m blubbering, fishing for pity. You don’t even need to know why I want to kill him.”
Wolfe muttered, “It’s your half-hour, madam.”
“I don’t hate him.” She shook her head again. “I think I despise him-I know I do-and he won’t let me get a divorce. I tried to leave him, I did leave him, but he made such a-There I go again! I don’t need to tell you all that!”
“As you please.”
“It’s not as I please, Mr. Wolfe, it’s as I must!”
“As you must, then.”
“This is what I must tell you. He has a gun in a drawer in his bedroom. That’s it there on your desk. We have separate bedrooms. You know how there can be something in your mind but you don’t know it’s there until all of a sudden there it is?”
“Certainly. The subconscious is not a grave; it’s a cistern.”
“But we don’t know what’s in it. I didn’t. One day a month ago, it was the day after Christmas, I went to his bedroom and took the gun from the drawer and looked to see if it was loaded, and it was, and all of a sudden I was thinking how easy it would be to shoot him while he was in bed asleep. I said to myself, ‘You idiot, you absolute idiot/ and put the gun back, and I didn’t go near that drawer again. But the thought came back, it kept coming, mostly when I was trying to go to sleep, and it got worse. It got worse this way, it wasn’t just going in when he was asleep and getting the gun and shooting him, it was planning how to do it so I wouldn’t get caught. I knew it was idiotic, but I couldn’t stop. I could not! And one night, just two nights ago, Sunday night, I got out of bed trembling all over and went to the shower and turned on the cold water and stood under it. I had found a plan that would work. I don’t have to tell you what the plan was.”
