Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 24

by Three Men Out

  A buzzer sounded, and I went and opened the door, and Wolfe stepped in.

  He gave me a piercing glance, swept his eyes around to take in the others, returned to me, and muttered, “Well?”

  “Miss Marcy,” I said. “Mrs. O’Shea. Mr. Thayer. This is Mr. Wolfe.”

  He inclined his head a quarter of an inch. “How do you do.” Again to me, louder and plainer, “Well?”

  “There’s an elevator,” I told him, “which makes it simple. We all take it. You and I get off on the next floor and go to the study, and I explain the situation. The others go to Mr. Huck’s room on the floor above and tell him we;ll be up shortly, if that’s how you would like to handle it. If otherwise, you send me up with a message. Perfectly simple. Your coat and hat?”

  He let me take them. Putting them on a chair and making for the elevator, with them following, I heard Sylvia cooing something at him but didn’t catch it. One flight up Wolfe and I got out, and I led the way down the hall to the study, opened the door, and stood aside for him. When I turned from closing the door he was facing me.

  “Well?” he growled.

  “Yes, sir. May I show you?”

  I crossed to the desks and got between them. “I used this phone.” I touched it. “I put a book here.” I tapped the spot. “After dialing the number I took this in my right hand.” I picked up the paperweight. “At an appropriate moment I hit the book with it, grunted, let the receiver fall to the table, and dropped on the floor.”

  That was one of the two or three times, possibly four, that I have seen him speechless. He didn’t even glare. He looked around, saw no chair that appealed to him, went to a couch against a wall, sat, and buttressed himself by spreading his arms and putting his palms flat on the couch.

  “I forwent salad, cheese, and coffee,” he said, “and came at once.”

  “Yes, sir. I fully appreciate it. I can—”

  “Shut up. You regard my rule not to leave my house on a business errand as one of the stubborn poses of a calculated eccentricity. It is no such luxury; it is merely a necessity for a tolerable existence. Without such a rule a private detective is the slave of all the exigencies of his neighbors, and in New York there are ten million of them. Are you too headstrong to understand me?”

  “No. But I can—”

  “Shut up.” He had relaxed enough to tighten his lips and glare. He shook his head. “No. Talk.”

  I moved a chair and planted it in front of him, knowing that he disliked tilting his head to look up at people. When I sat I was close enough to keep my voice down almost to a whisper. “I’m fairly sure this room isn’t wired for sound,” I said, “and that there’s no one hiding in here, but we don’t have to bellow. I would like to tell you what has happened in the last three hours. It will take seven minutes.”

  “I’m here,” he growled. “Talk.”

  I did so, going overtime some, but not much. There was a pained and peevish look on his face throughout, but I could tell by his eyes that he was listening. Having covered the events, such as they were, I proceeded to cover me.

  “When I left the dinner table and went upstairs,” I declared, “I fully intended to glance in at the corpse and call the cops. But as I stood looking down at him I realized that I would have to call you first to tell you what I was going to do, and I didn’t want to call you from here. I needed instructions. When the cops came, if I told them what Lewent had hired us to do, and the inmates here told them what I had said he had hired us to do, I would be in the middle of another of those goddam tangles that have been known to keep me on a straight-backed-chair in the DA’s office for ten hours running. You would be in it too. I had to ask you to consider that and decide it, and I didn’t want to leave here to go out to phone.”

  He grunted, not sympathetically.

  “After all,” I submitted, “no bones are broken, except Lewent’s skull. You can tell me what to do and say, and go back home and have your salad and cheese and coffee. After you’re safely outside I’ll go up to our client’s room to ask him something and will be horrified to find him dead, and will rush to notify the household and call the police. As for the thousand bucks he paid you, surely he would admit that you have earned it by coming up here to tell me how to manage things so that his death will cause us as little inconvenience as possible.”

  He eyed me. It was precisely the kind of situation that would normally have called for an outraged roar, in the privacy of his office, but here he had to hold it.

  “Poppycock,” he muttered bitterly. “You know quite well what you have done and are doing, and so do I. The police, and especially Mr. Cramer, would never believe that you would dare to trick me into coming here for anything less than murder, and they know that without a trick I wouldn’t come at all. So I’ll have to discuss murder with these people. Is there a decent chair in Mr. Huck’s room?”

  “Yeah, one that will do, but don’t expect to like it.”

  “I won’t.” He stood up. “Very well. Let’s go.”

  6

  The chair problem in Huck’s room required a little handling. After Wolfe had been introduced to Huck and Dorothy Riff, and Huck assented, without enthusiasm, to Wolfe’s desire to discuss the affairs of his client Herman Lewent, there remained the fact that Paul Thayer was occupying the only chair that could take Wolfe without squeezing, and Thayer, who was still sulking, paid no attention to my polite hint. When I asked him to move and even said please, he gave me a dirty look as he complied.

  As Wolfe sat and turned his head from left to right and back again, taking them in, and they focused on him, I was not utterly at ease because I had slid out from under the responsibility. He had said he would have to discuss murder with them, and in the heat of his resentment at my having foxed him into taking a two-mile taxi ride he might regard it as funny to manage it so that I would have not less to explain to the cops, but more.

  Huck spoke. “I have explained to Mr. Goodwin that I tolerated his intrusion out of deference to my brother-in-law.” His tone wasn’t very deferential. “But now your barging in—frankly, Mr. Wolfe, there is a limit to my forbearance.”

  Wolfe nodded. “I don’t blame you, sir. I return your candor and confess that the fault is Mr. Goodwin’s. On account of a defect in his make-up he has botched his errand here so badly that I was compelled to intervene. When he phoned me, twice, some four hours ago, not from this house, I suspected that he had been so thoroughly bewitched by one of these women that his mental processes were in suspense. It hits him like that. When later he phoned again, this time from your study, my fear was verified, and I was even able to identify the witch.”

  He looked straight at Mrs. O’Shea, then at Miss Riff, then at Miss Marcy, but got no return because they were all looking at me. I didn’t mind, provided he was now willing to call it even.

  He was going on. “Plainly there was no other alternative, so I came to supersede him; and now that I am here I refuse to employ the puerile stratagem that Mr. Lewent and Mr. Goodwin were determined to try. They should have known that their pretended concern about a large sum left secretly by Mr. Lewent’s sister with one of you to be passed to him at her death—they should have known that none of you would take it seriously.” He looked at Huck. “You, sir, even assumed that it was merely a blackmailing device, didn’t you?”

  “I thought it possible.” Huck, being a millionaire, was giving no ground for a suit for slander. “You say it was a stratagem?”

  “Yes.” Wolfe flipped a hand. “Let’s dismiss it. Slithering around looking for cracks is not to my taste. I’d much rather be forthright and tell you straight that I came here to discuss murder.”

  There were noises, but not explosive. Paul Thayer’s head jerked up. My private reaction was absolutely unfavorable. Since he had blurted it out, a call to the police was in order right now, and exactly where would I be?

  “Murder?” Huck was disbelieving his ears. “Did you say murder?”

  “Yes, sir, I did.�
� Wolfe was at a disadvantage. Working on an audience in his office, it wasn’t difficult to keep all the faces in view, but there they made almost half a circle, with Huck in his wheelchair in the center, and Wolfe had to keep turning his head and moving his eyes. “There’s no point,” he declared, “in going on with the rigmarole started by Mr. Goodwin. I much prefer the directness and vigor of Mr. Lewent’s original suggestion when he called at my office this morning to hire me. He suggested that Mr. Goodwin should come here and tell you that he, Lewent, suspected that one of these three women had murdered his sister, poisoned her, and that he had engaged me to investigate. I now propose—”

  This time the noises could be called explosions, especially the one contributed by Mrs. O’Shea. Also she moved. She bounced out of her chair and started for the door, and when Wolfe sharply demanded where she was going and she didn’t stop, I dived across and headed her off. White-faced, she ordered me, “Get out of my way! The dirty little rat!”

  I held the pass. Wolfe’s voice came. “If you’re going for Mr. Lewent, madam, I beg you to consider. He came to me and paid me money because he lacked the spunk to tackle this himself. You can drag him in here, and the three of you can screech and scratch, but what good will it do? I’m willing to try to work this out, but not in pandemonium.”

  She turned and took a step.

  “You should all realize,” Wolfe told them, “what the situation is. You may think that this notion of Mr. Lewent’s is preposterous, that he is in effect deranged, but that doesn’t dispose of it or him. If he clings to it and speaks of it, it can become extremely ugly for all of you. Suing him for slander might settle him, but it wouldn’t settle the stench. From the fact that he chose me to investigate for him, and from his paying me in advance what was for him a substantial sum, I assume that he has high regard for my sagacity, judgment, and integrity. If I am convinced that his suspicions are baseless and unmerited, I think I can persuade him to abandon them; and it may be that you can convince me here and now. Do you want to try?”

  Paul Thayer threw his head back and haw-hawed. It didn’t go over as well as it had when he and I were together in his room. They all looked at him, not admiringly, and when he subsided they transferred the looks to Theodore Huck. He was regarding Wolfe thoughtfully.

  “I am wondering,” he said, “if it would help for me to have a talk with my brother-in-law.”

  “No, it wouldn’t,” Sylvia Marcy said so positively that everyone glanced at her in surprise. Immediately she cooed. “I just mean,” she cooed, “that he’s a case. He is definitely a case.”

  Huck looked at Dorothy Riff. “What do you think?”

  She didn’t hesitate. The gray-green eyes were alert and determined. “I would like to know what it would take to convince Mr. Wolfe.” She looked at him.

  “That depends,” Wolfe told her. “If, for instance, the source of the poison that killed Mrs. Huck has been satisfactorily established, and if none of you was connected with in in any way, I would be well on the road to conviction. According to Mr. Lewent, it was ptomaine, and all of you were on the premises at the time. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good God,” Paul Thayer protested, “you don’t really mean it! You’re actually going to ask us?”

  “I’ll ask you, Mr. Thayer, since you are not suspected by Mr. Lewent. Where did Mrs. Huck die? Here?”

  Thayer looked at Huck. “What about it, Uncle Theodore? Do you want me to play?”

  Huck nodded slowly. “I suppose so. Yes.”

  “Whatever you say.” Thayer looked at Wolfe. “My aunt died in this house, in her bed, just about a year ago.”

  “Were you here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about it. Just tell it, and I’ll ask questions as required.”

  “Well.” Thayer cleared his throat. “It was my uncle’s birthday, and there was a little celebration here in this room. We were all here, we who are here now, and a few other people, four or five—old friends of my aunt and uncle. Do you want to know who they were?”

  “Later, perhaps. Now just the event.”

  “We had drinks and things, and afterward a buffet dinner served in this room, plenty of wine—my aunt liked wine, and so does Uncle Theodore—finishing up with champagne, and some of us were fairly high, including me. In fact I finally got slightly objectionable, so my aunt said, and I left before the party broke up and went up to my room and made music. Did you ever play the piano while you were lit?”

  Wolfe said no.

  “Try it sometime. By the way, will you kindly tell me something? Why did one of these women poison my aunt? What for?”

  “Speaking for Mr. Lewent, because she was on intimate terms with your uncle and wanted to marry him. Where there is room for a deed there is always room for a motive. That can—”

  “You dare!” Mrs. O’Shea blazed. She was back in her chair.

  “No, madam, I don’t. I am only trying to learn if there is any cause for daring. Go on, Mr. Thayer?”

  Thayer shrugged. “At some hour I quit making music and went to bed. In the morning I was told that my aunt had died, and the way it was described to me—it was quite horrible.”

  “Who described it?”

  “Miss Marcy, and Mrs. O’Shea some.”

  Wolfe’s eyes moved. “You saw it then, Miss Marcy?”

  “Yes, I did.” She was not cooing. “To say that one of us poisoned her, that’s terrible.”

  “I agree. What did you see?”

  “I was sleeping on the floor above this, and so was Mrs. Huck. She came and got me up; she was in great pain and didn’t want to disturb her husband. I got her back to bed and called a doctor—it was after midnight—and I got Mrs. O’Shea, but there wasn’t much we could do until the doctor came. It was a question about telling Mr. Huck—he couldn’t even go in the room where she was, because the door was too narrow for his chair, but of course we had to tell him. She died about eight o’clock.”

  Wolfe went to Huck. “Naturally there was some inquiry—a death under those circumstances.”

  “Certainly.” Huck was curt.

  “Was there an autopsy?”

  “Yes. It was ptomaine.”

  “Was the source identified?”

  “Not by analysis.” A spasm ran over Huck’s face. He was having a little trouble with the controls. “Before dinner there had been a large assortment of hors d’oeuvres, and among them was a kind of pickled artichoke which my wife was very fond of. No one else had taken any of them, and apparently she had eaten them all, since there were none left. Since no one else was ill, it was assumed that the ptomaines, which were definitely present, had been in the artichokes.”

  Wolfe grunted. “I’m not a ptomaine scholar, but this afternoon I looked them up a little. Do you know how thoroughly the possibility of the presence of a true alkaloid was excluded?”

  “No. I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Isn’t ptomaine an alkaloid?” Dorothy Riff asked.

  “Yes,” Wolfe conceded, “but cadaveric. However, for that there is the record. You were here the night of Mrs. Huck’s death, Miss Riff?”

  “I was here for the party. I left around eleven o’clock.”

  “Did you know that she was fond of pickled artichokes?”

  “We all did. It was a kind of standing joke.”

  “How did you know that ptomaines are alkaloids?”

  She flushed a little. “When Mrs. Huck died I read up about them.”

  “Why? Was there something about her death or about the artichokes that made you suspect something?”

  “No! Of course not!”

  Wolfe’s head went right and left. “Did any of you suspect that Mrs. Huck’s death was not accidental?”

  He got a unanimous negative with no abstentions, but he insisted, “Have any of you felt, at any time, that the possibility of foul play was insufficiently explored?”

  Unanimous again. Mrs. O’Shea snapped, “Wh
y should we feel that if we didn’t suspect anything?”

  Wolfe nodded. “Why indeed?” He leaned back, cleared his throat, and looked judicious. “I am impressed, naturally, by the total absence of any currents of mistrust among you. Three women like you—young, smart, alive to opportunity, inevitably competitive in a household like this—are ideal soil for the seeds of suspicion if there are any around, but evidently none have sprouted in you. That is more than indicative, it is almost conclusive, and I could not expect, here in an hour or so, to reach the haven of certainty. It would be unreasonable to challenge you to convince me utterly; the law itself assumes innocence until guilt is demonstrated; and that leaves us only with the question, how much is it worth to you to have me employ my talent and energy to persuade Mr. Lewent that his suspicions are unfounded, and to keep him persuaded? Shall we say one hundred thousand dollars?”

  They were unanimous again, this time with gasps. Miss Riff, quickest to find words, cried, “I told you it was blackmail!”

  Wolfe showed them his palms. “If you please. I am indifferent to what you call it, blackmail or brigandage, but it would be childish for you to suppose I would perform so great a service for you as a benefaction. My spring of philanthropy is not so torrential. The sum I named would surely not be exorbitant. I’ll be considerate on details; I don’t even insist on an IOU; it will be sufficient if Mr. Huck will state, all of us hearing him, that he guarantees payment of the full amount to me within one month. With one provision, which I insist on, that no word of this arrangement ever reaches Mr. Lewent. On that I must have explicit and firm assurance. I require the guarantee from Mr. Huck because I know he is good for it and I know nothing of the financial status of any of the rest of you, and of course it is to his interest as well as yours that Mr. Lewent should be persuaded that his suspicions are unfounded.”

  He took them in. “Well?”

  “It’s blackmail,” Miss Riff said firmly.

  Paul Thayer muttered, “Lewent picked a lulu when he picked you.”