Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 44

by Death of a Dude

  “Okay,” I said, “instructions, please. What’s better to do than riding Gil Haight?”

  “I don’t know.” He stood up. “It’s bedtime. We’ll see tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow, Friday, the weather horned in. There on the eastern slopes of the Rockies the summer sun bats around .900. There had been only three days in July when you had to bother about a poncho when you saddled your horse. But Friday it was raining, good and steady, when I got up, when I drove to Timberburg, when I got back, late for lunch, and when I drove to Lame Horse a little before five to get the Monroe County Register. I don’t accuse Wolfe of stalling. The credentials, which were “To Whom It May Concern” typed on Jessup’s official letterhead and signed by him—one for each of us—cleared the deck, but I agreed that it was a good idea to wait until the Register had spread the news.

  Supper was in the kitchen because it was still raining and the creek terrace was cold and clammy. Lily’s copy of the Register was there on a shelf; presumably she had thought Mimi should know about the new status of two of the guests. The other two guests had seen it; as Wolfe and I entered the kitchen Diana, at the center table, stopped dishing her plate to look at us as if she had never seen us before, and Wade said, “Congratulations! I didn’t realize you were that famous. When does the ball start rolling?”

  I told him not until after supper because we never talked business during a meal. We had decided, after I had made the phone call to Saul, not to tell Lily about it. It would have made her uncomfortable to know that the pasts of two of her guests were being investigated by the other two, and if Saul drew a blank she needn’t ever know. I was a little uncomfortable myself, sitting there passing Diana the salt or asking Wade how the outline was going, and probably Wolfe was too. That made no sense, since they knew darned well they would have been Grade A suspects if they had had any motive, but there was one chance in ten million that Saul would not draw a blank, and in that case there would be a behavior problem not covered by Amy Vanderbilt. Meanwhile, as we dealt with the leg of lamb, green lima beans (from the freezer), Mrs. Barnes’s bread, sliced tomatoes, and huckleberry pie with coffee ice cream, I enjoyed watching Diana trying to decide if she should change her technique with us, and if so how. Evidently Wade had decided. For him we were still just fellow guests to discuss things with, like baseball (me) or structural linguistics (Wolfe).

  The blaze in the fireplace in the big room had attractions on an evening like that, and the others went there with coffee, but Wolfe and I went to his room, I supposed to consider the better things to do tomorrow. But inside, instead of going to his chair by the window, he stood and asked, “Does Mr. Farnham have a telephone?”

  I said yes.

  “Will he have seen that newspaper?”

  I said probably.

  “Call him. Tell him we wish to come and discuss matters with him and anyone else available.”

  “In the morning?”

  “Now.”

  I nearly said something silly. My lips parted to say, “It’s raining,” but I closed them before it got out. People get in ruts, including me. Many a time I had known him to postpone sending me on an errand if the weather was bad, and it took something very special, like a chance to get a specimen of a new orchid, to get him out of the house in rain or snow. But evidently this was extra special—getting back home as soon as possible—and, saying nothing, I went down the hall to the big room and across to the table where the phone was, and dialed a number, and after four rings a voice said hello.

  “Bill? Archie Goodwin.”

  “Oh, hello again. I see you’ve got a badge.”

  “Not a badge, just a piece of paper. Apparently you’ve seen the Register.”

  “I sure have. You and Nero Wolfe. Now the fur will start to fly, huh?”

  “Maybe. We hope so. Mr. Wolfe and I would like to drop in for a little talk with you and yours—everybody that’s around—if it’s convenient. Especially Sam Peacock. A good way to pass a rainy evening.”

  “Why especially Sam?”

  “The man who found the body is always special. But the others too—naturally Mr. Wolfe wants to meet the people who saw the most of Brodell. Okay?”

  “Sure, why not? Mr. DuBois was just saying he would like to meet him. Come ahead.”

  He hung up. Lily, with Diana and Wade, was over by the fireplace with her back to it, watching television, and when I asked if we could take the car to run up to Farnham’s she said of course with no question or comment, and I went to my room for ponchos.

  I had never seen Wolfe in a hooded poncho of any color, and the ones Lily stocked were bright red. They were all the same size, barely big enough to take his dimensions, but even so he looked very gay—leaving out his face, which was pretty grim. It was still grim when, leaving the car under the firs at Farnham’s, we splashed around to the front, with a flashlight to spot puddles, and I opened the screen door and knocked on the solid one, which was closed. It was opened by William T. Farnham.

  And, after shaking hands with Farnham and getting his help with the poncho, Wolfe put on an act. He always welcomed a chance to show off, but there it served two other purposes: impressing the audience and avoiding shaking so many hands. Besides Farnham there were six people in the room: three men and a woman around a card table over near the fireplace, and two men standing, kibitzing. Wolfe walked over, stopped four paces away, and said, “Good evening. I have been told of you by Mr. Goodwin.” He nodded at the woman. “Mrs. Amory.”

  At the man across from her—round-faced, wide-browed, with his balding process well started: “Dr. Robert Amory, from Seattle.”

  At the man at her left—late thirties, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, needing a shave: “Mr. Joseph Colihan, from Denver.”

  At the man at her right—middle forties, foreign-looking, dark skin, bushy eyebrows: “Mr. Armand DuBois, also from Denver.”

  At the man standing behind Amory—nudging sixty, rough weathered skin, thick gray hair, in working Levi’s and a pink shirt with a tear on one shoulder: “Mr. Bert Magee.”

  At the man standing back of Colihan, farther off—around thirty, thin scrawny neck, thin bony face, undersized—also in Levi’s, with a shirt that looked like dirty leather, and a red and white neck rag: “Mr. Sam Peacock.”

  Farnham, there after disposing of the ponchos, said, “Now I call that a roundup.” Of the six men present, not counting Wolfe and me, he was the only one I would have called handsome—rugged outdoors open-spaces handsome. He asked Wolfe, “How about some wet cheer? Anything from Montana Special to coyote piss, if I’ve got it.”

  “He drinks beer,” Armand DuBois said.

  Wolfe asked, “What’s Montana Special?”

  “Any open moving water but rainwater. Creek or river. Good for you either plain or diluted, but in weather like this it’s better diluted with gargle. Name it. Beer?”

  “Nothing now, thank you. Perhaps later. As you know, Mr. Goodwin and I have a job to do. But we’re interrupting a game.”

  “Bridge isn’t a game,” DuBois said, “it’s a brawl. We’ve been at it all day.” He pushed his chair back and rose. “We would much rather hear you ask questions, at least I would.”

  “I hear you’re tough,” Farnham said, “but you don’t look tough. Of course like the dude said to the bronc, you can’t always tell by appearances. Do you want us one at a time or in a herd?”

  “One at a time would take all night,” Wolfe said. “We are officially accredited, but we came to inquire, not to harass. Shall we sit?”

  They moved. There were two long roomy couches at right angles to the fireplace, and DuBois and Farnham took the card table and chairs away. Knowing that Wolfe would share a couch with others only if there was no alternative, I brought a chair that would take him and put it at the end of the couches, facing the fireplace, and one for me. They got distributed—Farnham, Peacock, Magee, and Colihan on the couch at our left, and DuBois and the Amorys on the one at the right. As she sat, Mr
s. Amory said to Wolfe, “I’m trying to think of something you can ask me. I’m closer to tight than I’ve been for years after this rainy day and I want to see what I’d say.” She put a hand to her mouth to cover what might have been a burp. “I think I’d make something up.”

  “I advise against it, madam. Mr. Goodwin has informed me thoroughly.” Wolfe sent his eyes around. “I know, from Mr. Goodwin, how each of you spent that Thursday afternoon—what he has been told. I know that all of you, except Mrs. Amory, think it likely that Mr. Greve killed that man. Mr. Goodwin and I think he didn’t. Mr. Jessup, the county attorney, knows that, but he also knows that we don’t intend to try to concoct evidence to support our opinion; we intend only to find it if it exists, and the best place to start is here, with those closest to Mr. Brodell during his last three days and nights. First, Mr. Farnham, a point you can cover best. As you know, no bullets were found, but the nature of the wounds indicated the kind of gun that fired the shots. You own such a gun?”

  “Sure I do. So do a lot of other people.”

  “Where is yours kept?”

  “In a closet in my room.”

  “Is it accessible? Is the closet locked?”

  “No.”

  “Is the gun usually loaded?”

  “Of course not. Nobody keeps a gun loaded.”

  “Is ammunition accessible?”

  “Yes. Naturally. A gun’s no good without ammunition. On a shelf in the closet.”

  “Was there, that Thursday, any other gun on your premises—to your knowledge?”

  “None that could have done that to Brodell’s shoulder and neck. I’ve got two shotguns and a revolver, and Bert Magee has a shotgun, but that’s all.”

  “You told Mr. Goodwin that you and Mrs. Amory spent that afternoon on horseback on what is called the Upper Berry Creek trail. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Most of the afternoon?”

  “All of it from two o’clock on.”

  “Then you don’t know how your gun spent the afternoon. Anyone could have taken it and used it and put it back. When you next saw it, was it precisely as you had left it?”

  “Balls.” Farnham’s voice was raised. “If you ask me, you’re a lousy investigator. If I say yes, it was, then you say the only way I could know it was would be if I went and looked when I knew about Brodell, and if I did that I must have thought that someone that belongs here shot him. You’re not tough, you’re just half-assed tricky.” He got up and took a step. “You might as well beat it. These folks are my guests and my men, and we don’t have to take your brand of crap. Drag it.”

  Wolfe’s shoulders went up an eighth of an inch and down again. “I thought it preferable,” he said, “both for you and for us, to do it this way. To summon you to the county attorney’s office as material witnesses, probably singly, would be a nuisance for me and an inconvenience for you. If you resent my implying that one of the people in this room might have killed Mr. Brodell you’re a nincompoop. Why else would I come here in a downpour? I said I came to inquire, not to harass, but inquiries about homicide are rarely bland. Shall we go on, here and now, or not?”

  “That’s not crap, Bill,” DuBois said. “We all think Greve probably killed him, all but Mrs. Amory, but Nero Wolfe is not a gump. As I’ve said before, it seemed to me that the sheriff could have been a little more curious about your gun. He didn’t even look at it.”

  “Yes he did.” Farnham was still on his feet. “The next day. Friday afternoon.”

  “Well, that was lousy investigating. Sit down and cool it.” DuBois turned to Wolfe. “Do me while he counts ten. Joe Colihan and I were across the river that afternoon with Bert Magee, climbing mountains, so we alibi each other, but we’re close friends and he’d lie for me any day. Harass me. I’ll try to stick it.”

  “Later,” Wolfe said. “I haven’t finished with Mr. Farnham.” He tilted his head to look up at him. “We can dispose of the gun, for now, with one question. Did you at any time, after Mr. Brodell’s body was found, thinking it conceivable that your gun had been used, go and look at it and the supply of ammunition?”

  “Of course I did.” Farnham sat down. “That night. Anyone with any sense would. To see if it was there. It was, and it hadn’t been fired, and no ammunition was gone.”

  Wolfe nodded. “I don’t ask if, when the possibility that your gun had been used entered your mind, the name of an individual entered with it. You would say no, and only you know what happened inside your skull. I do ask: during the three days that Mr. Brodell was here alive had there been any noticeable conflict between him and anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, Bill.” Joseph Colihan’s high-pitched voice didn’t go with his broad shoulders and square jaw. “The man wants the facts.” To Wolfe: “Brodell and I had some words the day he got here. Monday. I had been here two weeks and I was riding the horse he had had last year, and he wanted it, and I liked it. When I went out Tuesday morning he had his saddle on it, and I took it off, and he tried to stop me. He swung a bridle at me and skinned my ear with the bit, and I roughed him up a little. After that we didn’t speak, but I kept the horse, so I didn’t have to shoot him. Anyway I’m not a hunter and I wouldn’t know how to load Farnham’s gun. I didn’t even know he had one.”

  “Neither did I,” DuBois said, “but of course I can’t prove it.”

  “Had either of you had any previous contact with Mr. Brodell?”

  They both said no. Wolfe’s eyes went to the right. “Had you, Dr. Amory? Had you ever seen Mr. Brodell before he arrived that Monday?”

  “I had not.” Amory’s deep full voice would have been just right for Colihan.

  “Had you, Mrs. Amory?”

  “No.”

  He stayed at her. “What was your opinion of him?”

  “Of Philip Brodell?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well … I could make something up for that because you can’t see inside my skull either. But I’m on your side, you know. I don’t think anyone here killed him, why would they, but I’m rooting for you. My opinion of him—you see, we knew he was coming, and we knew he was the father of that girl’s baby, so I had an idea of him before I saw him. You know how a woman’s mind works.”

  “I do not. No one does. Why are you rooting for me?”

  “Oh, they’re all so cocksure about it. A he-man father and his daughter’s honor, hurray. As for Philip Brodell, I was so busy trying to see what he had that had made it so easy for him to seduce that girl—I suppose you know everybody thought she was what they call a good girl—that I don’t really know what my opinion was. Anyway it wouldn’t help you any, would it?”

  “It might if I could get it. One possibility that has been suggested to Mr. Goodwin is that Mr. Brodell seduced you, and your husband learned of it and removed him. That has the attraction that he has no alibi.”

  The Amorys had both made noises. His was a scornful grunt, and hers was an amused snort. “Of course,” she said, “the Greve girl would suggest that. Naturally. I doubt if he could have seduced me in three years. But in three days?” She looked at me. “Why didn’t you ask me?”

  “I was deciding how to put it,” I said. “The suggestion didn’t come from Miss Greve.”

  “I am aware,” Amory told Wolfe, “that anyone remotely involved in a murder investigation must expect impertinences and absurdities, but we don’t have to encourage them. I covered some ten miles up the river that afternoon, and I had no gun, and my wife was with Mr. Farnham, as you know. Neither of us has any knowledge of anything that could possibly be relevant. I live in another state, but investigating procedure is basically the same everywhere in the West, and I’d like to know how you fit in. If a law officer asks ridiculous questions a citizen might as well answer them and get rid of him, but why you? If you told the county attorney something that made him think that man Greve may not be guilty, you should tell us if you expect us to respect your authority. Wh
y did he give you official standing?”

  “Disaster insurance,” Wolfe said.

  “Insurance? Against what?”

  “Against the possibility of a demonstration that I deserve my reputation. You must know, Dr. Amory, that the validity of a reputation depends on its nature. The renown of a champion runner or discus thrower has a purely objective basis—the recordings of stopwatches or tape measures. Consider your own profession. The renown of a practicing physician is partly objective—how many of the people he treats get well and how many die—but there are other factors that can’t be objectively measured. A doctor who has many patients and is trusted and well regarded by them may be disdained by his colleagues. With a professional investigator, his public repute may have very little objective foundation, if any; his admired feats could have resulted exclusively from luck. Take me. Fewer than a dozen people are qualified to say if my reputation has been fairly earned.”

  “Archie Goodwin is,” DuBois said.

  “Yes, he’s qualified, but he’s biased. An ex parte judgment is always suspect.” Wolfe’s eyes went right and left. “Mr. Jessup was well advised to facilitate my inquiry by giving me a lever. Sensibly, he didn’t try to insist on knowing why Mr. Goodwin and I reject the plerophory that Mr. Greve is a murderer; he knew we would reserve our grounds until we had impressive evidence. As for this conversation, our coming here for some talk, we’re not so naïve as to suppose that anything could be learned by asking you routine questions. Mutual alibis among possible culprits are ignored by a competent investigator. Mr. DuBois. You invited me to harass you. If I do it won’t be by inane questions.”