Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 18

by Curtains for Three

  The door came open to let Mrs. Orwin in.

  V

  With Mrs. Carlisle the husband had come along. With Mrs. Orwin it was the son. His expression and manner were so different I would hardly have known him. Upstairs his tone had been mean and his face had been mean. Now his narrow little eyes were doing their damnedest to look frank and cordial and one of the boys. He leaned across the table at Cramer, extending a hand.

  “Inspector Cramer? I’ve been hearing about you for years! I’m Eugene Orwin.” He glanced to his right. “I’ve already had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Wolfe and Mr. Goodwin—earlier today, before this terrible thing happened. It is terrible.”

  “Yes,” Cramer agreed. “Sit down.”

  “I will in a moment. I do better with words standing up. I would like to make a statement on behalf of my mother and myself, and I hope you’ll permit it. I’m a member of the bar. My mother is not feeling well. At the request of your men she went in with me to identify the body of Miss Brown, and it was a bad shock, and we’ve been detained now more than two hours.”

  His mother’s appearance corroborated him. Sitting with her head propped on a hand and her eyes closed, obviously she didn’t care as much about the impression they made on the inspector as her son did. It was doubtful whether she was paying any attention to what her son was saying.

  “A statement would be welcome,” Cramer told him, “if it’s relevant.”

  “I thought so,” Gene said approvingly. “So many people have an entirely wrong idea of police methods! Of course you know that Miss Brown came here today as my mother’s guest, and therefore it might be supposed that my mother knows her well. But actually she doesn’t. That’s what I want to make clear.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Gene glanced at the shorthand dick. “If it’s taken down I would like to go over it when convenient.”

  “You may.”

  “Then here are the facts. In January my mother was in Florida. You meet all kinds in Florida. My mother met a man who called himself Colonel Percy Brown—a British colonel in the Reserve, he said. Later on he introduced his sister Cynthia to her. My mother saw a great deal of them. My father is dead, and the estate, a rather large one, is in her control. She lent Brown some money—not much; that was just an opener. A week ago—”

  Mrs. Orwin’s head jerked up. “It was only five thousand dollars, and I didn’t promise him anything,” she said wearily, and propped her head on her hand again.

  “All right, Mother.” Gene patted her shoulder. “A week ago she returned to New York, and they came along. The first time I met them I thought they were impostors. He didn’t sound like an Englishman, and certainly she didn’t. They weren’t very free with family details, but from them and Mother, chiefly Mother, I got enough to inquire about and sent a cable to London. I got a reply Saturday and another one this morning, and there was more than enough to confirm my suspicion, but not nearly enough to put it up to my mother. When she likes people she can be very stubborn about them—not a bad trait, not at all; I don’t want to be misunderstood and I don’t want her to be. I was thinking it over, what step to take next. Meanwhile, I thought it best not to let them be alone with her if I could help it—as you see, I’m being utterly frank. That’s why I came here with them today—my mother is a member of that flower club; I’m no gardener myself.”

  His tone implied a low opinion of male gardeners, which was none too bright if his idea was to get solid with Wolfe as well as Cramer.

  He turned a palm up. “That’s what brought me here. My mother came to see the orchids, and she invited Brown and his sister to come simply because she is good-hearted. But actually she doesn’t know them, she knows nothing about them, because what they have told her is one thing and what they really are is something else. Then this happened, and in the past hour, after she recovered a little from the shock of being taken in there to identify the corpse, I have explained to her what the situation is.”

  He put his hands on the table and leaned on them, forward at Cramer. “I’m going to be quite frank, Inspector. Under the circumstances, I can’t see that it would serve any useful purpose to let it be published that that woman came here with my mother. What good would it do? How would it further the cause of justice? I want to make it perfectly clear that we have no desire to evade our responsibility as citizens. But how would it help to get my mother’s name in the headlines?”

  He straightened, backed up a step, and looked affectionately at Mother.

  “Names in headlines aren’t what I’m after,” Cramer told him, “but I don’t run the newspapers. If they’ve already got it I can’t stop them. I’d like to say I appreciate your frankness. So you only met Miss Brown a week ago. How many times had you seen her altogether?”

  Three times, Gene said. Cramer had plenty of questions for both mother and son. It was in the middle of them that Wolfe passed me a slip of paper on which he had scribbled:

  Tell Fritz to bring sandwiches and coffee for you and me. Also for those left in the front room. No one else. Of course Saul and Theodore.

  I left the room, found Fritz in the kitchen, delivered the message, and returned.

  Gene stayed cooperative to the end, and Mrs. Orwin tried, though it was an effort. They said they had been together all the time, which I happened to know wasn’t so, having seen them separated at least twice during the afternoon—and Cramer did too, since I had told him. They said a lot of other things, among them that they hadn’t left the plant rooms between their arrival and their departure with Wolfe; that they had stayed until most of the others were gone because Mrs. Orwin wanted to persuade Wolfe to sell her some plants; that Colonel Brown had wandered off by himself once or twice; that they had been only mildly concerned about Cynthia’s absence because of assurances from Colonel Brown and me; and so on and so forth. Before they left, Gene made another try for a commitment to keep his mother’s name out of it, and Cramer appreciated his frankness so much that he promised to do his best. I couldn’t blame Cramer; people like them might be in a position to call almost anybody, even the commissioner or the mayor, by his first name.

  Fritz had brought trays for Wolfe and me, and we were making headway with them. In the silence that followed the departure of the Orwins, Wolfe could plainly be heard chewing a mouthful of mixed salad.

  Cramer sat frowning at us. He spoke not to Wolfe but to me. “Is that imported ham?”

  I shook my head and swallowed before I answered. “No, Georgia. Pigs fed on peanuts and acorns. Cured to Mr. Wolfe’s specifications. It smells good but it tastes even better. I’ll copy the recipe for you—no, damn it, I can’t, because the typewriter’s in the office. Sorry.” I put the sandwich down and picked up another. “I like to alternate—first a bit of ham, then sturgeon, then ham, then sturgeon …”

  I could see him controlling himself. He turned his head. “Levy! Get that Colonel Brown in.”

  “Yes, sir. That man you wanted—Vedder—he’s here.”

  “Then I’ll take him first.”

  VI

  Up in the plant rooms Malcolm Vedder had caught my eye by the way he picked up a flowerpot and held it. As he took a chair across the dining table from Cramer and me, I still thought he was worth another good look, but after his answer to Cramer’s third question I relaxed and concentrated on my sandwiches. He was an actor and had had parts in three Broadway plays. Of course that explained it. No actor would pick up a flowerpot just normally, like you or me. He would have to dramatize it some way, and Vedder had happened to choose a way that looked to me like fingers closing around a throat.

  Now he was dramatizing this by being wrought up and indignant about the cops dragging him into an investigation of a sensational murder. He kept running the long fingers of both his elegant hands through his hair in a way that looked familiar, and I remembered I had seen him the year before as the artist guy in The Primitives.

  “Typical!” he told Cramer, his eyes flashing and his voice throaty w
ith feeling. “Typical of police clumsiness! Pulling me into this! The newspapermen out front recognized me, of course, and the damned photographers! My God!”

  “Yeah,” Cramer said sympathetically. “It’ll be tough for an actor, having your picture in the paper. We need help, us clumsy police, and you were among those present. You’re a member of this flower club?”

  No, Vedder said, he wasn’t. He had come with a friend, a Mrs. Beauchamp, and when she had left to keep an appointment he had remained to look at more orchids. If only he had departed with her he would have avoided this dreadful publicity. They had arrived about three-thirty, and he had remained in the plant rooms continuously until leaving with me at his heels. He had seen no one that he had ever known or seen before, except Mrs. Beauchamp. He knew nothing of any Cynthia Brown or Colonel Percy Brown. Cramer went through all the regulation questions and got all the expected negatives, until he suddenly asked, “Did you know Doris Hatten?”

  Vedder frowned. “Who?”

  “Doris Hatten. She was also—”

  “Ah!” Vedder cried. “She was also strangled! I remember!”

  “Right.”

  Vedder made fists of his hands, rested them on the table, and leaned forward. His eyes had flashed again and then gone dead. “You know,” he said tensely, “that’s the worst of all, strangling—especially a woman.” His fists opened, the fingers spread apart, and he gazed at them. “Imagine strangling a beautiful woman!”

  “Did you know Doris Hatten?”

  “Othello,” Vedder said in a deep resonant tone. His eyes lifted to Cramer, and his voice lifted too. “No, I didn’t know her; I only read about her.” He shuddered all over and then, abruptly, he was out of his chair and on his feet. “Damn it all,” he protested shrilly, “I only came here to look at orchids! God!”

  He ran his fingers through his hair, turned, and made for the door. Levy looked at Cramer with his brows raised, and Cramer shook his head impatiently.

  I muttered at Wolfe, “He hammed it, maybe?”

  Wolfe wasn’t interested.

  The next one in was Bill McNab, garden editor of the Gazette. I knew him a little, but not well, most of my newspaper friends not being on garden desks. He looked unhappier than any of the others, even Mrs. Orwin, as he walked across to the table, to the end where Wolfe sat.

  “I can’t tell you how much I regret this, Mr. Wolfe,” he said miserably.

  “Don’t try,” Wolfe growled.

  “I wish I could, I certainly do. What a really, really terrible thing! I wouldn’t have dreamed such a thing could happen—the Manhattan Flower Club! Of course, she wasn’t a member, but that only makes it worse in a way.” McNab turned to Cramer. “I’m responsible for this.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes. It was my idea. I persuaded Mr. Wolfe to arrange it. He let me word the invitations. And I was congratulating myself on the great success! The club has only a hundred and eighty-nine members, and there were over two hundred people here. Then this! What can I do?” He turned. “I want you to know this, Mr. Wolfe. I got a message from my paper; they wanted me to do a story on it for the news columns, and I refused point-blank. Even if I get fired—I don’t think I will.”

  “Sit down a minute,” Cramer invited him.

  McNab varied the monotony on one detail, at least. He admitted that he had left the plant rooms three times during the afternoon, once to accompany a departing guest down to the ground floor, and twice to go down alone to check on who had come and who hadn’t. Aside from that, he was more of the same. He had never heard of Cynthia Brown. By now it was beginning to seem not only futile but silly to spend time on seven or eight of them merely because they happened to be the last to go and so were at hand. Also it was something new to me from a technical standpoint. I had never seen one stack up like that. Any precinct dick knows that every question you ask of everybody is aimed at one of the three targets: motive, means, and opportunity. In this case there were no questions to ask because those were already answered. Motive: the guy had followed her downstairs, knowing she had recognized him, had seen her enter Wolfe’s office and thought she was doing exactly what she was doing, getting set to tell Wolfe, and had decided to prevent that the quickest and best way he knew. Means: any piece of cloth; even his handkerchief would do. Opportunity: he was there—all of them on Saul’s list were.

  So if you wanted to learn who strangled Cynthia Brown, first you had to find out who had strangled Doris Hatten, and the cops had already been working on that for five months.

  As soon as Bill McNab had been sent on his way, Colonel Percy Brown was brought in.

  Brown was not exactly at ease, but he had himself well in hand. You would never have picked him for a con man, and neither would I. His mouth and jaw were strong and attractive, and as he sat down he leveled his keen gray eyes at Cramer and kept them there. He wasn’t interested in Wolfe or me. He said his name was Colonel Percy Brown, and Cramer asked him which army he was a colonel in.

  “I think,” Brown said in a cool even tone, “it will save time if I state my position. I will answer fully and freely all questions that relate to what I saw or heard or did since I arrived here this afternoon. To that extent I’ll help you all I can. Answers to any other questions will have to wait until I consult my attorney.”

  Cramer nodded. “I expected that. The trouble is I’m pretty sure I don’t give a damn what you saw or heard this afternoon. We’ll come back to that. I want to put something to you. As you see, I’m not even wanting to know why you tried to break away before we got here.”

  “I merely wanted to phone—”

  “Forget it.” Cramer put the remains of his second cigar, not more than a scraggly inch, in the ashtray. “On information received, I think it’s like this. The woman who called herself Cynthia Brown, murdered here today, was not your sister. You met her in Florida six or eight weeks ago. She went in with you on an operation of which Mrs. Orwin was the subject, and you introduced her to Mrs. Orwin as your sister. You two came to New York with Mrs. Orwin a week ago, with the operation well under way. As far as I’m concerned, that is only background. Otherwise I’m not interested in it. My work is homicide, and that’s what I’m working on now.”

  Brown was listening politely.

  “For me,” Cramer went on, “the point is that for quite a period you have been closely connected with this Miss Brown, associating with her in a confidential operation. You must have had many intimate conversations with her. You were having her with you as your sister, and she wasn’t, and she’s been murdered. We could give you merry hell on that score alone.”

  Brown had no use for his tongue. His face said no comment.

  “It’ll never be too late to give you hell,” Cramer assured him, “but I wanted to give you a chance first. For two months you’ve been on intimate terms with Cynthia Brown. She certainly must have mentioned an experience she had last October. A friend of hers named Doris Hatten was murdered—strangled. Cynthia Brown had information about the murderer which she kept to herself; if she had come out with it she’d be alive now. She must have mentioned that to you; you can’t tell me she didn’t. She must have told you all about it. Now you can tell me. If you do we can nail him for what he did here today, and it might even make things a little smoother for you. Well?”

  Brown had pursed his lips. They straightened out again, and his hand came up for a finger to scratch his cheek.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “I’m sorry I can’t help.”

  “Do you expect me to believe that during all those weeks she never mentioned the murder of her friend Doris Hatten?”

  “I’m sorry I can’t help.”

  Cramer got out another cigar and rolled it between his palms, which was wasted energy since he didn’t intend to draw smoke through it. Having seen him do it before, I knew what it meant. He still thought he might get something from this customer and was taking time out to contr
ol himself.

  “I’m sorry too,” he said, trying not to make it a growl. “But she must have told you something of her previous career, didn’t she?”

  “I’m sorry.” Brown’s tone was firm and final.

  “Okay. We’ll move on to this afternoon. On that you said you’d answer fully and freely. Do you remember a moment when something about Cynthia Brown’s appearance—some movement she made or the expression on her face—caused Mrs. Orwin to ask her what was the matter with her?”

  A crease was showing on Brown’s forehead. “I don’t believe I do,” he stated.

  “I’m asking you to try. Try hard.”

  Silence. Brown pursed his lips and the crease in his forehead deepened. Finally he said, “I may not have been right there at the moment. In those aisles—in a crowd like that—we weren’t rubbing elbows continuously.”

  “You do remember when she excused herself because she wasn’t feeling well?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Well, this moment I’m asking about came shortly before that. She exchanged looks with some man nearby, and it was her reaction to that that made Mrs. Orwin ask her what was the matter. What I’m interested in is that exchange of looks. If you saw it and can remember it, and can describe the man she exchanged looks with, I wouldn’t give a damn if you stripped Mrs. Orwin clean and ten more like her.”

  “I didn’t see it.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t say you’re sorry.”

  “I am, of course, if it would help—”

  “To hell with you!” Cramer banged his fist on the table so hard the trays danced. “Levy! Take him out and tell Stebbins to send him down and lock him up. Material witness. Put more men on him. He’s got a record somewhere. Find it!”

  “I wish to phone my attorney,” Brown said quietly but emphatically.

  “There’s a phone down where you’re going,” Levy told him. “If it’s not out of order. This way, Colonel.”