Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 18

by Curtains for Three

  “That’s impossible!” Peggy cried, shocked. “I couldn’t! I wouldn’t dream of asking Gif to pay damages—”

  Wolfe banged a fist on his desk. “Confound it!” he roared. “Get out of here! Go! Do you think murders are solved by cutting out paper dolls? First you lie to me, and now you refuse to annoy people, including the murderer! Archie, put them out!”

  “Good for you,” I muttered at him. I was getting fed up too. I glared at the would-be clients. “Try the Salvation Army,” I suggested. “They’re old hands at helping people in trouble. You can have the notebooks to take along—at cost, six bits. No charge for the contents.”

  They were looking at each other.

  “I guess he has to see them somehow,” Fred conceded. “He has to have a reason, and I must admit that’s a good one. You don’t owe them anything—not one of them.”

  Peggy gave in.

  After a few details had been attended to, the most important of which was getting addresses, they left. The manner of their going, and of our speeding them, was so far from cordial that it might have been thought that instead of being the clients they were the prey. But the check was on my desk. When, after letting them out, I returned to the office, Wolfe was leaning back with his eyes shut, frowning in distaste.

  I stretched and yawned. “This ought to be fun,” I said encouragingly. “Making it just a grab for damages. If the murderer is among the guests, see how long you can keep it from him. I bet he catches on before the jury comes in with the verdict.”

  “Shut up,” he growled. “Blockheads.”

  “Oh, have a heart,” I protested. “People in love aren’t supposed to think, that’s why they have to hire trained thinkers. You should be happy and proud they picked you. What’s a good big lie or two when you’re in love? When I saw—”

  “Shut up,” he repeated. His eyes came open. “Your notebook. Those letters must go at once.”

  III

  Monday evening’s party lasted a full three hours, and murder wasn’t mentioned once. Even so, it wasn’t exactly jolly. The letters had put it straight that Wolfe, acting for Mrs. Mion, wanted to find out whether an appropriate sum could be collected from Gifford James without resort to lawyers and a court, and what sum would be thought appropriate. So each of them was naturally in a state of mind: Gifford James himself; his daughter Clara; his lawyer, Judge Henry Arnold; Adele Bosley for Public Relations; Dr. Nicholas Lloyd as the technical expert; and Rupert Grove, who had been Mion’s manager. That made six, which was just comfortable for our big office. Fred and Peggy had not been invited.

  The James trio arrived together and were so punctual, right on the dot at nine o’clock, that Wolfe and I hadn’t yet finished our after-dinner coffee in the office. I was so curious to have a look that I went to answer the door instead of leaving it to Fritz, the chef and house overseer who helps to make Wolfe’s days and years a joy forever almost as much as I do. The first thing that impressed me was that the baritone took the lead crossing the threshold, letting his daughter and his lawyer tag along behind. Since I have occasionally let Lily Rowan share her pair of opera seats with me, James’ six feet and broad shoulders and cocky strut were nothing new, but I was surprised that he looked so young, since he must have been close to fifty. He handed me his hat as if taking care of his hat on Monday evening, August 15, was the one and only thing I had been born for. Unfortunately I let it drop.

  Clara made up for it by looking at me. That alone showed she was unusually observant, since one never looks at the flunkey who lets one in, but she saw me drop her father’s hat and gave me a glance, and then prolonged the glance until it practically said, “What are you, in disguise? See you later.” That made me feel friendly, but with reserve. Not only was she pale and tense, as Peggy Mion had said, but her blue eyes glistened, and a girl her age shouldn’t glisten like that. Nevertheless, I gave her a grin to show that I appreciated the prolonged glance.

  Meanwhile the lawyer, Judge Henry Arnold, had hung up his own hat. During the day I had of course made inquiries on all of them, and had learned that he rated the “Judge” only because he had once been a city magistrate. Even so, that’s what they called him, so the sight of him was a let-down. He was a little sawed-off squirt with a bald head so flat on top you could have kept an ashtray on it, and his nose was pushed in. He must have been better arranged inside than out, since he had quite a list of clients among the higher levels on Broadway.

  Taking them to the office and introducing them to Wolfe, I undertook to assign them to some of the yellow chairs, but the baritone spied the red leather one and copped it. I was helping Fritz fill their orders for drinks when the buzzer sounded and I went back to the front.

  It was Dr. Nicholas Lloyd. He had no hat, so that point wasn’t raised, and I decided that the searching look he aimed at me was merely professional and automatic, to see if I was anemic or diabetic or what. With his lined handsome face and worried dark eyes he looked every inch a doctor and even surgeon, fully up to the classy reputation my inquiries had disclosed. When I ushered him to the office his eyes lighted up at sight of the refreshment table, and he was the best customer—bourbon and water with mint—all evening.

  The last two came together—at least they were on the stoop together when I opened the door. I would probably have given Adele Bosley the red leather chair if James hadn’t already copped it. She shook hands and said she had been wanting to meet Archie Goodwin for years, but that was just public relations and went out the other ear. The point is that from my desk I get most of a party profile or three-quarters, but the one in the red leather chair fullface, and I like a view. Not that Adele Bosley was a pin-up, and she must have been in the fifth or sixth grade when Clara James was born, but her smooth tanned skin and pretty mouth without too much lipstick and nice brown eyes were good scenery.

  Rupert Grove didn’t shake hands, which didn’t upset me. He may have been a good manager for Alberto Mion’s affairs, but not for his own physique. A man can be fat and still have integrity, as for instance Falstaff or Nero Wolfe, but that bird had lost all sense of proportion. His legs were short, and it was all in the middle third of him. If you wanted to be polite and look at his face you had to concentrate. I did so, since I needed to size them all up, and saw nothing worthy of recording but a pair of shrewd shifty black eyes.

  When these two were seated and provided with liquid, Wolfe fired the starting gun. He said he was sorry it had been necessary to ask them to exert themselves on a hot evening, but that the question at issue could be answered fairly and equitably only if all concerned had a voice in it. The responding murmurs went all the way from acquiescence to extreme irritation. Judge Arnold said belligerently that there was no question at legal issue because Albert Mion was dead.

  “Nonsense,” Wolfe said curtly. “If that were true, you, a lawyer, wouldn’t have bothered to come. Anyway, the purpose of this meeting is to keep it from becoming a legal issue. Four of you telephoned Mrs. Mion today to ask if I am acting for her, and were told that I am. On her behalf I want to collect the facts. I may as well tell you, without prejudice to her, that she will accept my recommendation. Should I decide that a large sum is due her you may of course contest; but if I form the opinion that she has no claim she will bow to it. Under that responsibility I need all the facts. Therefore—”

  “You’re not a court,” Arnold snapped.

  “No, sir, I’m not. If you prefer it in a court you’ll get it.” Wolfe’s eyes moved. “Miss Bosley, would your employers welcome that kind of publicity? Dr. Lloyd, would you rather appear as an expert on the witness-stand or talk it over here? Mr. Grove, how would your client feel about it if he were alive? Mr. James, what do you think? You wouldn’t relish the publicity either, would you? Particularly since your daughter’s name would appear?”

  “Why would her name appear?” James demanded in his trained baritone.

  Wolfe turned up a palm. “It would be evidence. It would be established that just
before you struck Mr. Mion you said to him, ‘You let my daughter alone, you bastard.’”

  I put my hand in my pocket. I have a rule, justified by experience, that whenever a killer is among those present, or may be, a gun must be handy. Not regarding the back of the third drawer of my desk, where they are kept, as handy enough, the routine is to transfer one to my pocket before guests gather. That was the pocket I put my hand in, knowing how cocky James was. But he didn’t leave his chair. He merely blurted, “That’s a lie!”

  Wolfe grunted. “Ten people heard you say it. That would indeed be publicity, if you denied it under oath and all ten of them, subpoenaed to testify, contradicted you. I honestly think it would be better to discuss it with me.”

  “What do you want to know?” Judge Arnold demanded.

  “The facts. First, the one already moot. When I lie I like to know it. Mr. Grove, you were present when that famous blow was struck. Have I quoted Mr. James correctly?”

  “Yes.” Grove’s voice was a high tenor, which pleased me.

  “You heard him say that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Miss Bosley. Did you?”

  She looked uncomfortable. “Wouldn’t it be better to—”

  “Please. You’re not under oath, but I’m merely collecting facts, and I was told I lied. Did you hear him say that?”

  “Yes, I did.” Adele’s eyes went to James. “I’m sorry, Gif.”

  “But it’s not true!” Clara James cried.

  Wolfe rasped at her, “We’re all lying?”

  I could have warned her, when she gave me that glance in the hall, to look out for him. Not only was she a sophisticated young woman, and not only did she glisten, but her slimness was the kind that comes from not eating enough, and Wolfe absolutely cannot stand people who don’t eat enough. I knew he would be down on her from the go.

  But she came back at him. “I don’t mean that,” she said scornfully. “Don’t be so touchy! I mean I had lied to my father. What he thought about Alberto and me wasn’t true. I was just bragging to him because—it doesn’t matter why. Anyway, what I told him wasn’t true, and I told him so that night!”

  “Which night?”

  “When we got home—from the stage party after Rigoletto. That was where my father knocked Alberto down, you know, right there on the stage. When we got home I told him that what I had said about Alberto and me wasn’t true.”

  “When were you lying, the first time or the second?”

  “Don’t answer that, my dear,” Judge Arnold broke in, lawyering. He looked sternly at Wolfe. “This is all irrelevant. You’re welcome to the facts, but relevant facts. What Miss James told her father is immaterial.”

  Wolfe shook his head. “Oh no.” His eyes went from right to left and back again. “Apparently I haven’t made it plain. Mrs. Mion wants me to decide for her whether she has a just claim, not so much legally as morally. If it appears that Mr. James’ assault on Mr. Mion was morally justified that will be a factor in my decision.” He focused on Clara. “Whether my question was relevant or not, Miss James, I admit it was embarrassing and therefore invited mendacity. I withdraw it. Try this instead. Had you, prior to that stage party, given your father to understand that Mr. Mion had seduced you?”

  “Well—” Clara laughed. It was a tinkly soprano laugh, rather attractive. “What a nice old-fashioned way to say it! Yes, I had. But it wasn’t true!”

  “But you believed it, Mr. James?”

  Gifford James was having trouble holding himself in, and I concede that such leading questions about his daughter’s honor from a stranger must have been hard to take. But after all it wasn’t new to the rest of the audience, and anyway it sure was relevant. He forced himself to speak with quiet dignity. “I believed what my daughter told me, yes.”

  Wolfe nodded. “So much for that,” he said in a relieved tone. “I’m glad that part is over with.” His eyes moved. “Now. Mr. Grove, tell me about the conference in Mr. Mion’s studio, a few hours before he died.”

  Rupert the Fat had his head tilted to one side, with his shrewd black eyes meeting Wolfe’s. “It was for the purpose,” he said in his high tenor, “of discussing the demand Mion had made for payment of damages.”

  “You were there?”

  “I was, naturally. I was Mion’s adviser and manager. Also Miss Bosley, Dr. Lloyd, Mr. James, and Judge Arnold.”

  “Who arranged the conference, you?”

  “In a way, yes. Arnold suggested it, and I told Mion and phoned Dr. Lloyd and Miss Bosley.”

  “What was decided?”

  “Nothing. That is, nothing definite. There was the question of the extent of the damage—how soon Mion would be able to sing again.”

  “What was your position?”

  Grove’s eyes tightened. “Didn’t I say I was Mion’s manager?”

  “Certainly. I mean, what position did you take regarding the payment of damages?”

  “I thought a preliminary payment of fifty thousand dollars should be made at once. Even if Mion’s voice was soon all right he had already lost that and more. His South American tour had been canceled, and he had been unable to make a lot of records on contract, and then radio offers—”

  “Nothing like fifty thousand dollars,” Judge Arnold asserted aggressively. There was nothing wrong with his larynx, small as he was. “I showed figures—”

  “To hell with your figures! Anybody can—”

  “Please!” Wolfe rapped on his desk with a knuckle. “What was Mr. Mion’s position?”

  “The same as mine, of course.” Grove was scowling at Arnold as he spoke to Wolfe. “We had discussed it.”

  “Naturally.” Wolfe’s eyes went left. “How did you feel about it, Mr. James?”

  “I think,” Arnold broke in, “that I should speak for my client. You agree, Gif?”

  “Go ahead,” the baritone muttered.

  Arnold did, and took most of one of the three hours. I was surprised that Wolfe didn’t stop him, and finally decided that he let him ramble on just to get additional support for his long-standing opinion of lawyers. If so, he got it. Arnold covered everything. He had a lot to say about tort-feasors, going back a couple of centuries, with emphasis on the mental state of a tort-feasor. Another item he covered at length was proximate cause. He got really worked up about proximate cause, but it was so involved that I lost track and passed.

  Here and there, though, he made sense. At one point he said, “The idea of a preliminary payment, as they called it, was clearly inadmissible. It is not reasonable to expect a man, even if he stipulates an obligation, to make a payment thereon until either the total amount of the obligation, or an exact method of computing it, has been agreed upon.”

  At another point he said, “The demand for so large a sum can in fact be properly characterized as blackmail. They knew that if the action went to trial, and if we showed that my client’s deed sprang from his knowledge that his daughter had been wronged, a jury would not be likely to award damages. But they also knew that we would be averse to making that defense.”

  “Not his knowledge,” Wolfe objected. “Merely his belief. His daughter says she had misinformed him.”

  “We could have showed knowledge,” Arnold insisted.

  I looked at Clara with my brows up. She was being contradicted flatly on the chronology of her lie and her truth, but either she and her father didn’t get the implication of it or they didn’t want to get started on that again.

  At another point Arnold said, “Even if my client’s deed was tortious and damages would be collectible, the amount could not be agreed upon until the extent of the injury was known. We offered, without prejudice, twenty thousand dollars in full settlement, for a general release. They refused. They wanted a payment forth with on account. We refused that on principle. In the end there was agreement on only one thing: that an effort should be made to arrive at the total amount of damage. Of course that was what Dr. Lloyd was there for. He was asked for a prognosi
s, and he stated that—but you don’t need to take hearsay. He’s here, and you can get it direct.”

  Wolfe nodded. “If you please, Doctor?”

  I thought, My God, here we go again with another expert.

  But Lloyd had mercy on us. He kept it down to our level and didn’t take anything like an hour. Before he spoke he took another swallow from his third helping of bourbon and water with mint, which had smoothed out some of the lines on his handsome face and taken some of the worry from his eyes.

  “I’ll try to remember,” he said slowly, “exactly what I told them. First I described the damage the blow had done. The thyroid and arytenoid cartilages on the left side had been severely injured, and to a lesser extent the cricoid.” He smiled—a superior smile, but not supercilious. “I waited two weeks, using indicated treatment, thinking an operation might not be required, but it was. When I got inside I confess I was relieved; it wasn’t as bad as I had feared. It was a simple operation, and he healed admirably. I wouldn’t have been risking much that day if I had given assurance that his voice would be as good as ever in two months, three at the most, but the larynx is an extremely delicate instrument, and a tenor like Mion’s is a remarkable phenomenon, so I was cautious enough merely to say that I would be surprised and disappointed if he wasn’t ready, fully ready, for the opening of the next opera season, seven months from then. I added that my hope and expectation were actually more optimistic than that.”

  Lloyd pursed his lips. “That was it, I think. Nevertheless, I welcomed the suggestion that my prognosis should be reinforced by Rentner’s. Apparently it would be a major factor in the decision about the amount to be paid in damages, and I didn’t want the sole responsibility.”

  “Rentner? Who was he?” Wolfe asked.

  “Dr. Abraham Rentner of Mount Sinai,” Lloyd replied, in the tone I would use if someone asked me who Jackie Robinson was. “I phoned him and made an appointment for the following morning.”