The Doorbell Rang (The Rex Stout Library)

by Rex Stout

  His jaw was working. "Of course it has been discussed in the Commissioner's office. Several times. I'm hogtied. We wouldn't like anything better than hanging it on that bunch of grabbers, but what have we got for a jury, and what could we get? So we lay off. So I say this: I'll not only write a report on Wolfe and you for the Commissioner, I'll see him and talk to him. I don't think you'll lose your licenses. But I won't tell him about seeing you."

  He rose and went to the bed and came back with his hat and coat. "You might as well finish the milk. And I hope that Mrs Bruner gets her money's worth." He put out a hand. "Happy New Year."

  "The same to you." I got up and shook. "Could he identify them if it came to that?"

  "For God's sake, Goodwin. Three against one?"

  "I know. But if it were needed just for a frill, could he?"

  "Possibly. He thinks he could. I've given you all I've got. Don't come and don't phone. Give me a few minutes to get out." He started for the door, turned and said, "Give Wolfe my regards," and went.

  I finished the milk standing up.

  5

  It was twenty minutes past noon when I stepped out of the lobby of the Westside Hotel. I felt like walking. For one thing, I was still loose, and it was nice to walk without wondering if I had company. For another thing, I didn't want to think hard on top, and when I walk the hard thinking, if any, is down where it doesn't use words. And for a third thing, I wanted to do some sightseeing. It was a nice sunny winter day, not much wind, and I crossed town to Sixth Avenue and turned south.

  To show the kind of thinking that comes on top with no effort when I'm walking, as I crossed Washington Square I was thinking that it was a coincidence that Arbor Street was in the Village and Sarah Dacos lived in the Village. That couldn't be called a hard thought, since a quarter of a million people lived in the Village, more or less, and I have known fancier coincidences, but it's a fair sample of what my mind does when I'm walking.

  I had been in Arbor Street before, no matter why for this report. It's narrow and only three blocks long, with an assortment of old brick houses on either side. Number 63, which was near the middle, had nothing distinctive about it. I stood across the street and looked it over. The windows on the third floor, where Morris Althaus had lived and died, had tan drapes that were drawn. I went to the corner around which the G-men had parked their car. As I said, sightseeing, loose. Actually, of course, I was professionally observing the scene of a crime which might be going to have my attention. It helps somehow. Helps me, not Wolfe; he wouldn't go to the window to see the scene of a crime. I would have liked to go up to the third floor for a look at the living room, but I wanted to get home in time for lunch, so I backtracked to Christopher Street and flagged a taxi.

  The reason I wanted to be there for lunch was the rule that business must never be mentioned during meals. It was twenty past one when Fritz let me in and I put my coat and hat on the rack, so Wolfe was at the table. Going to the dining room and taking my place across from him, I made a remark about the weather. He grunted and swallowed a bite of braised sweetbread.

  Fritz came with the dish, and I took some. I was not being merely petty; I was showing him that sometimes rules can be damn silly; one you make so you can enjoy your food can just about spoil a meal. It didn't spoil mine, but there wasn't much conversation.

  But there was another reason for saving it. As we pushed our chairs back I told him I wanted to show him something in the basement, and I led the way to the hall, then to the right, and down the steps. The basement has Fritz's room and bath, a storeroom, and a large room with a pool table. In the last is not only the usual raised bench, but also a big comfortable chair on a platform, for Wolfe when he feels like watching Saul Panzer and me use our cues, which happens about once a year. I led him to that room, flipped the wall switch for light, and spoke.

  "Your new office. I hope you like it. There may be only one chance in a million that they can bug a room without getting inside, but that's one too many. Be seated." I lifted my rump onto the rim of the pool table, facing the big chair.

  He glared. "Are you badgering me or is it possible?"

  "It's conceivable. I wouldn't risk leaking it that Inspector Cramer told me to give you his regards. Also that he bought me a carton of milk, shook my hand, and wished me a happy New Year."

  "This is flummery."

  "No, sir. It was Cramer."

  "In that hotel room?"

  "Yes."

  He stepped onto the platform and sat. "Report," he growled.

  I obeyed. I didn't rush it because I wanted to be sure to get every word in. If we had been in the office he would have leaned back and closed his eyes, but that chair wasn't built for it and he had to stay straight. For the last ten minutes his lips were pressed tight, either because of what he was hearing or of where he was sitting, probably both. I finished with my sightseeing trip and said that a man across the street, maybe walking a dog, or one in a front room of either of two houses, could have seen them leave Number 63 and go around the corner to the car, and even the license number. There was a light at the corner.

  He took in a bushel of air through his nose and let it out through his mouth. "I wouldn't have thought," he said, "that Mr Cramer could be such an ass."

  I nodded. "I know it sounds like it. But he didn't know, until I told him, why the FBI was on us. He only knew we had stung them somehow, and he had a murder he couldn't tag them for, and he decided to hand it to you. You've got to admit that you should feel flattered that he thought there was the remotest chance you could pull it, and look at all the trouble he took. And after I told him about Mrs Bruner he didn't stop to figure it. Probably he has by now. He must realize that it doesn't fit. Suppose you passed a miracle and tied that murder to them so they couldn't shake it off. That wouldn't fill your client's order. The only way that could help her and earn you a fee would be if you said to them, look, I'll lay off on the murder if you'll lay off of Mrs Bruner. Cramer wouldn't like that, that's not his idea at all. Neither would you, really. Making a deal with a murderer isn't your style. Have I got it straight?"

  He grunted. "I don't like your pronouns."

  "All right, make it 'we' and 'us.' It's not my style either."

  He shook his head. "It's a pickle." A corner of his mouth curled up.

  I stared and demanded, "What the hell are you smiling at?"

  "The pickle. The alternative. You have made it clear that it would be futile to establish that the FBI killed that man. Very well, then we'll establish that they didn't."

  "Good for us. And then?"

  "We'll see." He turned a hand over. "Archie. We had nothing. The items Mr Cohen gave us were mere trivia, offering not even a forlorn hope. Now, thanks to Mr Cramer, we have a nut with meat in it, an unsolved murder in which the FBI is deeply involved, whether they committed it or not. An open challenge to ingenuity, to our talents if we have any. We need first to learn, assuredly, who killed that man. You saw Mr Cramer's face and heard his tone. Is he really satisfied that it was the FBI?"

  "Yes."

  "Justly?"

  "He thinks so. Of course it appeals to him. He refers to them as that goddam outfit and that bunch of grabbers. After he learned about the three G-men being at the scene at the right time he probably let up on other possibilities, but he's a good cop, and if there had been any other lead that was at all hot he would have kept on it, and apparently he didn't. Also, if Althaus was there dead when they entered, why didn't they report it? Anonymously, of course, after they left. They might have preferred not to, but it's a fair question. Also the bullet. Not many murderers would have realized that it had gone on through to the wall and fallen to the floor, and found it and taken it. With an old pro like Cramer that would be a big point. So I guess you could say justly."

  He was frowning at me. "Who is the Wragg Mr Cramer mentioned?"

  "Richard Wragg. Top G-man in New York. Special agent in charge."

  "Does he know, or believe, that Altha
us was killed by one of his men?"

  "I'd have to ask him. He could know one of them did, but he couldn't know he didn't, because he wasn't there. He's not a damn fool, and he would be if he believed everything they tell him. Does it matter?"

  "It might. It could be of great consequence."

  "Then my guess is that he either knows a G-man killed him or he thinks it probable. Otherwise, when Cramer went and asked him for cooperation he would probably have opened up. The FBI likes to oblige local cops when it doesn't cost them anything-prestige, for instance-and Wragg would know that Cramer wouldn't care about their calling at Althaus's place uninvited. Cops do that too, as you know. So Wragg may even have the bullet in a drawer of his desk."

  "What is your opinion? Do you agree with Mr Cramer?"

  "That's a strange question, from you. I don't rate an opinion, and you don't either. Maybe the landlord shot Althaus because he was behind on the rent. Or and or and or."

  He nodded. "That's what we must explore. You will start now, as you think best. Perhaps with his family. My recollection is that his father, David Althaus, makes clothes for women."

  "Right. Seventh Avenue." I slid off of the pool table and was on my feet. "Since we prefer it that he wasn't killed by a G-man, I suppose we're not interested in what he had collected on the FBI."

  "We're interested in everything." He made a face. "And if you find anyone you think I should see, bring him." He made a face again and added, "Or her."

  "With pleasure. My first stop will be the Gazette, to go though the file, and Lon may have some facts that haven't been printed. As for bringing people, the house may be covered front and back. How do I get them in and out?"

  "The door. We are investigating a murder with which the FBI is not concerned. So Mr Wragg told Mr Cramer. And for once Mr Cramer won't complain."

  "Then I don't bother about tails?"

  "No."

  "That's a relief." I went.

  6

  My watch said 4:35 as I entered a drugstore near Grand Central, consulted the Manhattan phone book, went to a booth and shut the door, and dialed a number.

  From the Gazette files, and from Lon Cohen by word of mouth off the record, I had filled a dozen pages of my notebook.

  I have it here now, but all of it in print would also take a dozen pages, so I'll report only what you need to understand what happened. Here are the principal names:

  MORRIS ALTHAUS, deceased, 36, height 5 feet 11, weight 175, dark complexion, handsome, liked all right by men but more than liked by women. Had had a two-year affair, 1962 and 1963, with a certain stage personality, name not given here. Had earned from his writing around ten grand a year, but it had probably been augmented by his mother without his father's knowledge. Not on record when he and Marian Hinckley had decided to tie up, but as far as known he had had no other girlfriend for several months. Three hundred and eighty-four typewritten pages of an unfinished novel had been found in his apartment. No one at the Gazette, including Lon, had any firm guess who had killed him.

  No one there had known, before the murder, that he had been collecting material for a piece on the FBI, and Lon thought that was a disgrace to journalism in general and to the Gazette personnel in particular. Apparently Althaus had used rubber soles.

  DAVID ALTHAUS Morris's father, around 60, was a partner in Althaus and Greif, makers of the Peggy Pilgrim line of dresses and suits (see your local newspaper). David had resented it that Morris, his only child, had given Peggy Pilgrim the go-by, and they hadn't been close in recent years.

  IVANA (Mrs David) ALTHAUS had not seen a reporter, and would not. She was still, seven weeks after her son's death, seeing no one but a few close friends.

  MARIAN HINCKLEY, 24, had been on the research staff at Tick-Tock for about two years. There were pictures of her in the file, and they made it easy to understand why Althaus had decided to concentrate on her. She had also refused to talk to reporters, but a newshen from the Post had finally got enough out of her for a spread, making some fur fly at the Gazette. It had made one Gazette female so sore that she worked up the theory that Marian Hinckley had shot Althaus with his own gun because he was cheating on her, but it had petered out.

  TIMOTHY QUAYLE, around 40, was a senior editor at Tick-Tock. I include him because he had got rough and tangled with a journalist from the Daily News who tried to corner Marian Hinckley in the lobby of the Tick-Tock building. A man that gallant deserves a look.

  VINCENT YARMACK, around 50, was another senior editor at Tick-Tock. I include him because the piece by Althaus about the FBI had been his project.

  It didn't look very promising for an approach. I considered the stage personality, but her whirl with Althaus had ended more than a year ago, and besides, a couple of previous experiences had taught me that actresses are better from the fifth or sixth row. The two editors would hang up. Father probably had nothing. Marian Hinckley would stiff-neck me. The best bet was mother, and it was her number I looked up and went to the booth to dial.

  First, of course, to get her to the phone. To the female who answered I gave no name; I merely told her, in an official tone, to tell Mrs Althaus that I was talking from a booth and an FBI man was with me and I must speak to her. It worked. In a couple of minutes another voice came.

  "Who is this? An FBI man?"

  "Mrs Althaus?"

  "Yes."

  "My name is Archie Goodwin. I'm not an FBI man. I work for Nero Wolfe, the private investigator. The FBI man is not here in the booth with me; he is with me because he is following me. Tailing me. He will follow me to your address, but that doesn't matter to me if it doesn't to you. I must see you-now, if possible. It will-"

  "I am not seeing anybody."

  "I know. You may have heard of Nero Wolfe. Have you?"

  "Yes."

  "He has been told by a man he knows well that your son Morris was killed by an agent of the FBI. That's why I am being followed. And that's why I must see you. I can be there in ten minutes. Did you get my name? Archie Goodwin."

  Silence. Finally: "You know who killed my son?"

  "Not his name. I don't know anything. I only know what Mr Wolfe has been told. That's all I can say on the phone. If I may make a suggestion, we think Miss Marian Hinckley should know about this too. Perhaps you could phone her and ask her to come, and I can tell both of you. Could you?"

  "I could, yes. Are you a newspaper reporter? Is this a trick?"

  "No. If I were this would be pretty dumb, you'd only have me bounced. I'm Archie Goodwin."

  "But I don't…" Long pause. "Very well. The hallman will ask you for identification."

  I told her of course, and hung up before she could change her mind.

  When leaving the house I had decided that I would completely iguore the tail question, but I couldn't help it if my eyes, while scouting the street for an empty taxi, took notice of standing vehicles. However, when I was in and rolling, up Madison Avenue and then Park, I kept facing front. To hell with the rear.

  It was a regulation Park Avenue hive in the Eighties-marquee, doorman hopping out when the taxi stopped, rubber runner saving the rug in the lobby-but it was Grade A, because the doorman did not double as hallman. When I showed the hallman, who was expecting me, my private investigator license he gave it a good look, handed it back, and told me 10B, and I went to the elevator. On the tenth floor I was admitted by a uniformed female who took my hat and coat, put them in a closet, and conducted me through an arch into a room even bigger than Lily Rowan's, where twenty couples can dance. I have a test for people with rooms that big-not the rugs or the furniture or the drapes, but the pictures on the walls. If I can tell what they are, okay. If all I can do is guess, look out; these people will bear watching. That room passed the test fine. I was looking at a canvas showing three girls sitting on the grass under a tree when footsteps came and I turned. She approached. She didn't offer a hand, but she said in a low, soft voice, "Mr Goodwin? I'm Ivana Althaus," and moved to a chair.

/>   Even without the picture test I would have passed her-her small slender figure with its honest angles, her hair with its honest gray, her eyes with their honest doubt. As I turned a chair to sit facing her I decided to be as honest as possible. She was saying that Miss Hinckley would come soon, but she would prefer not to wait. She had understood me to say on the phone that her son had been killed by an agent of the FBI. Was that correct?

  Her eyes were straight at me, and I met them. "Not strictly," I told her. "I said that someone told Mr Wolfe that. I should explain about Mr Wolfe. He is-uh-eccentric, and he has certain strong feelings about the New York Police Department. He resents their attitude toward him and his work, and he thinks they interfere too much. He reads the newspapers, and especially news about murders, and a couple of weeks ago he got the idea that the police and the District Attorney were letting go on the murder of your son, and when he learned that your son had been collecting material for an article about the FBI he suspected that the letting go might be deliberate. If so, it might be a chance to give the police a black eye, and nothing would please him better."

  Her eyes were staying straight at me, hardly a blink. "So," I said, "we had no case on our hands, and he started some inquiries. One thing we learned, a fact that hasn't been published, was that nothing about the FBI, no notes or documents, was found by the police in your son's apartment. Perhaps you knew that."

  She nodded. "Yes."

  "I supposed you did, so I mentioned it. We have learned some other facts which I have been instructed not to mention. You'll understand that. Mr Wolfe wants to save them until he has enough to act on. But yesterday afternoon a man told him that he knows that an FBI agent killed your son, and he backed it up with some information. I won't give you his name, or the information, but he's a reliable man and the informalion is solid, though it isn't enough to prove it. So Mr Wolfe wants all he can get from people who were close to your son-for instance, people to whom he may have told things he had learned about the FBI. Of course you are one of them, and so is Miss Hinckley. And Mr Yarmack. I was told to make it clear to you that Mr Wolfe is not looking for a client or a fee. He is doing this on his own and doesn't want or expect anyone to pay him."