Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 24

by Three Men Out

  It was Sylvia Marcy. At the foot, instead of turning toward the next flight down, she turned my way and approached, with the intention, as I thought, of switching on the coo, but I was wrong. She did not merely toss me a glance, she kept her eyes straight at my face as she advanced, and even swiveled her head to prolong it until she was nearly even with me, but she kept right on going and uttered no sound. I could have stuck out a foot and tripped her as she passed. She went to the door to Huck’s room, knocked, and entered without waiting. By then the elevator had stopped at my level, and I pulled the door open, stepped in, and pushed the button marked B.

  Down in the basement I found the kitchen and walked in. It was big and clean and smelled good. An inmate I had not see before, a plump little woman with extra chins, was at a table peeling mushrooms, and Mrs. O’Shea was across from her, sorting slips of paper.

  I spoke as I approached. “I should have told you, Mrs. O’Shea, I doubt if Mr. Lewent will show up for dinner. From what he said when he asked me to stay, I think he feels that under the circumstances it would be better if he were not there.”

  She went on with the slips a moment before she looked up to reply. “Very well. You were going to talk with me.”

  “I got sidetracked.” I glanced at the cook. “Here?”

  “As well here as anywhere.”

  I parked half of my fundament on the edge of the table. She resumed with the slips of paper, distributing them in piles, and as I watched her arm and hand in quick, deft movement I considered whether they could have struck the blow that killed Lewent, though my mind might easily have been better occupied, since actually a ten-year-old could have done it with the right weapon and the right frame of mind.

  “From what you said earlier upstairs.” I remarked, “I got the impression that you feel sorry for Mr. Lewent—in a way.”

  She compressed her lips. “Mr. Lewent is a thoroughly immoral man. And this trouble he’s making—he deserves no sympathy from anyone.”

  “Then my impression was wrong?”

  “I didn’t say that.” She sent the deep blue eyes straight at me, and they were much too cold to show sorrow for anyone or anything whatever. “Frankly, Mr. Goodwin, I am not interested in your impressions. I speak with you at all only because Mr. Huck asked us to.”

  “And I speak with you, Mrs. O’Shea, only because the man whose father built this house thinks he’s been rooked and has hired me to find out. That doesn’t interest you either?”

  “No.” She resumed with the slips of paper.

  I eyed her. My trouble with her, as with the rest of them, was that it would take some well-chosen leading questions to jostle her loose, and all the best questions were out of bounds as long as Lewent was supposed to be still breathing.

  “Look,” I said, “suppose we try this. It’s been more than two hours since I talked with you ladies up in the sewing room. Have you discussed the matter with Mr. Lewent? If so, when and where, and what was said?”

  She sent me a sharp sidewise glance. “Ask him.”

  “I intend to, but I want—”

  I got interrupted. A door in the kitchen’s far wall was standing open, and through it, rolling almost silently on rubber tires, came a large cabinet of stainless steel. It was more than four feet high, its top reaching almost to the shoulders of Paul Thayer, who was behind it, pushing it. He rolled it across to the neighborhood of Mrs. O’Shea’s chair and halted it.

  “It’s okay,” he told her. “Just a bum wire, and I put in a new one. At your service. Invoice follows.”

  “Thank you, Paul.” She had clipped the slips of paper together and was putting them in a drawer. “I’m glad you got it fixed. Mr. Goodwin is staying for dinner, so I suppose you’ll bring him up for cocktails. Harriet, don’t forget about the capers. Mr. Huck will not have it without the capers.”

  The plump little woman said she knew it, and Mrs. O’Shea left us, with, I noticed, the hip-swing in action, so it hadn’t been a special demonstration for Huck.

  I turned to Paul Thayer. “Lewent asked me to stay for dinner, but he’s going to skip it, so do you think I rate a cocktail?”

  “Sure, it’s routine.” He was matter-of-fact. “It was started by my aunt a couple of years ago when his legs went bad, and he has kept it up. How goes it? Have you spotted her?”

  “Not to paste a label on.” I aimed a thumb at the cabinet. “What’s this, a dishwasher?”

  “Hell no, a chow wagon. Designed by my aunt and made to order. Plug it in any outlet.”

  “It’s quite a vehicle.” I moved to it. “Mr. Wolfe ought to have one for breakfast in his room. May I take a look?”

  “Sure, go ahead. I’ve got to wash my hands.”

  He went to the sink and turned on a faucet. I opened the door of the cabinet. There was room enough inside for breakfast for a family, with many grooves for the shelves so that the spaces could be arranged as desired. I slid a couple of them out and in, tapped the walls, and inspected the thermostat.

  “Very neat,” I said admiringly. “Just what I want for my ninetieth birthday.”

  “I’ll remember and send you one.” He was patting his hands with a paper towel.

  “Do so.” I neared him. “Tell me something. Did Lewent say anything—uh—disagreeable about Miss Riff to you this afternoon?”

  He squinted at me. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m just asking. Did he?”

  “No. I haven’t seen Lewent this afternoon, not since he brought you up to my room and left us. Now I’ve answered, why did you ask?”

  “Something someone said. Forget it.”

  “Who said what?”

  I shook my head. “Later. If you don’t want to forget it, I’ll save it for after dinner. We’ll be late for cocktails.”

  He tossed the paper towel at a wastebasket, missed it, growled something, went and picked it up and dropped it in, told me to come on, and led the way to the elevator.

  The provision for drinks in Huck’s room, which was large and lush with luxury, was ample and varied. They were on a portable bar near the center of the room, and alongside it was Huck in his wheelchair, freshly shaven, his hair brushed with care, wearing a lemon-colored shirt, a maroon bow tie, and a maroon jacket. Also the plaid woolen shawl that had covered his lower half had been replaced by a maroon quilted one. The room was lit softly but well enough, with lamps around—one of them a rosy silk globe at the end of a metal staff clamped to the frame of Huck’s chair. As Thayer and I approached, Huck greeted us.

  “Daiquiri as usual, Paul? And you, Mr. Goodwin?”

  Having spotted a bottle of Mangan’s Irish in the collection, I asked for that. Huck poured it himself, and Sylvia Marcy passed it to me. She had changed from her nurse’s uniform to a neat little number, a dress of exactly the same color as Huck’s shirt, as well as I could tell in that light; but she hadn’t changed her coo. Mrs. O’Shea stood off to one side, sipping something on the rocks, and Dorothy Riff was there by the bar with a half-emptied long one. With my generous helping of Mangan’s, I backed off a little and looked and listened. I have good eyes and ears, and they have had long training under the guidance of Nero Wolfe, but I couldn’t see a movement or hear a word or tone that gave the faintest hint that one of them knew a body with a crushed skull was lying only fifty feet away, waiting to be found. They talked and got refills and laughed at a story Huck told. It was a nice little gathering, not hilarious, but absolutely wholesome.

  At the end Huck made it more wholesome still. Mrs. O’Shea was starting to leave, and he called to her, and when she rejoined us he leaned over to reach a low rack at the side of his chair. Coming up with three little boxes bearing the name of Tiffany, he addressed the females.

  “I’m sure you know, you three, that if it weren’t for you my life would be miserable, crippled as I am. It is you who make it not merely bearable, but pleasant, really pleasant, and I’ve been thinking how I can show my appreciation.”

  He
tapped the top box with a finger. “I was going to give these to you next Wednesday, my birthday, but I decided to do it today on account of Mr. Goodwin. His mission here, at the instance of my brother-in-law, is an imputation against you that I feel is utterly unjustified. Mr. Lewent is my wife’s brother and so must be humored to the limit of tolerance; he was born in this house, and I will never challenge his right to live here and die here; but I want you to know that I have complete confidence in you, all three of you, and to make that as emphatic as possible I’m making this little presentation in the presence of Mr. Goodwin. Mrs. O’Shea?”

  He extended a hand with one of the boxes, and the housekeeper stepped up and took it.

  “Miss Riff?”

  She took hers.

  “Miss Marcy?”

  She took hers.

  As they got their eyes on their loot there were exclamations and expressions of delight. Sylvia Marcy let out a running broad coo that would have brought tears to my eyes if I hadn’t been so busy using them.

  “They’re good timekeepers too,” Huck, said, beaming.

  Without being too vulgar I managed to get enough of a look to see that the presents were all wristwatches, apparently just alike, and if the red stones were Burma rubies Sylvia’s coo was no exaggeration. Paul Thayer, looking flabbergasted, poured rum into his glass and gulped it down. Mrs. O’Shea, her little box clasped tightly in her hand, hustled from the room, and in a moment I heard the faint hum of the elevator. Before long I heard it again, and the wide door of the room opened and Mrs. O’Shea reappeared, pushing the stainless steel portable oven on rubber tires; it was nearly as tall as she was, and much bigger around. Miss Marcy moved the bar away, and Mrs. O’Shea put the oven there, beside Huck’s chair.

  “I’ll just serve the soup?” she suggested.

  “Now you know,” Huck reproached her, “I’d rather do it myself.” He swung a shelf of the chair around to make a table, and reached to a rack attached to the oven for a napkin.

  There was a general movement toward the door, and I joined it. In the hall Thayer and I were in the rear, and he muttered at me, “The damn old goat’s got a caliph complex. All three of ’em!”

  Going to the stairs to descend, we passed within a few feet of the door to Lewent’s room. As far as I could tell, no one gave it a glance.

  5

  At ten minutes to eight, with the meal nearly over for the five of us at table, I said I didn’t care for coffee, which wasn’t true, excused myself on a pretext, and went up to the third floor, opened the door of Lewent’s room, and entered.

  I had decided to discover the body. They had all been agreeable enough at dinner, except Thayer, who was sulking about something, but it was plain that they were humoring me only because Huck had said his brother-in-law must be humored. No one said or did anything that gave me the slightest feeling of a hunch, and as dessert was being served and I took them in—Thayer scowling, and Mrs. O’Shea cold and cocky, and Dorothy Riff smirking at her new wristwatch, and Sylvia Marcy smiling at me like a sympathetic nurse—I had a strong feeling that it would be gratifying to arrange, for each of them, a prolonged interview with a cop, especially a good Homicide man. Also I had to admit that I had got nowhere with my idea of investigating a murder without disclosing that there had been one.

  But now, in the narrow passage with the door closed, looking down at the corpse, I was doubling up my fists and setting my jaw. I would never have claimed that I was such a holy terror as a sleuth that no one had better risk a misdemeanor within a mile of me, but someone in this house had certainly had one hell of a nerve to perform on Wolfe’s client like that with me wandering all over the premises. He looked pitiful there on the floor, and even smaller than when he was on his feet and breathing. I was more than willing for the performer to get tagged, the sooner the better, but not by a horde of city employees with me off in a corner being grilled by Lieutenant Rowcliff. On the other hand, at my rate of progress for the past two and a half hours, I would reach first base about a week from Tuesday.

  I listened at the door a minute, opened it, passed through, and pulled it shut. I stood. There was no sight, sound, or smell of man or woman. I went to the stairs and started down quietly, which was no feat on the carpeted treads. At the bottom I stood again. Sounds of voices came up from the floor below, where dinner had been served, so they were still at the table. I headed down the hall for the door to Huck’s study.

  It was dark in there, but I closed the door before groping for the wall switch. It gave me light from ceiling fixtures, plenty, and I crossed to Huck’s desk, which was actually two desks with an alley between them for his wheelchair, so that when he maneuvered into the alley he had desk space on both sides. There were three phones on the left, one a house phone and the other two labeled with their numbers, but the numbers were different. One of them was the number listed in the phone book, and I moved it forward, since it was the one I wanted to use, no matter how many extensions were on it. Needing two props, I looked around. One of them, exactly what I wanted, was on the other desk—a paperweight, a heavy ball of green marble with a segment sliced off to give it a base. For the other, there were hundreds of books available, and any of them would do. I would have liked to do some experimenting to find out how thick a book to use and how hard to hit it to get the effect I wanted, but under the circumstances it was not advisable. I got one about an inch thick, too intent on my program to notice the title, put it flat on the other desk, not the one the phone was on, lifted the receiver and dialed a number, and took the paperweight in my right hand.

  Fritz answered, and I told him I was sorry to interrupt Wolfe’s dinner if he wasn’t finished, but I had to ask him something. After a wait his gruff voice came.

  “Yes, Archie?”

  I gave it pace and urgency. “I’m in Huck’s study, and there may be someone on an extension, but I can’t help it. If I call the cops now there’ll be hell to pay, because—no, it’s too long to explain. You absolutely refuse to leave the house on business, okay, but what about Saul? I need him. If you can get Saul—”

  I cut myself off by bringing the paperweight down on the book and emitting the kind of sharp little agonized grunt a man may emit when he is solidly and accurately conked, and I let the receiver drop to the desk with a clatter. Also I collapsed onto the floor with enough racket to reach the transmitter, but not enough, I hoped, to alarm Huck up above or the quartet down below. Then I got back onto my feet and stood regarding the receiver lying on the table. That was a question I had left open. It might seem more natural for the cracker of my skull to replace the receiver, but if Wolfe dialed the number I certainly didn’t want extensions ringing all over the place, and this way he would get a busy signal. So I let it lie.

  It was now a matter of timing. Wolfe could conceivably try dialing the number, fail to get it, and shrug it off, but I doubted it. He was tough, but not that tough. He could phone the cops to please come and feel my pulse, but he never would, not after okaying my postponement of reporting a homicide. Then he would come himself, which was of course the idea, and I wanted to be at the door to let him in, but I did not want to leave the study at once, with the receiver out of its cradle. Two minutes would surely see him out of the house and on his way, but I would allow ten. I put the paperweight back, returned the book to its place on a shelf, and spent the rest of the time gazing at my watch. At the end of the tenth minute I replaced the receiver, left the room, and went down a flight to the entrance hall.

  Dorothy Riff was there with her hat on, putting on her coat. If I had been thirty seconds later I would have been minus a member of the cast. She shot me a glance but offered no converse. I asked her courteously, “You’re not leaving us?”

  “Yes.” She was brusque. “I’m going home. Any objection?”

  “Yes.” I was brusque too.

  “Oh?” She cocked an eye. “You have?”

  I nodded. “I’ve decided that you folks are too genteel for me. I’m the t
ype that sticks thumbs in people’s eyes, and this is the wrong setting for it. I have phoned Mr. Wolfe to tell him that, and he agrees, and he’s on his way up here. He will particularly want to speak with you, since it was you who suggested that his client is a blackmailer, so if you don’t mind waiting?”

  She was frowning. “Nero Wolfe coming here?”

  “Yes.”

  “What for?”

  I waved a hand. “To detect.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Well, I won’t try to sell you on it. Seeing is believing, and seeing him you can believe anything. I have appointed myself doorman, to let no one out, and to let him in.”

  “That’s silly. I can go if I please.”

  “Sure you can. If you think Huck would like that.”

  She opened her mouth, shut it again, turned and made for the stairs, and flew up. As she did so Paul Thayer emerged from a door on the right, from the room where the TV was, followed by Mrs. O’Shea and Sylvia Marcy. They came on, Thayer demanding, “What’s all the powwow? Where’s Miss Riff?”

  I said I had told her that Wolfe was on his way to join us, and she had gone up to tell Huck. The news did not visibly impress Mrs. O’Shea, but Sylvia cooed something appreciatively, and Thayer backed off, lowering his chin and gazing at me from under his heavy brows. He had no question or comment, but the two women did. Mrs. O’Shea stated that she had always thought that professional detectives caused more trouble than they cured, and now she was sure of it. Miss Marcy said she would love to be asked questions by Nero Wolfe, even if it wasn’t something dreadful like murder, only her mind wasn’t very quick and she hoped he wouldn’t get her tangled up about some little thing.