Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 44

by Death of a Dude

  His eyes took them in again. “There was the chance that meeting you here, together, would give us a hint of frictions that might be fruitful. It’s difficult for five people to live under one roof for three days without getting the skins of their egos scratched. I needed to decide if I should take the time and trouble to spend hours with each of you, tête-à-tête, reviewing every minute, every word spoken, during the three days Mr. Brodell was with you. I doubt it. If, for instance, Mr. Colihan or Dr. Amory heard a comment by one of you, or saw a gesture, suggestive of more knowledge of Mr. Brodell than had been disclosed, would he tell me? I doubt it. I have seen no indication of animus that would move any of you to risk such involvement. If one of you had previous contact with Mr. Brodell, evidence of it probably won’t be found here. It may be necessary to go to St. Louis, his home, or send someone. I hope not.”

  “I wouldn’t object to spending hours with you tête-à-tête,” DuBois said. “Any time you say.”

  “Neither would I,” Mrs. Amory said. “If you—”

  “By God, I would,” Farnham blurted. “If you ask me, you’re just a jawbox. The sooner you go to St. Louis the better. All right, you’ve met us. The door’s over there.”

  Wolfe nodded at him. “It’s probably only your temperament, but it could be apprehension of what I might expose. Before I leave I must talk with the one man who may say something helpful. But first, Mr. Magee, a routine question for you. You were with Mr. DuBois and Mr. Colihan across the river that Thursday afternoon?”

  Bert Magee nodded. “That’s right.”

  “All afternoon? Continuously?”

  “Yep.”

  “What time did you get back here?”

  “Six o’clock, just about.”

  “You know what I’m after: something, anything, to support my assumption that it wasn’t Mr. Greve who shot that man. Can you help me?”

  “Nope. Of course Harvey should’ve shot him, and he did, and I hope they turn him loose.”

  “That’s humane but not civilized. Mr. Peacock. I have many questions for you, mostly routine, because I understand you are best equipped to answer them. You were often with Mr. Brodell during those three days?”

  Sam Peacock looked even smaller than he was, between those two huskies, Farnham on his right and Magee on his left, and the red and white bandanna didn’t hide his scrawny neck, it called attention to it. His squinty gray eyes darted a glance at Farnham before they went to Wolfe. “Uhuh,” he said. “I guess you could say often. Last year I gave him a fly that got him a six-pound rainbow, and that made me turtle feathers. When he came this year Bill sent me to Timberburg to get him, and the first thing he said, he wanted to know if I had another one corralled.”

  “What time did he arrive that Monday?”

  “He got to Timberburg on the noon bus, but he had to scare up a pile of things, duds and tackle and I don’t know what all, so we didn’t get here until … I guess it was … what time was it, Bill?”

  “Around five,” Farnham said.

  “Maybe. I would have said a little later.”

  “Were you present when he met the others? Dr. and Mrs. Amory and Mr. DuBois and Mr. Colihan?”

  “No sir, I wasn’t. I guess I was in the kitchen eating supper with Bert. After supper Phil asked me to go to the river with him, and I didn’t have to, but I didn’t want to say no, so I went.”

  “You called him by his first name?”

  “Uhuh. He asked me to even before he got the rainbow. Some do and some don’t.”

  “Were you with him on Tuesday?”

  “Yes sir, I was.” Peacock sent a glance at Colihan. His tongue was slow but his eyes were quick. “That was the morning there was some trouble about the Monty horse. Phil told me to saddle him and I did, and here comes Colihan, and like he told you, they mixed it some. So I went to the corral and got Teabag for Phil, and we went downriver beyond the flats. All day, we made it back just in time for supper. Phil and the Teabag horse didn’t get along any too good, but I guess I’m telling you more than you want to know. Anyway I told Archie all this.”

  Wolfe nodded. “Sometimes he’s careless about details. You couldn’t tell me more than I want to know. Did you see Mr. Brodell after supper Tuesday?”

  “No sir, I didn’t. He was played out and anyway I wasn’t here. I was off and around.”

  “The next day? Wednesday?”

  “Uhuh, that was better. Phil and me left early and went upriver on two laigs apiece. He didn’t get no six-pound rainbow, but he filled a big creel and it was a real good day any way you look at it. Up at the falls he slipped on a rock and got dunked, but the sun soon dried him and no bones was broke. Of course he was draggin’ his ass by the time we saw the chimney smoke comin’ in, and his back hadn’t forgot the day he had spent on Teabag, so when I asked him what he had in mind for the next day he said the way he felt right then he might not get out of bed even for meals. But he did. Next morning Connie told me he had stowed away a stack of ulcer patches and three fish for breakfast.”

  “Who is Connie?”

  “She’s the cook.”

  “He was with you Thursday morning?”

  “No, sir, he wasn’t. He said he was goin’ to mosey over for a look at Berry Creek and I would set too fast a pace. Then after lunch he said—”

  “If you please. How long was he gone in the morning?”

  “I’d say two hours, maybe more. Then after—”

  “Did he go up Berry Creek, or down?”

  “If he said, I didn’t listen. It’s an easy trail over to the bend and then up or down, take your pick. I’d say he didn’t go up to the pool because he didn’t take tackle.”

  “Did he mention meeting anyone?”

  “No sir, he didn’t.” Peacock tugged at a corner of the neck rag. “You got a lot of questions, mister.”

  “I once asked a woman ten thousand questions. That Thursday morning is of interest because apparently it was the only time Mr. Brodell was off alone—except the afternoon. The easy trail to the creek—is it near the road at any point?”

  “Uhuh. Where it circles around to miss a climb.”

  “So he may not have got to the creek, if he met someone on the road. You spoke with him when he returned?”

  “Not when he returned. After lunch.”

  “Did you gather from what he said that he had been to the creek?”

  “I don’t do much gatherin’ from what a man says. Now if he said he saw a fourteen-inch Dolly Varden in the pool above the bend you might say he had been to the creek, but you got to figure maybe he did and maybe he didn’t. A man can say things like that just because it sounds good. Anyhow we didn’t talk after lunch. I was out by the corral trimmin’ a post and he comes and says he was goin’ up the ridge to get some berries. That was at five minutes after three. Connie says it was five after when he left the house, but I keep my watch right.” He looked at his wrist. “Right now it’s nine minutes to ten.”

  “And you didn’t see him again—alive?”

  “No sir, I didn’t.”

  “Where were you the next five hours?”

  “I was around. It took a while to get that post in and then there was a loose shoe on a horse, and a saddle had to have a new cinch, and some other little things.”

  “You didn’t leave the premises?”

  “Now that’s quite a word, that ‘premises.’ If you mean did I go up the ridge with a gun and shoot Phil, no sir, I didn’t. That wasn’t on my program. Any time Connie had opened the door and yelled for me she’d ’a’ got me.”

  “And you saw no one with a gun?”

  “That’s correct. That’s a fair statement. The first man I saw was Bill when he come in with Mrs. Amory and I took the horses. I was in my room washin’ up when Bert and his two got in. Right after supper Bill asked me again about Phil but I couldn’t tell him any more than I already had. When the sun was gone we thought we’d better look around and Bill and Bert and me went up the ridge. I
knew the spots Phil liked better than they did, so it was me that found him.”

  Wolfe turned his head to look at me. His unasked question was, “Has he varied any, with the others present, from what he told you, and if so, do you challenge him now?” I shook my head and said, “Nothing to add, even with credentials.”

  He sent his eyes around and told a barefaced lie. “I suppose I should intermit. Before proceeding beyond this preamble I must consult Mr. Jessup; as he said, the inquiry is under his supervision and control. I think it quite likely that at least one of you is withholding material facts, but I doubt if prolonging this through the night will disclose them. An obvious point: you have all been placed, provisionally, for that Thursday afternoon, but where were you that morning during the two hours when Mr. Brodell was off alone?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t want to send Mr. Goodwin to St. Louis, I need him here, but we shall see.” He got to his feet. “It’s astonishing how frequently grown men, apparently sane, get the notion that they can conceal facts that are easily ascertain-able. I’ll bear in mind, Mr. DuBois, that you have invited harassment, and I may oblige you.”

  He moved, and so did I, across to the rack in an alcove for the ponchos and flashlight. They all stayed put, but as I was pulling my hood over, here came Farnham to the rack, and he got a poncho and put it on and went and opened the door. It was pretty late in the day for him to be getting polite, and I supposed he was going out for some little errand, but he came across to the car with us. The rain had let up but there was plenty of drip from the firs. Farnham opened the door of the station wagon for Wolfe to get in, and then he held it open and did his little errand. He spoke. “I don’t want you to get the idea that I have tried to conceal any facts. Some facts are other people’s business and some aren’t. I don’t think anybody around here knows that Phil Brodell’s father has got a mortgage on my place and there’s no reason why they should, but if Goodwin goes to St. Louis and sees Brodell, of course that’s one fact he’ll get, and you might as well get it from me.”

  Wolfe grunted. “A substantial mortgage?”

  “Goddammit, yes!” He slammed the door shut harder than necessary.

  Chapter 7

  At a quarter past ten Saturday morning I opened a door on the first floor of the Monroe County courthouse in Timberburg and entered—a door with a glass panel that had painted on it in big bold black gilt-edged letters:

  MORLEY HAIGHT

  SHERIFF

  Inside, not even turning my head for a glance at the county employee seated at a table inside the railing, I kept going, on through the gate in the railing, across to a door in the left wall, opened it, and stepped in.

  I admit it wouldn’t be correct to say I was in pursuit of a fugitive from justice, but the man I had had in tow had broken loose, and it would have been a pleasure to bulldog him. I had not been cocky. Arriving at the Presto gas station twenty minutes ago, at 9:55, I had pulled over to the edge of the gravel, got out, asked the help politely if Gil was around, and gone where his thumb pointed, on through the bright sun to the shady inside. Gilbert Haight, over to the left, stacking cans of oil on a shelf, twisted his long neck for a look at me, twisted it back to see his hand place a couple of cans nice and even, turned around, and said, “Nice mahrnin’.”

  If it had been yesterday instead of today and I had just come from Jessup’s office with the credentials, I would have had a little fun, but now it was just a job. “Better than yesterday,” I said. “That was quite a rain.”

  “It sure was.”

  “Maybe we could sit somewhere for a little talk?”

  He nodded. “I knew you’d be comin’.”

  “Naturally. If your father still says you mustn’t talk to me maybe I should see him first. I wouldn’t mind.”

  “I bet you wouldn’t. He don’t say that. He says the law’s the law. He knows the law. But this is no place to talk, people comin’ and goin’. I suppose you’ve got some kind of a paper from the county attorney.”

  I got an envelope from a pocket, took from it the “To Whom It May Concern,” unfolded it, and handed it to him. He read it twice, taking his time, handed it back, and said, “It looks legal to me. I guess the best place to talk is right there in his office, where it sure will be legal. My sister’s got my car so we’ll go in yours. Miss Rowan’s.”

  I could have said something like “Father knows best,” but didn’t bother. He put a few more cans in place, went out and told his colleague he was leaving for a while—his privilege, since his father owned the place—and came and joined me on the front seat of the station wagon. It was only half a mile to the courthouse. As usual on a Saturday morning all the nearby parking spots were occupied, but I turned in, swung around the courthouse to the rear, and on past a sign that said OFFICIAL CARS ONLY. One, I was now official, and two, his name was Haight. The rear door of the courthouse was standing open, and I led the way in and headed down the long hall to the front, where the main stairs were. We passed doors on both sides, but the three on the left were crisscrossed with iron bars because that was the old part of the county jail. Entering the big lobby, I turned right toward the stairs, but halfway there I stopped and wheeled because I no longer had company. He had headed back toward the opening to a side hall and was turning back into it on the trot. I had no desire to stop him but wanted to know, not just guess, so I got to the hall fast, in time to see him open a door and go in—and as I said, the door was shut when I reached it.

  The county employee at the table barked something and jumped up as I crossed, quick, to the inner door and on in. I stopped short of the desk and said, “What the hell, as long as it’s legal.”

  You haven’t met Sheriff Morley Haight, which is fair enough, because he hadn’t met himself. Lily and I, having had occasion to discuss him, had done so. His basic idea of a Western sheriff was Wyatt Earp, so that was how he dressed, but obviously the modern way to tote a gun was on a belt like a state trooper’s, so he did, though he knew he shouldn’t. An even bigger difficulty was that he was a born loudmouth, a natural roof-raiser, and of course that wouldn’t do at all for a Wyatt Earp. As if that wasn’t enough, he had told various people, two of whom I had met, that when there was a problem to handle he always asked himself what J. Edgar Hoover would do. The product was a personality mess that couldn’t have been made any worse even by a trained psychoanalyst.

  Since he had known what I would do as soon as he heard about my credentials from Jessup, and since he had told his son what to do, my marching in was no surprise for him and he didn’t pretend it was. He just squinted at me, his Wyatt Earp squint, and growled, “What kept you?”

  His son, Gil, who was standing over by a tier of filing cabinets, had got his long-limbed setup, including his extra inch and a half of neck, straight from Dad, and of course that wasn’t ideal for a sheriff, but he had got elected anyway and that’s the test—lick your handicaps. One of his dodges was keeping his shoulders up and back to make them look broader, and he was doing that now.

  There was a plain wood chair at the end of his desk, and I went and took it. “Mr. Wolfe thought there were better things to do yesterday,” I said politely. “This will be the first time I ever questioned a murder suspect with a sheriff listening. Do we want a stenographer?”

  “We don’t need one.” He opened a desk drawer, fingered in it, brought papers out, and selected one. “Here’s an extra copy of a signed statement by one of the suspects I questioned.” He held it out and I took it. “I guess you can read?”

  I didn’t bother to bat that back. The exhibit was typewritten on a plain 8½-by-11 sheet, single-spaced and wide-margined:

  Timberburg, Montana

  July 27, 1968

  I, Gilbert Haight, living at 218 Jefferson Street, Timberburg, Montana, hereby state that on Thursday, July 25, 1968, I was at the Presto Gas Station on Main Street continuously from 12:50 p.m. to 2:25 p.m. The times given in this statement are exact within five minutes, and are all f
or the aforesaid Thursday, July 25.

  From 2:35 p.m. to 4:25 p.m., continuously, I was with Miss Bessie Boughton at her home at 360 Willow Street, Timberburg. From 4:40 p.m. to 5:05 p.m., continuously, I was with Mr. Homer Dowd at his place of business, the Dowd Roofing Company, on Main Street, Timberburg. From 5:20 p.m. to 6:00 p.m., continuously, I was with Mr. Jimmy Negron at his chicken farm on Route 27 south of Timberburg.

  Gilbert Haight

  Witness: Effie T. Duggers

  The names were typed below the signatures. Apple-pie order.

  Of course he expected me either to tackle Gil on the alibi, trying to find a crack, or to get personal with him about his relations with Alma Greve and his contacts with Philip Brodell, so I had to do something else. There weren’t many alternatives. I folded the document carefully, pocketed it, narrowed my eyes at him, and said the way Wyatt Earp would have said it, “That seems to account for him, subject to a check, but what about you? Where were you from two p.m. to six p.m. on Thursday, July twenty-fifth?”

  The reaction was even better than expected. His hand went to his belt and for half a second I thought he was actually going to draw; his eyes bugged; and he roared like a bull at the touch of the branding iron, “You goddam New York punk!” He then jerked his chair back and started up, but I don’t know how fast or far he came because I was walking out and my back was turned. On through the anteroom and down the hall and out to the car.

  Having been to 360 Willow Street once before, I didn’t have to get directions. It was a neat little one-story white cottage with a narrow concrete walk leading to the three steps up to a little covered porch. I hadn’t been inside because Miss Boughton had spoken her few words to me through the screen door, but this time she pushed it open and I entered. Obviously she too had been expecting me, though she didn’t say so. All she said, after inviting me in and taking me to a neat little room with two windows, and one wall covered nearly to the ceiling with shelves of books, was that I should have phoned because she often spent weekends at her brother’s ranch. Before she sat on the biggest chair of the three available she had to pick up an embroidery frame with work in progress that was there on the seat. Probably the Thomas Jefferson that decorated the back of my chair had come from that frame.