He turned to me. “I came to see what Mr. Wolfe has to say, but first I’d like to just mention a point. You said the other day that you didn’t know why a state official was interested in the case, and now it’s evident that—well, that wasn’t true. You did know.”
“Now listen,” I said. “Instead of calling me a liar, why not ask me? I didn’t know that Mr. Wolfe had made a move until I saw him get out of a taxi yesterday evening. As evidence that that isn’t a lie, if I had known he was coming I would have gone to Timberburg to get him, or even to Helena. Not that it matters now, since you’re assuming that it was for him that the Attorney General wanted that report.”
“Not assuming. I know it was.” He slued around, putting a knee on the seat, to face the rear. “Mr. Wolfe, I’m an officer of the law. I have been told by a superior officer of the law that you have come to invest—er, to inquire into the Harvey Greve case, and he requested me—I’ll call it ‘requested’—to extend to you every possible courtesy. I try to—”
“Didn’t he say ‘cooperate’?”
“He may have. I try to show courtesy, in my official capacity as well as personally, to any and all of my fellow citizens, but my primary obligation is to the people of this county who chose me to serve them. I’ll be frank with you. This is the first time I have received such a request from the Attorney General. I don’t want to refuse it or ignore it unless I have to. I ask you to be frank with me. I want you to tell me what kind of pressure you brought to bear on Mr. Veale to persuade him to take that action.”
Wolfe nodded. “Naturally you would like to know, and there are many officers of the law who wouldn’t have bothered to ask. Did Mr. Veale mention any names?”
“Only yours—and Mr. Goodwin’s.”
“Then I can’t fully match your frankness. ‘Pressure’ is probably too strong a word. I have no connections in Montana—political or professional or personal—none whatever; but a man I know in New York has. A man who is well disposed to me. Since Mr. Veale didn’t name him, I can’t, but I know him to be a man of probity and punctilio. I assume he merely asked a favor of Mr. Veale. I am sure he would bring no pressure to bear that you would consider shabby or corrupt—but of course that leaves open the question of the worth of my assurance. Of me. You don’t know me.”
“I knew your name. Most people do, even out here. I phoned two men in New York, one a district attorney, and was told, in effect, that your word is good but that anyone dealing with you should be sure he knows what your word is.”
A corner of Wolfe’s mouth raised a little—with him, a smile. “That could have been said of the Delphian oracle. Tell me how you would like my assurance phrased.”
“You won’t give me his name? Off the record?”
“It would be on my record. If Mr. Veale didn’t, I can’t.” Wolfe cocked his head. “A question, Mr. Jessup. Why don’t you ask what kind of cooperation I expect? It’s conceivable that you would have granted it even without a request from Mr. Veale.”
“All right, tell me what you expect.”
Wolfe closed his eyes and in a moment opened them. “I expect to be enabled to make an inquiry without intolerable hindrance. Mr. Goodwin has been trying to for ten days and has been completely frustrated. He has had neither a fulcrum or a lever. No one will tell him anything. He has had no standing—not only no official standing, not even the standing of an empowered agent of Mr. Greve, because the attorney who has been hired by Miss Rowan believes that Mr. Greve killed that man, as you do.”
“It isn’t merely a belief. It’s a conclusion based on evidence.”
“Evidence secured by Mr. Haight. I charge Mr. Haight with nonfeasance amounting to malfeasance. He has an animus for Mr. Greve. Having gathered, as he thinks, enough evidence against Mr. Greve to make a case, he has made no effort whatever to explore other possibilities. There were fifteen other people within walking distance of that spot that Thursday afternoon, all of whom had had previous contact with Mr. Brodell, and Mr. Haight has virtually ignored them. I am not—”
“Can you support that?”
“I can,” I said. “They won’t open up about Brodell or murder, but they will about Haight. Ask them.”
“I am not including Mr. Greve’s wife and daughter,” Wolfe said, “because Mr. Goodwin and I have eliminated them on evidence that convinces us, though it wouldn’t convince you. Nor would you accept as decisive the evidence that has persuaded us that Mr. Greve is innocent, but that doesn’t matter because what we want, all we want, is an opportunity to inquire effectively. It’s conceivable that no evidence exists that will clear Mr. Greve, but we assert our right to try to find some. In order to—”
“I don’t challenge that right. No one does. Go ahead.”
“Pfui. That’s twaddle and you know it. You might as well tell a man with no legs that you don’t challenge his right to walk. What I ask, what Mr. Goodwin and I expect, is active support of that right. We can’t get it from Mr. Haight, as you know, but we hope to get it from you. I have been told that in Montana a county attorney proceeds mostly on information supplied by the sheriff and the state police, but that he frequently investigates independently—himself, or members of his staff, or if necessary special investigators chosen by him. Mr. Goodwin and I want to investigate the Greve case for you. We want credentials. We are professionally qualified. We would not expect or accept any pay or reimbursement for expenses.”
“I see.” Jessup looked at me, saw only an open and manly phiz, ready to help, and went back to Wolfe. “That’s it, huh? Mr. Veale suggested it?”
“No, I did. Presumably he thought it reasonable, or he wouldn’t have asked you to see me. The purpose is obvious. Accredited by you, we would not be mere bumptious interlopers from outside—far outside. We would be seen and heard, and we could insist on answers to questions.”
Jessup smiled, decided it rated better than that, and laughed—a hearty open-mouth laugh that would have been objectionable if it had been aimed at us, but it wasn’t. If I had been sure it was for Sheriff Haight I would have joined in, but that was only a guess.
He eyed Wolfe. “This needs consideration.”
Wolfe nodded. “And deserves it.”
“I don’t know if you realize the potential impact on me, on my—career. Any resentment you caused would be for you only temporarily, for me permanently. I would be—”
“Also any plaudits we earned would be for you permanently.”
“Yes, if you earned any. I would be risking my future on your—uh—conduct. Obviously you hope to clear Greve, and on the evidence in hand you can’t possibly prove that he’s innocent unless you prove that someone else is guilty. Who?”
“I have no idea, and neither has Mr. Goodwin. We haven’t even a specific suspicion. We have only our firm conclusion, on grounds that satisfy us but wouldn’t satisfy you, that Mr. Greve is innocent, and we intend to demonstrate it.”
“Even if I don’t ‘cooperate’?”
“Yes. If you won’t give us a footing I think Mr. Veale might, but if not, we’ll still have two advantages: Miss Rowan’s financial resources and our competence as investigators. It might take months, even years, but we’re committed by our resolution and self-esteem.”
“Did Mr. Veale tell you that he would cooperate if I didn’t?”
“No. He said he could, but not that he would.”
“Then you threaten me.”
“Mr. Jessup. You can’t condemn an intention just by calling it a threat.”
“No, but some intentions are threats. I was advised to make sure I know what your word is. You said, I quote, ‘We haven’t even a specific suspicion.’ I’ll specify. Do you suspect Gilbert Haight?”
“Only generally, along with others. He had a motive, but he has an alibi, apparently sound. Mr. Goodwin’s attempts to test it have been futile, like all his other attempts. You said you would be risking your future on our conduct; you’re risking it now on the conduct of Mr. Haight. What if you
proceed on the evidence he has supplied, and try Mr. Greve and convict him, and a month later, or a year later, we produce evidence that establishes his innocence?”
Jessup straightened around in the seat, facing front, stretched his legs as far as there was room for, and stared at the dash. I have a theory about that kind of stare in such a situation: the fewer the blinks, the harder the thinking. If it’s as little as three or four blinks a minute he’s thinking as hard as his brain can manage, and Jessup blinked only eleven times in three minutes. Then they began to come faster, and he was back to normal when he turned around again to face Wolfe.
“I’ll tell you something,” he said. “You said I might have cooperated even without a request from Mr. Veale. I concur. I might have. By God, I think I would. But your coming at me through him gives it a slant I don’t like, and I want to consider it. I want to confer on it with someone, and I’ll let you know.”
Wolfe was frowning. “Not, I trust, with Mr. Haight.”
“Of course not. With the one person whose interests are always identical with mine. My wife. You’ll hear from me soon.”
“The sooner the better.”
Jessup nodded. “Probably this evening. Where can I reach you? At Miss Rowan’s?”
Wolfe, still frowning, said yes, and Jessup opened the door and got out, went to his car, and got in. When he backed at an angle to turn around, a log stopped him and he had to maneuver. That’s why I always park facing out; I like a clean quick exit, aside from the fact that sometimes the situation demands it. As the Ford went jolting along the gulch rim I said, “So now it depends on a woman.”
“He’s an ass,” Wolfe growled. “There are no two people alive whose interests are always identical.”
“Yeah, a lawyer should know better. Also he’s a damn liar. Without the Veale slant he wouldn’t even have given you a nod, let alone come to Whedon’s Graveyard to meet you.” I turned the key and the engine took, and we moved. In three minutes it would be six o’clock, so I was glad I had phoned Lily. As we reached the blacktop I asked him whether he would rather go slow for the bumps, which would prolong it, or take them as they came and get it over with, but got no reply but a glare.
When we were about a mile from Lame Horse he suddenly spoke. “Stop the car.”
His voice was louder than necessary, close to a shout, but it always was in a moving vehicle. Also no “please,” but it was no time or place for etiquette. I slowed, eased off of the blacktop, set the brake, and said, “Yes?”
“Will Mr. Stepanian’s telephone be available at this hour?”
“Probably. He has living quarters in the back.”
“If it is, get Saul. What time is it in New York?”
“Eight o’clock. A little after. He’ll be at home. Thursday’s poker night.”
“Get him. I don’t like the possibility, however remote, that we are at table three times a day with a murderer, and for this we don’t need credentials. Tell him we want to know if there was any contact between Miss Kadany or Mr. Worthy and Mr. Brodell during his visits to New York. Can you get pictures to send him—covertly?”
“Possibly, but I doubt if I need to. She’s an actress, and he’ll have no trouble getting pictures of her. For Worthy, his publisher will almost certainly have some. Perhaps I should ring Miss Rowan first and tell her.”
“You’ll tell her later, or I will. I’ll pay Saul’s fee and expenses.”
“She will want to.”
“Then she may. That’s of no consequence.”
I said okay and released the brake. As I steered back onto the blacktop I filed for future reference his amazing statement that a grand or two, maybe more, was of no consequence.
Chapter 6
The Monroe County Register, eight pages, was published in Timberburg once a week, on Friday afternoon, and copies of it arrived at Vawter’s in Lame Horse around five o’clock. At the cabin we were usually willing to wait until Saturday to get our copy, or even Monday or Tuesday, but that Friday I was at Vawter’s when it came, not by accident, and I got two extra copies. At five-thirty Wolfe and I were in his room discussing an item on the front page which said:
JESSUP PUTS NERO WOLFE
ON HUCKLEBERRY MURDER CASE
Famous New York Sleuth
to Probe Slaying of Philip Brodell
(Special Exclusive)
County Attorney Thomas R. Jessup announced today that he has arranged with Nero Wolfe, the internationally known private detective, and his confidential assistant, Archie Goodwin, to act as special investigators in the inquiry into the murder of Philip Brodell of St. Louis, a guest at the ranch of William T. Farnham, near Lame Horse, on July 25th.
Asked by a Register reporter if he expected Wolfe and Goodwin to get evidence that would strengthen the case against Harvey Greve, who is in the county jail charged with the murder, Jessup said, “Not specifically or necessarily. If I considered the case against Greve to be weak he wouldn’t have been charged and held without bail. It is simply that I learned that Nero Wolfe was available, and this case has aroused intense and nationwide interest, and I felt that the people of Monroe County, the people of the entire State of Montana, would expect me to use the services of such an outstanding investigator as Nero Wolfe if that was possible, and it was.”
The county attorney added, “Wolfe and Goodwin will of course be under my supervision and control. There will be no additional expense to the county, since they ask no fee, and any evidence they secure will be scrutinized and checked by my office. If they find no new evidence no harm will be done. If they do find new evidence, and my office finds it to be valid and material, I think the people of Monroe County will agree with me that they have rendered us a service.”
Asked if he was aware that it is generally known that Archie Goodwin, who is a guest at the cabin of Miss Lily Rowan, owner of the Bar JR Ranch, has been trying to find evidence that would weaken the case against Greve, not strengthen it, the county attorney stated that the personal opinion or interest of Archie Goodwin, or of anyone else, would not be permitted to affect the performance of his duty.
“What I want,” he said, “and what the people of Monroe County want, is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
Asked by a Register reporter if he had been consulted about the entry of Wolfe and Goodwin into the investigation, Sheriff Morley Haight said, “No comment.” Further questions got the same reply. “No comment.”
Nero Wolfe, reached by telephone at Miss Rowan’s cabin, where he is also a guest, would say only that he would say nothing because he thought it proper that all information about his participation in the case should come only from County Attorney Jessup.
Word of this development came just as we were preparing to go to press, and we’re giving ourselves a pat on the back at being the first paper in the country to get it into type. It isn’t often a weekly gets a national scoop. We’re sending five copies of this edition to the Library of Congress. Hang onto yours. It may be worth money some day.
Reading it, Wolfe had made a face several times, but in our discussion of it he had criticized only two words. He said “sleuth” was a vulgarism, and “supervision” was jugglery. But he admitted that everybody knows that if an elected person means everything he says he’s a damn fool, so there was no argument.
There had been an argument the previous evening when Jessup had phoned to say he had decided that it would be in the public interest to accept our offer to assist him in the investigation, and we could get our credentials at his office at eleven o’clock in the morning, and Wolfe had said I would go for them. I was a little surprised that Jessup hadn’t said that Wolfe must come too, but probably he was afraid that he would try to talk him into letting us go through the file, which hadn’t been mentioned. The argument had come afterward between Wolfe and me. I had said that my first stop after getting the credentials would be the Presto filling station for some conversation with Gil Haight, and he said no, and I said that
aside from the chance of starting something I wanted the satisfaction of seeing his face when I flashed the credentials on him.
“No,” Wolfe repeated, emphatic. “His alibi can be attacked only through the men who support it, and that can wait until there is nothing better to do.”
“For me,” I said, “there’s nothing better to do than telling Gilbert Haight I’ve got some questions and asking him if he would prefer to go to the county attorney’s office to answer them. So that’s what I’ll do.”
“I said no.”
“But I say yes, and the question is what I do.”
A confrontation. Our eyes were meeting. Mine were just the eyes of a friendly equal who knew he had a point so there was no use squabbling, but his were narrowed to slits. He closed them long enough for a couple of good deep breaths, then opened them to normal. “This is the eighth of August,” he said. “Thursday.”
“Right.”
“Your vacation ended Wednesday, July thirty-first. As you know, I brought a checkbook. Draw a check for your salary for a week and a half, which will cover it to the end of this week and put you on a weekly basis as usual.”
I raised one brow, which I often find helpful because he can’t do it. There were angles both pro and con. Con, I knew the people and the atmosphere and he didn’t; and my taking a leave of absence without pay had been by my decision, not by agreement. Pro, his coming to get me back sooner had been by his decision, not by agreement; and while a grand or two might be of no consequence to him it was to me; and the strain of trying to remember to say please was cramping his style. It took pro about a minute to get the verdict. I figured it on a sheet from my notebook—$600 minus federal income tax withheld $153.75, state income tax $33.00, and Social Security tax $23.88—went and got the checkbook from a dresser drawer, drew a check to the order of Archie Goodwin for $389.37, and handed it to him with a pen, and he signed it and forked it over.
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