by Rex Stout
Her eyes were still on me, but her mind wasn't. She was considering something. "I see no reason…" she said, and stopped.
I waited a little, then said, "Yes, Mrs Althaus?"
"I see no reason why I shouldn't tell you. I have suspected it was the FBI, ever since Mr Yarmack told me that nothing about them was found in the apartment. So has Mr Yarmack, and so has Miss Hinckley. I don't think I am a vindictive woman, Mr Goodwin, but he was my-" Her voice was going to quiver, and she stopped. In a moment she went on. "He was my son. I am still trying to realize that he-he's gone. Did you know him? Did you ever meet him?"
"No."
"You're a detective."
"Yes."
"You're expecting me to help you find-to fix the blame for my son's death. Very well, I want to. But I don't think I can. He rarely spoke to me about his work. I don't remember that he ever mentioned the FBI. Miss Hinckley has asked me that, and Mr Yarmack. I'm sorry I can't tell you anything about it, I'm truly sorry, because if they killed him I hope they will be punished. It says in Leviticus 'Thou shalt not avenge', but Aristotle wrote that revenge is just. You see, I have been thinking about it. I believe-"
She turned to face the arch. A door had closed, and there were voices, and then a girl appeared. As she approached I got up, but Mrs Althaus kept her chair. The pictures in the Gazette file understated it. Marian Hinckley was a dish. She was an in-between, neither blonde nor brunette, brown hair and blue eyes, and she moved straight and smooth. If she wore a hat she had ditched it in the foyer. She came and gave Mrs Althaus a cheek kiss, then turned to look at me as Mrs Althaus pronounced my name. As the blue eyes took me in I instructed mine to ignore any aspect of the situation that was irrelevant to the job. When Mrs Althaus invited her to sit I moved a chair up. As she sat she spoke to Mrs Althaus. "If I understood you on the phone-did you say Nero Wolfe knows it was the FBI? Was that it?"
"I'm afraid I didn't get it straight," Mrs Althaus said. "Will you tell her, Mr Goodwin?"
I described it, the three points: why Wolfe was interested, what had made him suspicious, and how his suspicion had been supported by what a man told him yesterday. I explained that he didn't know it was the FBI, and he certainly couldn't prove it, but he intended to try to and that was why I was there.
Miss Hinckley was frowning at me. "But I don't see… Has he told the police what the man told him?"
"I'm sorry," I said, "I guess I didn't make it plain enough. He thinks the police know it was the FBI, or suspect it. For instance, one thing he wants to ask you people: Are the police keeping after you? Coming back, again and again, asking the same questions over and over? Mrs Althaus?"
"No."
"Miss Hinckley?"
"No. But we've told them everything we know."
"That doesn't matter. In a murder investigation, if they haven't got a line they like, they never let up on anybody, and it looks as if they have let up on everybody. That's one thing we need to know. Mrs Althaus just told me that you and Mr Yarmack both think that the FBI killed him. Is that correct?"
"Yes. Yes, it is. Because there was nothing about the FBI in his apartment."
"Do you know what there might have been? What he had dug up?"
"No. Morris never told me about things like that."
"Does Mr Yarmack know?"
"I don't know. I don't think so."
"How do you feel about it, Miss Hinckley? Whoever killed Morris Althaus, do you want him caught? Caught and dealt with?"
"Of course I do. Certainly I do."
I turned to Mrs Althaus. "You do too. All right, it's a good bet that he never will be caught unless Nero Wolfe does it. You may know that he doesn't go to see people. You'll have to go to him, to his house-you and Miss Hinckley, and, if possible, Mr Yarmack. Can you be there this evening at nine o'clock?"
"Why…" She had her hands clasped. "I don't… What good would it do? There's nothing I can tell him."
"There might be. I often think there's nothing I can tell him, but I find out I'm wrong. Or if he only decides that none of you can tell him anything, that will help. Will you come?"
"I suppose…" She looked at the girl who had been expecting to be her daughter-in-law.
"Yes," Miss Hinckley said. "I'll go."
I could have hugged her. It would have been relevant to the job. I asked her, "Could you bring Mr Yarmack?"
"I don't know. I'll try."
"Good." I rose. "The address is in the phone book."
To Mrs Althaus: "I should tell you, it's next to certain that the FBI has a watch on the house and you will be seen. If you don't mind, Mr Wolfe doesn't. He's perfectly willing for them to know he is investigating the murder of your son. Nine o'clock?"
She said yes, and I went. In the foyer the maid came and wanted to hold my coat, and not to hurt her feelings I let her. Down in the lobby, from the look the doorman gave me as he opened the door I deduced that the hallman had told him what I was, and to be in character I met the look with a sharp and wary eye. Outside, some snowflakes were doing stunts. In the taxi, headed downtown, again I ignored the rear. I figured that if they were on me, which was highly likely, maybe one cent of each ten grand of Wolfe's income tax, and one mill of each ten grand of mine, would go to pay government employees to keep me company uninvited, which didn't seem right.
Wolfe had just come down from the plant rooms after his four-to-six afternoon session with the orchids and got nicely settled in his chair with The Treasure of Our Tongue. Instead of going on in and crossing to my desk as usual, I stopped at the sill of the office door, and when he looked up I pointed a finger straight down, emphatically, turned, and beat it to the stairs to the basement and on down. Flipping the light switch, I went and perched on the pool table. Two minutes. Three. Four, and there were footsteps. He stood at the door, glared at me, and spoke.
"I won't tolerate this."
I raised an eyebrow. "I could write it."
"Pfui. Two points. One, the risk is extremely slight. Two, we can use it. As you talk you can insert comments or statements at will which I am to disregard, notifying me by raising a finger. I shall do the same. Of course making no reference to Mr Cramer; we can't risk that; and maintaining our conclusion that the FBI killed that man, and we intend to establish it."
"But actually we don't."
"Certainly not." He turned and went.
So I was foxed. His house, his office, and his chair. But I had to admit, as I mounted the steps, that pigheaded as he was, it wasn't a bad idea. If they really had an electronic ear on the office, which I didn't believe, it might even be a damned good idea. When I entered the office he was back at his desk and I went to mine, and as I sat he said, "Well?"
He should have had a finger raised. He never wastes breath by saying "Well?" when I return from an errand; he merely puts the book down, or the beer glass, and is ready for me to speak.
I raised a finger. "Your guess that they might have hit on the FBI theory at the Gazette, and be working on it, wasn't so good." I lowered the finger. "Lon Cohen didn't mention it, so I didn't. They haven't got a theory. He let me go through the files, and we talked, and I got a dozen pages of names and assorted details, some of which might possibly be useful." I raised a finger. "I'll type it up at the usual five dollars a page." I lowered the finger. "Next I phoned Mrs David Althaus from a booth, and she said she would see me, and I went. Park Avenue in the Eighties, tenth-floor apartment, all the trimmings you would expect. Pictures okay. I won't describe her because you'll see her. She quotes Leviticus and Aristotle." Finger raised. "I wanted to quote Plato but couldn't work it in." Finger lowered. "I had asked her on the phone to ask Marian Hinckley to come, and she said she would be there soon. She said she had understood me to say on the phone that her son had been killed by an agent of the FBI and was that correct. From there on you had better have it verbatim."
I gave it to him, straight through, knowing that I had said nothing we wouldn't be willing for the FBI to hear. Leaning bac
k with his eyes closed, he wouldn't have been able to see a raised finger, so I couldn't make any insertions. When I finished he grunted, opened his eyes, and said, "It's bad enough when you know there's a needle in the haystack. When you don't even-"
The doorbell rang. Going to the hall for a look, I saw a G-man on the stoop. Not that I recognized him, but it must be-the right age, the broad shoulders, the manly mug with a firm jaw, the neat dark gray coat. I went and opened the door the two inches allowed by the chain bolt and said, "Yes, sir?"
He blurted through the crack, "My name's Quayle and I want to see Nero Wolfe!"
"Spell it, please?"
"Timothy Quayle! Q,U,A,Y,L,E!"
"Mr Wolfe is engaged. I'll see."
I went to the office door. "One of the names in my notebook. Timothy Quayle. Senior editor at Tick-Tock magazine. The hero type. He slugged a reporter who was annoying Marian Hinckley. She must have phoned him about you soon after I left."
"No," he growled.
"It's half an hour till dinner. Are you in the middle of a chapter?"
He glowered at me. "Bring him."
I returned to the front, slid the bolt, and swung the door open, and he entered. As I was shutting the door he told me I was Archie Goodwin, and I conceded it, took care of his coat and hat, and led him to the office. Three steps in he stopped to glance around, aimed the glance at Wolfe, and demanded, "Did you get my name?"
Wolfe nodded. "Mr Quayle."
He advanced to the desk. "I am a friend of Miss Marian Hinckley. I want to know what kind of a game you're playing. I want an explanation."
"Bah," Wolfe said.
"Don't bah me! What are you up to?"
"This is ridiculous," Wolfe said. "I like eyes at a level. If you can only blather at me, Mr Goodwin will put you out. If you will take that chair, change your tone, and give me an acceptable reason why I should account to you, I may listen."
Quayle opened his mouth and shut it again. He turned his head to look at me, there on my feet, apparently to see if I was man enough. I would have liked it just as well if he had decided I wasn't, for after that night and day I would have welcomed an excuse to twist another arm. But he vetoed it, went to the red leather chair and sat, and scowled at Wolfe. "I know about you," he said. Not so blathery, but not at all sociable. "I know how you operate. If you want to hook Mrs Althaus for some change, that's her lookout, but you're not going to drag Miss Hinckley in. I don't intend-"
"Archie," Wolfe snapped. "Put him out. Fritz will open the door." He pushed a button.
I stepped to about arm's length from the red leather chair and stood looking down at the hero. Fritz came, and Wolfe told him to hold the front door open, and he went.
Quayle's situation was bad. With me standing there in front of him, if he started to leave the chair I could get about any hold I wanted while he was coming up. But my situation was bad too. Removing a 180-pound man from a padded armchair is a problem, and he had savvy enough to stay put, leaning back. But his feet weren't pulled in enough. I started my hands for his shoulders, then dived and got his ankles and yanked and kept going, and had him in the hall, on his back, before he could even try to counter, and then the damn fool tried to turn to get hand leverage on the floor. At the front door I braked when Fritz got his arms and held them down.
"There's snow on the stoop," I said. "If I let you up and give you your hat and coat, just walk out. I know more tricks than you do. Right?"
"Yes. You goddam goon."
"Goodwin. You left out the D, W, I, but I'll overlook it. All right, Fritz."
We let go, and he scrambled to his feet. Fritz got his coat from the rack, but he said, "I want to go back in. I'm going to ask him something."
"No. You have bad manners. We'd have to bounce you again."
"No you wouldn't. I want to ask him something."
"Politely. Tactfully."
"Yes."
I shut the door. "You can have two minutes. Don't sit down, don't raise your voice, and don't use words like 'goon.' Lead the way, Fritz."
We filed down the hall and in, Fritz in front and me in the rear. Wolfe, whose good ears hear what is said in the hall, gave him a cold eye as he stopped short of the desk, surrounded by Fritz and me.
"You wanted an acceptable reason," he told Wolfe. "As I said, I am a friend of Miss Hinckley. A good enough friend so that she called me on the phone to tell me about Goodwin-what he said to her and Mrs Althaus. I advised her not to come here this evening, but she's coming. At nine o'clock?"
"Yes."
"Then I'm going-" He stopped. That wasn't the way. It came hard, but he managed it. "I want to be here. Will you… May I come?"
"If you control yourself."
"I will."
"Time's up," I said, and took his arm to turn him.
7
At ten minutes past nine in the evening of that long day I went to the kitchen. Wolfe was at the center table with Fritz, arguing about the number of juniper berries to put in a marinade for venison loin chops. Knowing that that could go on and on, I said, "Excuse me. They're all here, and more. David Althaus, the father, came along. He's the bald one, to your right at the back. Also a lawyer named Bernard Fromm, to your left at the back. Long-headed and hard-eyed."
Wolfe frowned. "I don't want him."
"Of course not. Shall I tell him so?"
"Confound it." He turned to Fritz. "Very well, proceed. I say three, but proceed as you will. If you put in five I won't even have to taste it; the smell will tell me. With four it might be palatable." He gave me a nod and I headed for the office, and he followed.
He circled around Mrs Althaus in the red leather chair and stood while I pronounced names. There were two rows of yellow chairs, with Vincent Yannack, Marian Hinckley, and Timothy Quayle in front, and David Althaus and Bernard Fromm in the rear. That put Quayle nearest me, which had seemed advisable. Wolfe sat, sent his eyes left to right and back again, and spoke. "I should tell you that it may be that with an electronic eavesdropping device agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation hear everything that is said in this room. Mr Goodwin and I think it unlikely, but it is quite possible. I feel that you-"
"Why would they?" Fromm the lawyer. The courtroom tone, cross-examination.
"That will appear, Mr Fromm. I feel that you should be aware of that possibility, however remote. Now I beg you to indulge me. I'm going to talk a while. I can expect you to help further my interest only if I can demonstrate that your interest runs with mine. You are the father, the mother, the fiancee, and the associates of a man who was murdered seven weeks ago, and the murderer has not been exposed. I intend to expose him. I intend to establish that Morris Althaus was killed by an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. That intention-"
They made two demands simultaneously. Yarmack demanded, "How?" and Fromm demanded, "Why?"
Wolfe nodded. "That intention stands on two legs. Recently I undertook a job which made it necessary for me to make inquiries regarding certain activities of the FBI, and they retaliated immediately by trying to have me deprived of my license as a private investigator. They may succeed; but even if they do, as a private citizen I can pursue an investigation in my private interest, and it will certainly be in my interest to discredit their pretension that they are faultless champions of law and justice. That's one leg. The other leg is my long-standing grievance against the Homicide Squad of the New York Police Department. They too have pretensions. On numerous occasions they have hampered my legitimate activities. They have threatened more than once to prosecute me for withholding evidence or obstructing justice. It would be gratifying to me to reciprocate, to demonstrate that they know or suspect that the FBI is implicated in a murder and they are obstructing justice. That would also-"
"You're talking plenty," Fromm cut in. "Can you back it up?"
"By inference, yes. The police and the District Attorney know that Morris Althaus had been collecting material for an article about the FBI, but they found
no such material in his apartment. Mr Yarmack. I believe you were involved in that project?"
Vincent Yarmack was more my idea of a senior editor than Timothy Quayle-round sloping shoulders, tight little mouth, and eyes so pale you had to guess they were there behind the black-rimmed cheaters.
"I was," he said in a voice that was close to a squeak.
"And Mr Althaus had collected material?"
"Certainly."
"Had he turned it over to you, or was it in his possession?"
"I thought it was in his possession. But I have been told by the police that there was nothing about the FBI in his apartment."
"Didn't you draw an inference from that?"
"Well… one inference was obvious, that someone had taken it. It wasn't likely that Morris had put it somewhere else."
"Mrs Althaus told Mr Goodwin this afternoon that you suspected it was the FBI. Is that correct?"
Yarmack turned his head for a glance at Mrs Althaus, and back to Wolfe. "I may have given her that impression in a private conversation. This conversation isn't very private, according to you."
Wolfe grunted. "I said the eavesdropping is possible but not verified. If you drew that inference, certainly the police would." His eyes moved. "Wouldn't they, Mr Fromm?"
The lawyer nodded. "Presumably. But that doesn't warrant a conclusion that they are obstructing justice."
"A conclusion, no. A surmise, yes. If not obstruction, at least nonfeasance. As a member of the bar, you are aware of the tenacity of the police and the District Attorney in an unsolved murder case. If they-"
