It should have been a good hour for an empty taxi, but in a Christmas-season snowstorm it took me ten minutes to find one. When it pulled up in front of the old brownstone on West Thirty-fifth Street it was eight minutes to eight.
As usual in my absence, the chain-bolt was on, and I had to ring for Fritz to let me in. I asked him if Wolfe was back, and he said yes, he was at dinner. As I put my hat on the shelf and my coat on a hanger I asked if there was any left for me, and he said plenty, and moved aside for me to precede him down the hall to the door of the dining room. Fritz has fine manners.
Wolfe, in his oversized chair at the end of the table, told me good evening, not snapping or barking. I returned it, got seated at my place, picked up my napkin, and apologized for being late. Fritz came, from the kitchen, with a warm plate, a platter of braised boned ducklings, and a dish of potatoes baked with mushrooms and cheese. I took enough. Wolfe asked if it was still snowing and I said yes. After a good mouthful had been disposed of, I spoke.
“As you know, I approve of your rule not to discuss business during a meal, but I’ve got something on my chest and it’s not business. It’s personal.”
He grunted. “The death of Mr. Bottweill was reported on the radio at seven o’clock. You were there.”
“Yeah. I was there. I was kneeling by him while he died.” I replenished my mouth. Damn the radio. I hadn’t intended to mention the murder until I had dealt with the main issue from my standpoint. When there was room enough for my tongue to work I went on, “I’ll report on that in full if you want it, but I doubt if there’s a job in it. Mrs. Perry Porter Jerome is the only suspect with enough jack to pay your fee, and she has already notified Purley Stebbins that she won’t be abused. Besides, when they find Santa Claus that may settle it. What I want to report on happened before Bottweill died. That marriage license I showed you is for the birds. Miss Dickey has called it off. I am out two bucks. She told me she had decided to marry Bottweill.”
He was sopping a crust in the sauce on his plate. “Indeed,” he said.
“Yes, sir. It was a jolt, but I would have recovered, in time. Then ten minutes later Bottweill was dead. Where does that leave me? Sitting around up there through the routine, I considered it. Perhaps I could get her back now, but no thank you. That license has been destroyed. I get another one, another two bucks, and then she tells me she has decided to marry Joe Doakes. I’m going to forget her. I’m going to blot her out.”
I resumed on the duckling. Wolfe was busy chewing. When he could he said, “For me, of course, this is satisfactory.”
“I know it is. Do you want to hear about Bottweill?”
“After dinner.”
“Okay. How did you make out with Thompson?”
But that didn’t appeal to him as a dinner topic either. In fact, nothing did. Usually he likes table talk, about anything from refrigerators to Republicans, but apparently the trip to Long Island and back, with all its dangers, had tired him out. It suited me all right, since I had had a noisy afternoon too and could stand a little silence. When we had both done well with the duckling and potatoes and salad and baked pears and cheese and coffee, he pushed back his chair.
“There’s a book,” he said, “that I want to look at. It’s up in your room—Here and Now, by Herbert Block. Will you bring it down, please?”
Though it meant climbing two flights with a full stomach, I was glad to oblige, out of appreciation for his calm acceptance of my announcement of my shattered hopes. He could have been very vocal. So I mounted the stairs cheerfully, went to my room, and crossed to the shelves where I keep a few books. There were only a couple of dozen of them, and I knew where each one was, but Here and Now wasn’t there. Where it should have been was a gap. I looked around, saw a book on the dresser, and stepped to it. It was Here and Now, and lying on top of it was a pair of white cotton gloves. I gawked.
IV
I would like to say that I caught on immediately, the second I spotted them, but I didn’t. I had picked them up and looked them over, and put one of them on and taken it off again, before I fully realized that there was only one possible explanation. Having realized it, instantly there was a traffic jam inside my skull, horns blowing, brakes squealing, head-on collisions. To deal with it I went to a chair and sat. It took me maybe a minute to reach my first clear conclusion.
He had taken this method of telling me he was Santa Claus, instead of just telling me, because he wanted me to think it over on my own before we talked it over together.
Why did he want me to think it over on my own? That took a little longer, but with the traffic under control I found my way through to the only acceptable answer. He had decided to give up his trip to see Thompson, and instead to arrange with Bottweill to attend the Christmas party disguised as Santa Claus, because the idea of a woman living in his house—or of the only alternative, my leaving—had made him absolutely desperate, and he had to see for himself. He had to see Margot and me together, and to talk with her if possible. If he found out that the marriage license was a hoax he would have me by the tail; he could tell me he would be delighted to welcome my bride and watch me wriggle out. If he found that I really meant it he would know what he was up against and go on from there. The point was this, that he had shown what he really thought of me. He had shown that rather than lose me he would do something that he wouldn’t have done for any fee anybody could name. He would rather have gone without beer for a week than admit it, but now he was a fugitive from justice in a murder case and needed me. So he had to let me know, but he wanted it understood that that aspect of the matter was not to be mentioned. The assumption would be that he had gone to Bottweill’s instead of Long Island because he loved to dress up like Santa Claus and tend bar.
A cell in my brain tried to get the right of way for the question, considering this development, how big a raise should I get after New Year’s? but I waved it to the curb.
I thought over other aspects. He had worn the gloves so I couldn’t recognize his hands. Where did he get them? What time had he got to Bottweill’s and who had seen him? Did Fritz know where he was going? How had he got back home? But after a little of that I realized that he hadn’t sent me up to my room to ask myself questions he could answer, so I went back to considering whether there was anything else he wanted me to think over alone. Deciding there wasn’t, after chewing it thoroughly, I got Here and Now and the gloves from the dresser, went to the stairs and descended, and entered the office.
From behind his desk, he glared at me as I crossed over.
“Here it is,” I said, and handed him the book. “And much obliged for the gloves.” I held them up, one in each hand, dangling them from thumb and fingertip.
“It is no occasion for clowning,” he growled.
“It sure isn’t.” I dropped the gloves on my desk, whirled my chair, and sat. “Where do we start? Do you want to know what happened after you left?”
“The details can wait. First where we stand. Was Mr. Cramer there?”
“Yes. Certainly.”
“Did he get anywhere?” “No. He probably won’t until he finds Santa Claus. Until they find Santa Claus they won’t dig very hard at the others. The longer it takes to find him the surer they’ll be he’s it. Three things about him: nobody knows who he was, he beat it, and he wore gloves. A thousand men are looking for him. You were right to wear the gloves, I would have recognized your hands, but where did you get them?”
“At a store on Ninth Avenue. Confound it, I didn’t know a man was going to be murdered!”
“I know you didn’t. May I ask some questions?”
He scowled. I took it for yes. “When did you phone Bottweill to arrange it?”
“At two-thirty yesterday afternoon. You had gone to the bank.”
“Have you any reason to think he told anyone about it?”
“No. He said he wouldn’t.”
“I know he got the costume, so that’s okay. When you left here today at twelve-thi
rty did you go straight to Bottweill’s?”
“No. I left at that hour because you and Fritz expected me to. I stopped to buy the gloves, and met him at Rusterman’s, and we had lunch. From there we took a cab to his place, arriving shortly after two o’clock, and took his private elevator up to his office. Immediately upon entering his office, he got a bottle of Pernod from a drawer of his desk, said he always had a little after lunch, and invited me to join him. I declined. He poured a liberal portion in a glass, about two ounces, drank it in two gulps, and returned the bottle to the drawer.”
“My God.” I whistled. “The cops would like to know that.”
“No doubt. The costume was there in a box. There is a dressing room at the rear of his office, with a bathroom—”
“I know. I’ve used it.”
“I took the costume there and put it on. He had ordered the largest size, but it was a squeeze and it took a while. I was in there half an hour or more. When I re-entered the office it was empty, but soon Bottweill came, up the stairs from the workshop, and helped me with the mask and wig. They had barely been adjusted when Emil Hatch and Mrs. Jerome and her son appeared, also coming up the stairs from the workshop. I left, going to the studio, and found Miss Quon and Miss Dickey and Mr. Kiernan there.”
“And before long I was there. Then no one saw you unmasked. When did you put the gloves on?”
“The last thing. Just before I entered the studio.”
“Then you may have left prints. I know, you didn’t know there was going to be a murder. You left your clothes in the dressing room? Are you sure you got everything when you left?”
“Yes. I am not a complete ass.”
I let that by. “Why didn’t you leave the gloves in the elevator with the costume?”
“Because they hadn’t come with it, and I thought it better to take them.”
“That private elevator is at the rear of the hall downstairs. Did anyone see you leaving it or passing through the hall?”
“No. The hall was empty.”
“How did you get home? Taxi?”
“No. Fritz didn’t expect me until six or later. I walked to the public library, spent some two hours there, and then took a cab.”
I pursed my lips and shook my head to indicate sympathy. That was his longest and hardest tramp since Montenegro. Over a mile. Fighting his way through the blizzard, in terror of the law on his tail. But all the return I got for my look of sympathy was a scowl, so I let loose. I laughed. I put my head back and let it come. I had wanted to ever since I had learned he was Santa Claus, but had been too busy thinking. It was bottled up in me, and I let it out, good. I was about to taper off to a cackle when he exploded.
“Confound it,” he bellowed, “marry and be damned!”
That was dangerous. That attitude could easily get us onto the aspect he had sent me up to my room to think over alone, and if we got started on that anything could happen. It called for tact.
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “Something caught in my throat. Do you want to describe the situation, or do you want me to?”
“I would like to hear you try,” he said grimly.
“Yes, sir. I suspect that the only thing to do is to phone Inspector Cramer right now and invite him to come and have a chat, and when he comes open the bag. That will—”
“No. I will not do that.”
“Then, next best, I go to him and spill it there. Of course—”
“No.” He meant every word of it.
“Okay, I’ll describe it. They’ll mark time on the others until they find Santa Claus. They’ve got to find him. If he left any prints they’ll compare them with every file they’ve got, and sooner or later they’ll get to yours. They’ll cover all the stores for sales of white cotton gloves to men. They’ll trace Bottweill’s movements and learn that he lunched with you at Rusterman’s, and you left together, and they’ll trace you to Bottweill’s place. Of course your going there won’t prove you were Santa Claus, you might talk your way out of that, and it will account for your prints if they find some, but what about the gloves? They’ll trace that sale if you give them time, and with a description of the buyer they’ll find Santa Claus. You’re sunk.”
I had never seen his face blacker.
“If you sit tight till they find him,” I argued, “it will be quite a nuisance. Cramer has been itching for years to lock you up, and any judge would commit you as a material witness who had run out. Whereas if you call Cramer now, and I mean now, and invite him to come and have some beer, while it will still be a nuisance, it will be bearable. Of course he’ll want to know why you went there and played Santa Claus, but you can tell him anything you please. Tell him you bet me a hundred bucks, or what the hell, make it a grand, that you could be in a room with me for ten minutes and I wouldn’t recognize you. I’ll be glad to cooperate.”
I leaned forward. “Another thing. If you wait till they find you, you won’t dare tell them that Bottweill took a drink from that bottle shortly after two o’clock and it didn’t hurt him. If you told about that after they dug you up, they could book you for withholding evidence, and they probably would, and make it stick. If you get Cramer here now and tell him he’ll appreciate it, though naturally he won’t say so. He’s probably at his office. Shall I ring him?”
“No. I will not confess that performance to Mr. Cramer. I will not unfold the morning paper to a disclosure of that outlandish masquerade.”
“Then you’re going to sit and read Here and Now until they come with a warrant?”
“No. That would be fatuous.” He took in air through his mouth, as far down as it would go, and let it out through his nose. “I’m going to find the murderer and present him to Mr. Cramer. There’s nothing else.”
“Oh. You are.”
“Yes.”
“You might have said so and saved my breath, instead of letting me spout.”
“I wanted to see if your appraisal of the situation agreed with mine. It does.”
“That’s fine. Then you also know that we may have two weeks and we may have two minutes. At this very second some expert may be phoning Homicide to say that he has found fingerprints that match on the card of Wolfe, Nero—”
The phone rang, and I jerked around as if someone had stuck a needle in me. Maybe we wouldn’t have even two minutes. My hand wasn’t trembling as I lifted the receiver, I hope. Wolfe seldom lifts his until I have found out who it is, but that time he did.
“Nero Wolfe’s office, Archie Goodwin speaking.”
“This is the District Attorney’s office, Mr. Goodwin. Regarding the murder of Kurt Bottweill. We would like you to be here at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“All right. Sure.”
“At ten o’clock sharp, please.”
“I’ll be there.”
We hung up. Wolfe sighed. I sighed.
“Well,” I said, “I’ve already told them six times that I know absolutely nothing about Santa Claus, so they may not ask me again. If they do, it will be interesting to compare my voice when I’m lying with when I’m telling the truth.”
He grunted. “Now. I want a complete report of what happened there after I left, but first I want background. In your intimate association with Miss Dickey you must have learned things about those people. What?”
“Not much.” I cleared my throat. “I guess I’ll have to explain something. My association with Miss Dickey was not intimate.” I stopped. It wasn’t easy.
“Choose your own adjective. I meant no innuendo.”
“It’s not a question of adjectives. Miss Dickey is a good dancer, exceptionally good, and for the past couple of months I have been taking her here and there, some six or eight times altogether. Monday evening at the Flamingo Club she asked me to do her a favor. She said Bottweill was giving her a runaround, that he had been going to marry her for a year but kept stalling, and she wanted to do something. She said Cherry Quon was making a play for him, and she didn’t intend to let Cherry t
ake the rail. She asked me to get a marriage-license blank and fill it out for her and me and give it to her. She would show it to Bottweill and tell him now or never. It struck me as a good deed with no risk involved, and, as I say, she is a good dancer. Tuesday afternoon I got a blank, no matter how, and that evening, up in my room, I filled in, including a fancy signature.”
Wolfe made a noise.
“That’s all,” I said, “except that I want to make it clear that I had no intention of showing it to you. I did that on the spur of the moment when you picked up your book. Your memory is as good as mine. Also, to close it up, no doubt you noticed that today just before Bottweill and Mrs. Jerome joined the party Margot and I stepped aside for a little chat. She told me the license did the trick. Her words were, ‘Perfect, simply perfect.’ She said that last evening, in his office, he tore the license up and put the pieces in his wastebasket. That’s okay, the cops didn’t find them. I looked before they came, and the pieces weren’t there.”
His mouth was working, but he didn’t open it. He didn’t dare. He would have liked to tear into me, to tell me that my insufferable flummery had got him into this awful mess, but if he did so he would be dragging in the aspect he didn’t want mentioned. He saw that in time, and saw that I saw it. His mouth worked, but that was all. Finally he spoke.
“Then you are not on intimate terms with Miss Dickey.”
“No, sir.”
“Even so, she must have spoken of that establishment and those people.”
“Some, yes.”
“And one of them killed Bottweill. The poison was put in the bottle between two-ten, when I saw him take a drink, and three-thirty when Kiernan went and got the bottle. No one came up in the private elevator during the half-hour or more I was in the dressing room. I was getting into that costume and gave no heed to footsteps or other sounds in the office, but the elevator shaft adjoins the dressing room, and I would have heard it. It is a strong probability that the opportunity was even narrower, that the poison was put in the bottle while I was in the dressing room, since three of them were in the office with Bottweill when I left. It must be assumed that one of those three, or one of the three in the studio, had grasped an earlier opportunity. What about them?”
The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries Page 99