“Hello. Precinct?”
“No. Radio patrol. Who are you?”
“Archie Goodwin, private detective from Nero Wolfe’s office, happened to be here. I was sitting on the lid. I’ll keep.” I pointed. “Back in the office is Mrs. Miltan and others, and two flights up is a corpse.”
“God, you’re snappy. Sit on the lid a little longer, will you? Come on, Bill.”
They tramped to the rear. I stood and played with my fingers. In about two minutes one of them tramped down the hall again and went upstairs. In another two minutes there were fresh arrivals in the vestibule, three dicks in plain clothes, but one glance was enough to tell that they were precinct men, not homicide squad. I gave them a brief picture of it. One of them relieved me at the door, another went for the stairs, and the third went to the office and took me with him.
The radio flatfoot was there, holding his tongue between his teeth while he wrote down names in a notebook. The precinct dick spoke with him a moment and then started in on Mrs. Miltan. I sidled off and made myself unobtrusive alongside the coat rack, resisting a temptation to edge around and get in a few words of advice to the Montenegrin females before the homicide squad arrived, which was when the real fun would start. I decided not to take a chance on starting a mental process even in a precinct man. The clients and employees were scattered all around the office, some sitting, some standing, with no sound coming from them except an occasional muttering. While I was making the round of their faces, without any real expectation of seeing anything interesting or significant, I suddenly saw something right in front of my eyes that struck me as being both interesting and significant. My coat was there on the rack where I had left it, so close my elbow was touching it, and what I saw was that the flap of the left-hand pocket had been pushed inside and the pocket was gaping on account of something in it. That was wrong. I didn’t patronize the kind of tailors Percy Ludlow had, but I was born neat and I don’t go around with my pocket flaps pushed in; and besides, that pocket had been empty.
My hand had started for it instinctively, to reach in for a feel, but I caught the impulse in time and stopped it. I looked around, but as far as I could see no one had me under special observation, either furtive or open. There was no time for a prolonged test of that nature, for the homicide squad would be busting in any minute, maybe less than a minute, and once they arrived the right of self-determination wouldn’t stand a chance.
I reached up and took the hat and coat from the rack and started for the hall door, and had taken three steps when I was halted by a loud growl from behind:
“Hey, you, where you going?”
I turned and spoke loudly but not offensively to the suspicious glare from the precinct dick, “The management is not responsible for hats and coats, and these are mine. There’ll be a lot of company coming and I’d prefer to put them in a locker.”
I moved as I spoke, and sailed on through the door. There was one chance in three that he would actually abandon Mrs. Miltan and take after me, but he didn’t. In the hall, I didn’t even glance toward the left, where the watchdog stood at the entrance, knowing that it was out of the question to bluff a passage to freedom. Instead I turned right, and it was only five steps to a narrow door I had noticed there. I opened it and saw an uncarpeted wooden stair going down. There was a light switch just inside, but without flipping it on I shut the door behind me and it was pitch-dark, black. With my pencil flashlight for a guide, I descended to the bottom of the stair, quietly but without wasting any time. Playing the light around, I saw that I was in a large low-ceilinged room lined with shelves and with stacks of cartons and shipping cases occupying the middle floor space. I stepped around them and headed for the rear, where I could see the dim rectangles of two windows a few feet apart. I must have been a little on edge, because I stood stiff and motionless and stopped breathing when the beam of my light, directed toward the floor, showed me something sticking out from behind a pile of cartons that I wasn’t expecting to see. It was the toe of a man’s shoe, and it was obvious from its position and appearance that there was a foot in it and the foot’s owner was standing on it. I kept the light on it, steady, and in a few seconds I breathed, moved the light upwards, and put my right hand inside my coat and out again. Then I said out loud but not too loud:
“Don’t move. I’m aiming a gun at where you are and I’m nervous. If your hands are empty stick them out beyond the edge. If they’re not empty—”
A sound came from behind the cartons that was something between a moan and a squeal. I let my right hand fall and stepped forward with a grunt of disgust and put the light on him, where he was flattened against the pile of cartons.
“For the love of Mike,” I said, absolutely exasperated. “What the hell are you scared of?”
He moaned. “I seen him.” His eyes were still rolling. “I tell you I done seen him.”
“So did I see him. Look here, Arthur, I have no time to waste arguing with you about primitive superstitions. What are you going to do, stay here and moan?”
“I ain’t going back up there—don’t you try it—don’t you touch me, I’m telling you—”
“Okay.” I laid the light on a carton, returned the pistol to my holster, and put on my coat and hat. Then I retrieved the light. “I’m going out the back way to see that no one escapes. The best thing you can do is stay right where you are.”
“I mean don’t I know it,” he groaned.
“Fine. Have you got the key for that door?”
“They’s a bolt, that’s all.”
“What’s outside, a court with a high fence around it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any door in the fence?”
“No, sir.”
Overhead, namely on the floor of the office directly above, I heard the tread of dozens of heavy shoes on heavy feet. The company had come. I even thought I detected the sound of Inspector Cramer’s number twelves. As I moved, I had a piece of luck; the beam of my light passed over a boy’s-size stepladder standing by the shelves. I went for it, arranged for a diversion by warning Arthur to yell for help if he heard anyone else coming down, found the rear door and unbolted it, and skipped through with the stepladder.
The court was fairly large, maybe 30 × 40, and paved with concrete, and the solid board fence was two feet over my head. There was plenty of light from the windows of the buildings. I trotted across to the rear, leaned the ladder against the fence, mounted, and looked over into the adjoining court. It was the same size as the one I was in, with a miscellaneous clutter of vague objects scattered around and one object not so vague: a bulky person dressed in white, including an apron and a chef’s cap, apparently doing breathing exercises from the way he stood there and puffed. Ten feet back of him a blaze of light came from a door standing open.
I grabbed the top of the fence and pulled myself up and perched there, teetering. At the noise he looked up, startled, but before he could start screeching I demanded:
“Did you see that cat?”
“What cat?”
“My wife’s cat. A yellow, long-haired fiend. It got loose and jumped out a window and climbed this fence. If you—” I lost my balance and toppled over and landed flat on the concrete on his side. As I picked myself up I cussed appropriately. “If I find the little darling I’ll strangle the damn thing. If you’ve been standing here you must have seen it.”
“I didn’t see it.”
“You must have. Okay, then you didn’t, but it came here. It must have smelled the grub in the restaurant—”
I was on my way and kept going. He started after me, but with slow acceleration, so I went through the open door unimpeded. It was a large room, full of noise, cookery smells, and activity. Without coming to a stop I inquired above the noise, “Did a cat come in here?” They stared at me and a couple shook their heads. There was one with a loaded tray, in waiter’s uniform, headed for a swinging door, and I got on his heels and followed him through. At the other end of a pan
try corridor another swinging door let us into the restaurant proper—purple and yellow leather, gleam ing chromium, gleaming white tables—with waiters fussing around waiting for the evening’s customers. One of them blocked me and I snapped at him, “Catching a cat,” and went on around. In the foyer the sucker usher gave me an astonished look and the hat-check girl started for me instinctively, but I merely repeated, “Catching a cat,” and kept going, on through two more doors and then up to the sidewalk.
I was, of course, on 49th Street. My impulse was to hoof it around a couple of corners to 48th Street and get the roadster, but it was parked only a few yards from the entrance to Miltan’s, so I voted unanimously for discretion and hopped into a taxi. On its cushion, bumping along downtown on Park Avenue, I maintained the discretion by not attempting to explore my overcoat pocket, considering that if things got complicated and aggravating enough the taxi driver might be asked questions about what he had seen in his mirror. So I just sat and let him bump me down to 35th Street and cross-town to the number of Wolfe’s house.
As I passed through the front hall I tossed my hat on a hook but kept my overcoat on. In the office, Wolfe sat at his desk, and in front of him was the metal box that was kept on a shelf in the safe, to which he alone had a key, and which he had never opened in my presence. I had always supposed that it contained papers too private even for me, but for all I knew it might have been stuffed with locks of hair or the secret codes of the Japanese army. He put something into it and shut the lid and frowned at me.
“Well?” he demanded.
I shook my head. “No soap. I might have been able to bring her if I had had a chance to exert my charm, but on account of circumstances beyond my control—”
“Circumstances forcing you to return here alone?”
“Not exactly forcing, no, sir. You may remember that on the phone I mentioned a bird named Percy Ludlow who said that your daughter was getting his cigarettes out of his coat at his request. Well, somebody murdered him.”
Wolfe glared. “I am not in a mood for buffoonery.”
“Neither am I. I ruined my coat falling off of a fence on purpose. At two minutes after six, Miss Lovchen and Miss Tormic were upstairs giving fencing lessons and various other people were doing other things. Miss Tormic was supposed to be giving a lesson to Percy Ludlow. I was downstairs in the office with Mr. and Mrs. Miltan. We heard yells and ran up two flights into a commotion of assorted people. In the fencing room at the end we found Percy Ludlow on the floor with an épée running through him from front to back and eight inches beyond. Miltan stayed there on guard and his wife went to the office to phone for the police and I took charge of the front door. The first two cops on the scene were radio patrol, the next three were precinct bums, and the homicide squad arrived around 6:24.”
“Well?”
“That’s all.”
“All?” Wolfe was as nearly speechless as I had ever seen him. “You—” He sputtered. “You were right there, inside there, and you deliberately ran away—”
“Wait a minute. Not deliberately. A cop relieved me at the door and another one took me with him to the office, where the inmates had gathered. I happened to be standing near the rack where I had hung my coat and I noticed that the pocket was bulging open on account of something in it. When I had hung the coat up the pocket had been empty. Maybe someone had merely mistaken it for the wastebasket. On the other hand, there was a murderer in the room, and Miss Tormic had presumably been fencing with the victim, and I was there as the representative of Miss Tormic. The attitude that might be adopted by the homicide squad in face of those facts would certainly be distasteful, in case there was a general search and the object in my pocket wasn’t wastepaper. So I descended to the basement and left by the back door and fell over a fence and took a taxi.”
“And what was the object?”
“I don’t know.” I removed my coat and spread it on his desk. “I thought it would be more fun to look at it with you. To the tips of my fingers it felt like a piece of canvas.” I was widening the mouth of the pocket and peeping in. “Yep, it’s canvas.” I inserted fingers and thumb and eased it out. It was rolled tight. As I unrolled it, it became a heavy canvas gauntlet, with reinforced palm, and a little metal dingus slid off onto the desk.
“Let’s don’t touch that,” I suggested, and bent over to inspect it. At its middle it was about a quarter of an inch thick. At one end it had three claws, or fingers, and at the other it tapered to a single point, sharp as an ice pick. I straightened up with a nod.
“Uh-huh, I thought so.”
“What the devil is it?”
“My God, look at it! It’s the col de mort!”
“Confound you, Archie—”
“Okay, but let it alone.” I told him about the disappearance of the curio from Miltan’s cabinet and the history of it. He listened with his lips compressed.
When I was through he demanded, “And you think this was used—”
“I know damn well it was. The end of the épée that killed Ludlow was blunt, and Miltan said it couldn’t possibly have been thrust through him that way. So this thing was removed afterwards. It looks as if it would slide right off. I doubt if I need to point out those stains on the glove where this was wrapped up in it.”
“Thank you. I can see.”
“And you can also see that it is a woman’s glove. It looks big on account of the way it’s made, but it’s not big enough—”
“I can see that too.”
“And you can see that if I had stayed there and that contraption had been found in my pocket, or if I had tried to hide it—”
I stopped because his lips were working and he had shut his eyes. It didn’t take long, maybe thirty seconds, then he reached for the button and pushed it. When Fritz appeared he was in a cap and apron similar to those worn by the man in the court who hadn’t seen my wife’s cat.
“Turn out the light in the hall and do not answer the door,” Wolfe told him.
“Yes, sir.”
“If the phone rings, answer it in the kitchen. Archie is not here and you don’t know where he is or when he will return. I am engaged and cannot be disturbed. Draw the heavy curtains in the front and the dining room, but first—is there a full loaf of the Italian round?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bring it, please, with a small knife and a roll of waxed paper.”
When Fritz left I followed him, to hang my coat in the hall and shoot the bolt on the front door. As I returned I flipped the light switch, and in a moment Fritz returned with the required articles on a tray. Wolfe told him to stand by and then attacked the loaf of bread with the knife, which of course was like a razor, as Fritz’s knives always were. He described a circle four inches in diameter in the center of the loaf, and then dug in, excavating a neat round hole clear to the bottom crust but leaving the crust intact. Next he picked up the col de mort with the tips of his fingers, placed it on the palm of the glove, rolled the glove up tight, wrapped it in some waxed paper, and stuffed it into the hole in the loaf. He filled the extra space with wads of paper, and spread a sheet of paper smoothly over the top. With his swift and dexterous fingers, the entire operation consumed not over three minutes.
He told Fritz, “Make a chocolate icing, at once, and cover this well. Put it in the refrigerator. Dispose of the bread scraps.”
“Yes, sir.” Fritz picked up the tray and departed.
I said sarcastically, “Bravo. It’s wonderful how your mind works. If that had been me I would just have gone up and chucked it in my bureau drawer. Of course it’s more picturesque to disguise it as a cake, but it’s an awful waste of chocolate, and who do you think is going to come looking for it? Do you think I’d have brought it here if anyone had any suspicion that I had it?”
“I don’t know. But someone knows that you had it and that you brought it away—the person who put it there. Who had an opportunity to do that?”
“Everybody. They were all there in
the office. While I was on guard at the street door.”
“When you removed the coat from the rack and started off with it, were you looking at people’s faces?”
“No, I was being nonchalant. There were two cops there and I had to get out of the room with it.”
“You say Miss Tormic was supposed to be fencing with Mr. Ludlow. Why supposed? Isn’t it known whether she was or not?”
“It may be known, but not by me. I was down in the office with Mr. and Mrs. Miltan when the porter found the body and started a squawk. After that I had no chance to talk with Miss Tormic or anybody else.”
The telephone rang. I plugged in the kitchen extension and we heard, faintly, Fritz’s voice taking the call.
Wolfe leaned back and sighed. “Very well,” he muttered. “Tell me about it. From the moment you got there until you left. No omissions.”
I did so.
Chapter 5
At a quarter to ten we finally left the dining table, returned to the office, switched on the lights, and sat down to wait. Various developments had occurred. The doorbell had rung three times, unheeded, and the phone somewhat oftener. At the finish of the salad I had left Wolfe alone with the green tomato pie and gone to the darkened front room for a peek around the window curtain. Two men in plain clothes were on the sidewalk, standing there with their hands in their pockets looking chilly and frustrated. I gave them a Bronx cheer and went to the kitchen and used the phone. Johnny Keems and Orrie Cather were out, and I left a message for them to call the office. I got Fred Durkin and Saul Panzer and told them I was just making contact and they were to await possible orders, and informed Saul about the envelope he would receive in the morning mail. I took it for granted that the number which had been jotted on his memo pad by Fritz, who had been answering the phone as instructed, was the number of the Miltan studio, but I verified it anyway by looking in the book, and told Fritz to call it and convey the message that Mr. Wolfe and Mr. Goodwin were now both at home and at leisure. Then I went back to the dining room and joined Wolfe at coffee.
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