And Be a Villain

by Rex Stout

  At four o’clock Lieutenant Rowcliff and an assistant D.A. were sitting on the green burlap divan, arguing whether the taste of cyanide should warn people in time to refrain from swallowing. That seemed pointless, since whether it should or not it usually doesn’t, and anyway the only ones who could qualify as experts are those who have tried it, and none of them is available. I moved on. At the big oak table another lieutenant was conversing with Bill Meadows, meanwhile referring to notes on loose sheets of paper. I went on by. In the dining room a sergeant and a private were pecking away at Elinor Vance. I passed through. In the kitchen a dick with a pug nose was holding a sheet of paper, one of a series, flat on the table while Cora, the female wrestler, put her initials on it.

  Turning and going back the way I had come, I continued on to the square hall, opened a door at its far end, and went through. This, the room without a name, was more densely populated than the others. Tully Strong and Nat Traub were on chairs against opposite walls. Nancylee was standing by a window. A dick was seated in the center of the room, another was leaning against a wall, and Sergeant Purley Stebbins was sort of strolling around.

  That called the roll, for I knew that Madeline Fraser was in the room beyond, her bedroom, where I had first met the bunch of them, having a talk with Inspector Cramer. The way I knew that, I had just been ordered out by Deputy Commissioner O’Hara, who was in there with them.

  The first series of quickies, taking them one at a time on a gallop, had been staged in the dining room by Cramer himself. Cramer and an assistant D.A. had sat at one side of the table, with the subject across from them, and me seated a little to the rear of the subject’s elbow. The theory of that arrangement was that if the subject’s memory showed a tendency to conflict with mine, I could tip Cramer off by sticking out my tongue or some other signal without being seen by the subject. The dick-stenographer had been at one end of the table, and other units of the personnel had hung around.

  Since they were by no means strangers to Cramer and he was already intimately acquainted with their biographies, he could keep it brief and concentrate chiefly on two points; their positions and movements during the conference, and the box of Meltettes. On the former there were some contradictions on minor details, but only what you might expect under the circumstances; and I, who had been there, saw no indication that anyone was trying to fancy it up.

  On the latter, the box of Meltettes, there was no contradiction at all. By noon Friday, the preceding day, the news had begun to spread that Hi-Spot was bowing out, though it had not yet been published. For some time Meltettes had been on the Fraser waiting list, to grab a vacancy if one occurred. Friday morning Nat Traub, whose agency had the Meltettes account, had phoned his client the news, and the client had rushed him a carton of its product by messenger. A carton held forty-eight of the little red cardboard boxes. Traub, wishing to lose no time on a matter of such urgency and importance, and not wanting to lug the whole carton, had taken one little box from it and dropped it in his pocket, and hotfooted it to the FBC building, arriving at the studio just before the conclusion of the Fraser broadcast. He had spoken to Miss Fraser and Miss Koppel on behalf of Meltettes and handed the box to Miss Koppel.

  Miss Koppel had passed the box on to Elinor Vance, who had put it in her bag—the same bag that had been used to transport sugared coffee in a Hi-Spot bottle. The three women had lunched in a near-by restaurant and then gone to Miss Fraser’s apartment, where they had been joined later by Bill Meadows and Tully Strong for an exploratory discussion of the sponsor problem. Soon after their arrival at the apartment Elinor had taken the box of Meltettes from her bag and given it to Miss Fraser, who had put it on the big oak table in the living room.

  That had been between two-thirty and three o’clock Friday afternoon, and that was as far as it went. No one knew how or when the box had been moved from the oak table to the piano. There was a blank space, completely blank, of about eighteen hours, ending around nine o’clock Saturday morning, when Cora, on a dusting mission, had seen it on the piano. She had picked it up for a swipe of the dustcloth on the piano top and put it down again. Its next appearance was two hours later, when Nancylee, soon after her arrival at the apartment, had spotted it and been tempted to help herself, even going so far as to get her clutches on it, but had been scared off when she saw that Miss Koppel’s eye was on her. That, Nancylee explained, was how she had known where the box was when Miss Fraser had asked.

  As you can see, it left plenty of room for inch-by-inch digging and sifting, which was lucky for everybody from privates to inspectors who are supposed to earn their pay, for there was no other place to dig at all. Relationships and motives and suspicions had already had all the juice squeezed out of them. So by four o’clock Saturday afternoon a hundred grown men, if not more, were scattered around the city, doing their damnedest to uncover another little splinter of a fact, any old fact, about that box of Meltettes. Some of them, of course, were getting results. For instance, word had come from the laboratory that the box, as it came to them, had held eleven Meltettes; that one of them, which had obviously been operated on rather skillfully, had about twelve grains of cyanide mixed into its insides; and that the other ten were quite harmless, with no sign of having been tampered with. Meltettes, they said, fitted snugly into the box in pairs, and the cyanided one had been on top, at the end of the box which opened.

  And other reports, including of course fingerprints. Most of them had been relayed to Cramer in my presence. Whatever he may have thought they added up to, it looked to me very much like a repeat performance by the artist who had painted the sugared coffee picture: so many crossing lines and overlapping colors that no resemblance to any known animal or other object was discernible.

  Returning to the densely populated room with no name after my tour of inspection, I made some witty remark to Purley Stebbins and lowered myself into a chair. As I said, I could probably have bulled my way out and gone home, but I didn’t want to. What prospect did it offer? I would have fiddled around until Wolfe came down to the office, made my report, and then what? He would either have grunted in disgust, found something to criticize, and lowered his iron curtain again, or he would have gone into another trance and popped out around midnight with some bright idea like typing an anonymous letter about Bill Meadows flunking in algebra his last year in high school. I preferred to stick around in the faint hope that something would turn up.

  And something did: I had abandoned the idea of making some sense out of the crossing lines and overlapping colors, given up trying to get a rise out of Purley, and was exchanging hostile glares with Nancylee, when the door from the square hall opened and a lady entered. She darted a glance around and told Purley Inspector Cramer had sent for her. He crossed to the far door which led to Miss Fraser’s bedroom, opened it, and closed it after she had passed through.

  I knew her by sight but not her name, and even had an opinion of her, namely that she was the most presentable of all the female dicks I had seen. With nothing else to do, I figured out what Cramer wanted with her, and had just come to the correct conclusion when the door opened again and I got it verified. Cramer appeared first, then Deputy Commissioner O’Hara. Cramer spoke to Purley:

  “Get ‘em all in here.”

  Purley flew to obey. Nat Traub asked wistfully, “Have you made any progress, Inspector?”

  Cramer didn’t even have the decency to growl at him, let alone reply. That seemed unnecessarily rude, so I told Traub:

  “Yeah, they’ve reached an important decision. You’re all going to be frisked.”

  It was ill-advised, especially with O’Hara there, since he has never forgiven me for being clever once, but I was frustrated and edgy. O’Hara gave me an evil look and Cramer told me to close my trap.

  The others came straggling in with their escorts. I surveyed the lot and would have felt genuinely sorry for them if I had known which one to leave out. There was no question now about the kind of strain they were und
er, and it had nothing to do with picking a sponsor.

  Cramer addressed them:

  “I want to say to you people that as long as you cooperate with us we have no desire to make it any harder for you than we have to. You can’t blame us for feeling we have to bear down on you, in view of the fact that all of you lied, and kept on lying, about the bottle that the stuff came out of that killed Orchard. I called you in here to tell you that we’re going to search your persons. The position is this, we would be justified in taking you all down and booking you as material witnesses, and that’s what we’ll do if any of you object to the search. Miss Fraser made no objection. A policewoman is in there with her now. The women will be taken in there one at a time. The men will be taken by Lieutenant Rowcliff and Sergeant Stebbins, also one at a time, to another room. Does anyone object?”

  It was pitiful. They were in no condition to object, even if he had announced his intention of having clusters of Meltettes tattooed on their chests. Nobody made a sound except Nancylee, who merely shrilled:

  “Oh, I never!”

  I crossed my legs and prepared to sit it out. And so I did, up to a point. Purley and Rowcliff took Tully Strong first. Soon the female dick appeared and got Elinor Vance. Evidently they were being thorough, for it was a good eight minutes before Purley came back with Strong and took Bill Meadows, and the lady took just as long with Elinor Vance. The last two on the list were Nancylee in one direction and Nat Traub in the other.

  That is, they were the last two as I had it. But when Rowcliff and Purley returned with Traub and handed Cramer some slips of paper, O’Hara barked at them:

  “What about Goodwin?”

  “Oh, him?” Rowcliff asked.

  “Certainly him! He was here, wasn’t he?”

  Rowcliff looked at Cramer. Cramer looked at me.

  I grinned at O’Hara. “What if I object, Commissioner?”

  “Try it! That won’t help you any!”

  “The hell it won’t. It will either preserve my dignity or start a string of firecrackers. What do you want to bet my big brother can’t lick your big brother?”

  He took a step toward me. “You resist, do you?”

  “You’re damn right I do.” My hand did a half circle. “Before twenty witnesses.”

  He wheeled. “Send him down, Inspector. To my office. Charge him. Then have him searched.”

  “Yes, sir.” Cramer was frowning. “First, would you mind stepping into another room with me? Perhaps I haven’t fully explained the situation—”

  “I understand it perfectly! Wolfe has cooperated, so you say—to what purpose? What has happened? Another murder! Wolfe has got you all buffaloed, and I’m sick and tired of it! Take him to my office!”

  “No one has got me buffaloed,” Cramer rasped. “Take him, Purley. I’ll phone about a charge.”

  Chapter 23

  THERE WERE TWO THINGS I liked about Deputy Commissioner O’Hara’s office. First, it was there that I had been clever on a previous occasion, and therefore it aroused agreeable memories, and second, I like nice surroundings and it was the most attractive room at Centre Street, being on a corner with six large windows, and furnished with chairs and rugs and other items which had been paid for by O’Hara’s rich wife.

  I sat at ease in one of the comfortable chairs. The contents of my pockets were stacked in a neat pile on a corner of O’Hara’s big shiny mahogany desk, except for one item which Purley Stebbins had in his paw. Purley was so mad his face was a red sunset, and he was stuttering.

  “Don’t be a g-goddam fool,” he exhorted me. “If you clam it with O’Hara when he gets here he’ll jug you sure as hell, and it’s after six o’clock so where’ll you spend the night?” He shook his paw at me, the one holding the item taken from my pocket. “Tell me about this!”

  I shook my head firmly. “You know, Purley,” I said without rancor, “this is pretty damn ironic. You frisked that bunch of suspects and got nothing at all—I could tell that from the way you and Rowcliff looked. But on me, absolutely innocent of wrongdoing, you find what you think is an incriminating document. So here I am, sunk, facing God knows what kind of doom. I try to catch a glimpse of the future, and what do I see?”

  “Oh, shut up!”

  “No, I’ve got to talk to someone.” I glanced at my wrist. “As you say, it’s after six o’clock. Mr. Wolfe has come down from the plant rooms, expecting to find me awaiting him in the office, ready for my report of the day’s events. He’ll be disappointed. You know how he’ll feel. Better still, you know what he’ll do. He’ll be so frantic he’ll start looking up numbers and dialing them himself. I am offering ten to one that he has already called the Fraser apartment and spoken to Cramer. How much of it do you want? A dime? A buck?”

  “Can it, you goddam ape.” Purley was resigning. “Save it for O’Hara, he’ll be here pretty soon. I hope they give you a cell with bedbugs.”

  “I would prefer,” I said courteously, “to chat.”

  “Then chat about this.”

  “No. For the hundredth time, no. I detest anonymous letters and I don’t like to talk about them.”

  He went to a chair and sat facing me. I got up, crossed to bookshelves, selected CRIME AND CRIMINALS, by Mercier, and returned to my seat with it.

  Purley had been wrong. O’Hara was not there pretty soon. When I glanced at my wrist every ten minutes or so I did it on the sly because I didn’t want Purley to think I was getting impatient. It was a little past seven when I looked up from my book at the sound of a buzzer. Purley went to a phone on the desk and had a talk with it. He hung up, returned to his chair, sat, and after a moment spoke:

  “That was the Deputy Commissioner. He is going to have his dinner. I’m to keep you here till he comes.”

  “Good,” I said approvingly. “This is a fascinating book.”

  “He thinks you’re boiling. You bastard.”

  I shrugged.

  I kept my temper perfectly for another hour or more, and then, still there with my book, I became aware that I was starting to lose control. The trouble was that I had begun to feel hungry, and that was making me sore. Then there was another factor: what the hell was Wolfe doing? That, I admit, was unreasonable. Any phoning he did would be to Cramer or O’Hara, or possibly someone at the D.A.’s office, and with me cooped up as I was I wouldn’t hear even an echo. If he had learned where I was and tried to get me, they wouldn’t have put him through, since Purley had orders from O’Hara that I was to make no calls. But what with feeling hungry and getting no word from the outside world, I became aware that I was beginning to be offended, and that would not do. I forced my mind away from food and other aggravating aspects, including the number of revolutions the minute hand of my watch had made, and turned another page.

  It was ten minutes to nine when the door opened and O’Hara and Cramer walked in. Purley stood up. I was in the middle of a paragraph and so merely flicked one eye enough to see who it was. O’Hara hung his hat and coat on a rack, and Cramer dropped his on a chair. O’Hara strode to his desk, crossing my bow so close that I could easily have tripped him by stretching a leg.

  Cramer looked tired. Without spending a glance on me he nodded at Purley.

  “Had he opened up?”

  “No, sir. Here it is.” Purley handed him the item.

  They had both had it read to them on the phone, but they wanted to see it. Cramer read it through twice and then handed it to O’Hara. While that was going on I went to the shelves and replaced the book, had a good stretch and yawn, and returned to my chair.

  Cramer glared down at me. “What have you got to say?”

  “More of the same,” I told him. “I’ve explained to the sergeant, who has had nothing to eat by the way, that that thing has no connection whatever with any murder or any other crime, and therefore questions about it are out of order.”

  “You’ve been charged as a material witness.”

  “Yeah, I know, Purley showed it to me. Why don’t you
ask Mr. Wolfe? He might be feeling generous.”

  “The hell he might. We have. Look, Goodwin—”

  “I’ll handle him, Inspector.” O’Hara speaking. He was an energetic cuss. He had gone clear around his desk to sit down, but now he arose and came clear around it again to confront me. I looked up at him inquiringly, not a bit angry.

  He was trying to control himself. “You can’t possibly get away with it,” he stated. “It’s incredible that you have the gall to try it, both you and Wolfe. Anonymous letters are a central factor in this case, a vital factor. You went up to that apartment today to see those people, and you had in your pocket an anonymous letter about one of them, practically accusing her of murder. Do you mean to tell me that you take the position that that letter has no connection with the crimes under investigation?”

  “I sure do. Evidently Mr. Wolfe does too.” I made a gesture. “Corroboration.”

  “You take and maintain that position while aware of the penalty that may be imposed upon conviction for an obstruction of justice?”

  “I do.”

  O’Hara turned and blurted at Cramer, “Get Wolfe down here! Damn it, we should have hauled him in hours ago!”

  This, I thought to myself, is something to like. Now we ought to see some fur fly.

  But we didn’t, at least not as O’Hara had it programmed. What interfered was a phone call. The buzzer sounded, and Purley, seeing that his superiors were too worked up to hear it, went to the desk and answered. After a word he told Cramer, “For you, Inspector,” and Cramer crossed and got it. O’Hara stood glaring down at me, but, having his attention called by a certain tone taken by Cramer’s voice, turned to look that way. Finally Cramer hung up. The expression on his face was that of a man trying to decide what it was he just swallowed.

  “Well?” O’Hara demanded.

  “The desk just had a call,” Cramer said, “from the WPIT newsroom. WPIT is doing the script for the ten o’clock newscast, and they’re including an announcement received a few minutes ago from Nero Wolfe. Wolfe announces that he has solved the murder cases, all three of them, with no assistance from the police, and that very soon, probably sometime tomorrow, he will be ready to tell the District Attorney the name of the murderer and to furnish all necessary information. WPIT wants to know if we have any comment.”