Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 31

by Champagne for One

  Wolfe grunted. “Surely that will do.”

  “Yes, sir. Do we proceed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. I’ll wait to see if Orrie gets anywhere with the maid, and if not I have a couple of ideas. Miss Betz may go out this evening, and the lock on the apartment door is only a Wyatt.”

  “The hackie she patronizes,” I said. “She didn’t patronize him Wednesday night?”

  “According to him, no. Fred found him. I haven’t seen him. Fred thinks he got it staight.”

  “You know,” I said, “you say only a Wyatt, but you need more than a paper clip for a Wyatt. I could run up there with an assortment, and we could go into conference—”

  “No,” Wolfe said firmly. “You’re needed here.”

  For what, he didn’t say. After we hung up all he did was ask how I had disposed of Laidlaw and then ask for a report of the hour and a quarter I had spent with him, and I could have covered that in one sentence just by saying it had been a washout. But he kept pecking at it until dinner time. I knew what the idea was, and he knew I knew. It was simply that if I had gone to help Saul with an illegal entry into Elaine Usher’s apartment there was a chance, say one in a million, that I wouldn’t be there to answer the phone in the morning.

  But back in the office after dinner he decided it was about time he exerted himself a little, possibly because he saw my expression when he picked up his book as soon as Fritz had come for the coffee service.

  He lowered the book. “Confound it,” he said, “I wait to see Mrs. Usher not merely because her daughter said she hated her. There is also the fact that she has disappeared.”

  “Yes, sir. I didn’t say anything.”

  “You looked something. I suppose you are reflecting that we have had two faint intimations of the possible identity of the person who sent that communication to the District Attorney.”

  “I wasn’t reflecting. That’s your part. What are the two intimations?”

  “You know quite well. One, that Austin Byne told Laidlaw that he had seen Faith Usher at Grantham House. He didn’t name her, and Laidlaw did not regard his tone or manner as suggestive, but it deserves notice. Of course, you couldn’t broach it with Byne, since that would have betrayed our client’s confidence. You still can’t.”

  I nodded. “So we file it. What’s the other one?”

  “Miss Grantham. She gave Laidlaw a bizarre reason for refusing to marry him, that he didn’t dance well enough. It is true that women constantly give fantastic reasons without knowing that they are fantastic, but Miss Grantham must have known that that one was. If her real reason was merely that she didn’t care enough for him, surely she would have made a better choice for her avowed one, unless she despises him. Does she despise him?”

  “No.”

  “Then why insult him? It is an insult to decline a proposal of marriage, a man’s supreme capitulation, with flippancy. She did that six months ago, in September. It is not idle to conjecture that her real reason was that she knew of his experience with Faith Usher. Is she capable of moral revulsion?”

  “Probably, if it struck her fancy.”

  “I think you should see her. Apparently you do dance well enough. You should be able, without disclosing our engagement with Mr. Laidlaw—”

  The phone rang, and I turned to get it, hoping it was Saul to say he needed some keys, but no. Saul is not a soprano. However, it was someone who wanted to see me, with no mention of keys. She just wanted me, she said, right away, and I told her to expect me in twenty minutes.

  I hung up and swiveled. “The timing,” I told Wolfe, “couldn’t have been better. Satisfactory. I suppose you arranged it with her while I was out getting Laidlaw. That was Celia Grantham. She wants to see me. Urgently. Presumably to tell me why she insulted Laidlaw when he asked her to marry him, though she didn’t say.” I arose. “Marvelous timing.”

  “Where?” Wolfe growled.

  “At her home.” I was on my way, and turned to correct it. “I mean her mother’s home. You have the number.” I went.

  Since there were at least twenty possible reasons, excluding personal ones, why Celia wanted to see me, and she had given no hint which it was, and since I would soon know anyhow, it would have been pointless to try to guess, so on the way uptown in a taxi that’s what I did. When I pushed the button in the vestibule of the Fifth Avenue mansion I had considered only half of them.

  I was wondering which I would be for Hackett, the hired detective or the guest, but he didn’t have to face the problem. Celia was there with him and took my coat as I shed it and handed it to him, and then fastened on my elbow and steered me to the door of a room on the right that they called the hall room, and on through it. She shut the door and turned to me.

  “Mother wants to see you,” she said.

  “Oh?” I raised a brow. “You said you did.”

  “I do, but it only occurred to me after Mother got me to decoy for her. The Police Commissioner is here, and they wanted to see you but thought you might not come, so she asked me to phone you, and I realized I wanted to see you too. They’re up in the music room but first I want to ask you something. What is it about Edwin Laidlaw and that girl? Faith Usher.”

  That was turning the tables. Wolfe’s idea had been that I might manage, without showing any cards, to find out if she was on to our client’s secret, and here she was popping it at me and I had to play ignorant.

  “Laidlaw?” I shook my head. “Search me. Why?”

  “You don’t know about it?”

  “No. Am I supposed to?”

  “I thought you would, naturally, since it’s you that’s making all the trouble. You see, I may marry him someday. If he gets into a bad jam I’ll marry him now, since you’ve turned out to be a skunk. That’s based on inside information but is not guaranteed. Are you a skunk?”

  “I’ll think it over and let you know. What about Laidlaw and Faith Usher?”

  “That’s what I want to know. They’re asking questions of all of us, whether we have any knowledge that Edwin ever knew her. Of course he didn’t. I think they got an anonymous letter. The reason I think that, they wanted to type something on our typewriters, all four of them—no, five. Hackett has one, and Cece, and I have, and there are two in Mother’s office. Are you thwarting me again? Don’t you really know?”

  “I do now, since you’ve told me.” I patted her shoulder. “Any time you’re hard up and need a job, ring me. You have the makings of a lady detective, figuring out why they wanted samples from the typewriters. Did they get them?”

  “Yes. You can imagine how Mother liked it, but she let them.”

  I patted her shoulder again. “Don’t let it wreck your marriage plans. Undoubtedly they got an anonymous letter, but they’re a dime a dozen. Whatever the letter said about Laidlaw, even if it said he was the father of her baby, that proves nothing. People who send anonymous letters are never—”

  “That’s not it,” she said. “If he was the father of her baby, that would show that if I married him we could have a family, and I want one. What I’m worried about is his getting in a jam, and you’re no help.”

  Mrs. Irwin had certainly sized her up. She had her own way of looking at things. She was going on. “So now suit yourself. If you’d rather duck Mother and the Police Commissioner, you know where your hat and coat are. I don’t like being used for a decoy, and I’ll tell them you got mad and went.”

  It was a toss-up. The idea of chatting with Mrs. Robilotti had attractions, since she might be stirred up enough by now to say something interesting, but with Police Commissioner Skinner present it would probably be just some more ring-around-a-rosy. However, it might be helpful to know why they had gone to the trouble of using Celia for bait, so I told her I would hate to disappoint her mother, and she escorted me out to the reception hall and on upstairs to the music room, where we had joined the ladies Tuesday evening after going without brandy.

  The whole family was there—Cecil standin
g over by a window, and Mr. and Mrs. Robilotti and Commissioner Skinner grouped on chairs at the far end, provided with drinks, not champagne. As Celia and I approached, Robilotti and Skinner arose, but not to offer hands. Mrs. Robilotti lifted her bony chin, but not getting the effect she had in mind. You can’t look down your nose at someone when he is standing and you are sitting.

  “Mr. Goodwin came up on his own,” Celia said. “I warned him you were laying for him, but here he is. Mr. Skinner, Mr. Goodwin.”

  “We’ve met,” the Commissioner said. His tone indicated that it was not one of his treasured memories. He had acquired more gray hairs above his ears and a couple of new wrinkles since I had last seen him, a year of so back.

  “I wish to say,” Mrs. Robilotti told me, “that I would have preferred never to permit you in my house again.”

  Skinner shook his head at her. “Now, Louise.” He sat down and aimed his eyes at me. “This is unofficial, Goodwin, and off the record. Albert Grantham was my close and valued friend. He would have hated to have a thing like this happen in his house, and I owe it to him—”

  “Also,” Celia cut in, “he would have hated to ask someone to come and see him and then not invite him to sit down.”

  “I agree,” Robilotti said. “Be seated, Goodwin.” I didn’t know he had the spunk.

  “It may not be worth the trouble.” I looked down at Mrs. Robilotti. From that slant her angles were even sharper. “Your daughter said you wanted to see me. Just to tell me I’m not welcome?”

  She couldn’t look down her nose, but she could look. “I have just spent,” she said, “the worst three days of my life, and you are responsible. I had had a previous experience with you, you and the man you work for, and I should have known better than to have you here. I think you are quite capable of blackmail, and I think that’s what you have in mind. I want to tell you that I won’t submit to it, and if you try—”

  “Hold it, Mom,” Cecil called over. “That’s libelous.”

  “Also,” Skinner said, “it’s useless. As I said, Goodwin, this is unofficial and off the record. None of my colleagues know I’m here, including the District Attorney. Let’s assume something, just an assumption. Let’s assume that here Tuesday evening, when something happened that you had said you would prevent, you were exasperated—naturally you would be—and in the heat of the moment you blurted out that you thought Faith Usher had been murdered, and then you found that you had committed yourself. It carried along from the precinct men to the squad men, to Inspector Cramer, to the District Attorney, and by that time you were committed.”

  He smiled. I knew that smile, and so did a lot of other people. “Another assumption, merely an assumption. Somewhere along the line, probably fairly early, it occurred to you and Wolfe that some of the people who were involved were persons of wealth and high standing, and that the annoyance of a murder investigation might cause one of them to seek the services of a private detective. If that were a fact, instead of an assumption, it should be apparent to you and Wolfe by now that your expectation is vain. None of the people involved is going to be foolish enough to hire you. There will be no fee.”

  “Do I comment as you go along,” I inquired, “or wait till you’re through?”

  “Please let me finish. I realize your position. I realize that it would be very difficult for you to go now to Inspector Cramer or the District Attorney and say that upon further consideration you have concluded that you were mistaken. So I have a suggestion. I suggest that you wanted to check, to make absolutely sure of your ground, and came here this evening to inspect the scene again, and found me here. And after a careful inspection—the distances, the positions, and so on—you found that, though you had nothing to apologize for, you had probably been unduly positive. You concede that it is possible that Faith Usher did poison her champagne, and that if the official conclusion is suicide you will not challenge it. I will of course be under an obligation to ensure that you will suffer no damage or inconvenience, that you will not be pestered. I will fulfill that obligation. I know you will probably have to consult with Wolfe before you can give me a definite answer, but I would like to have it as soon as possible. You can phone him from here, or go out to a booth if you prefer, or even go to him. I’ll wait here for you. This has gone on long enough. I think my suggestion is reasonable and fair.”

  “Are you through?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well. I could make some assumptions too, but what’s the use? Besides, I’m at a disadvantage. My mother used to tell me never to stay where I wasn’t wanted, and you heard Mrs. Robilotti. I guess I’m too sensitive, but I’ve stood it as long as I can.”

  I turned and went. Voices came—Skinner’s and Celia’s and Robilotti’s—but I marched on.

  Chapter 12

  If, to pass the time, you tried to decide what was the most conceited statement you ever heard anybody make, or read or heard of anybody making, what would you pick? The other evening a friend of mine brought it up, and she settled for Louis XIV saying L’état, c’est moi. I didn’t have to go so far back. Mine, I told her, was “They know me.” Of course, she wanted to know who said it and when, and since the murderer of Faith Usher had been convicted by a jury just the day before and the matter was closed, I told her.

  Wolfe said it that Friday night when I got home and reported. When I finished I made a comment. “You know,” I said, “it’s pretty damn silly. A police commissioner and a district attorney and an inspector of Homicide all biting nails just because if they say suicide one obscure citizen may let out a squeak.”

  “They know me,” Wolfe said.

  Beat that if you can. I admit it was justified by the record. They did know him. What if they officially called it suicide, and then, in a day or a week or a month, Wolfe phoned WA9-8241 to tell them to come and get the murderer and the evidence? Not that they were sure that would happen, but past experience had shown them that it was at least an even-money bet that it might happen. My point is not that it wasn’t justified, but that it would have been more becoming just to describe the situation.

  He saved his breath. He said, “They know me,” and picked up his book.

  The next day, Saturday, we had words. The explosion came right after lunch. Saul had phoned at eight-thirty, as I was on my second cup of breakfast coffee, to report no progress. Marjorie Betz had stayed put in the apartment all evening, so the Wyatt lock had not been tackled. At noon he phoned again; more items of assorted information, but still no progress. But at two-thirty, as we returned to the office after lunch, the phone rang and he had news. They had found her. A man from a messenger service had gone to the apartment, and when he came out he had a suitcase with a tag on it. Of course that was pie. Saul and Orrie had entered a subway car right behind him. The tag read: “Miss Edith Upson, Room 911, Hotel Christie, 523 Lexington Avenue.” The initials “E.U.” were stamped on the suitcase.

  Getting a look at someone who is holed up in a hotel room can be a little tricky, but that situation was made to order. Saul, not encumbered with luggage, had got to the hotel first and gone to the ninth floor, and had been strolling past the door of Room 911 at the moment it opened to admit the messenger with the suitcase; and if descriptions are any good at all, Edith Upson was Elaine Usher. Of course, Saul had been tempted to tackle her then and there, but also of course, since it was Saul, he had retired to think it over and to phone. He wanted to know, were there instructions or was he to roll his own?

  “You need a staff,” I told him. “I’ll be there in twelve minutes. Where—”

  “No,” Wolfe said, at his phone. “Proceed, Saul, as you think best. You have Orrie. For this sort of juncture your talents are as good as mine. Get her here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Preferably in a mood of compliance, but get her here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  That was when we had words. I cradled the receiver, not gently, and stood up. “This is Saturday,” I said, “a
nd I’ve got my check for this week. I want a month’s severance pay.”

  “Pfui.”

  “No phooey. I am severing relations. It has been eighty-eight hours since I saw that girl die, and your one bright idea, granting that it was bright, was to collect her mother, and I refuse to camp here on my fanny while Saul collects her. Saul is not ten times as smart as I am; he’s only twice as smart. A month’s severance pay will be—”

  “Shut up.”

  “Gladly.” I went to the safe for the checkbook and took it to my desk.

  “Archie.”

  “I have shut up.” I opened the checkbook.

  “This is natural. That is, it is in us, and we are alive, and whatever is in life is natural. You are headstrong and I am magisterial. Our tolerance of each other is a constantly recurring miracle. I did not have one idea, bright or not; I had two. We have neglected Austin Byne. It has been two days and nights since you saw him. Since he got you to that party, pretending an ailment he didn’t have, and since he told Laidlaw he had seen Miss Usher at Grantham House, and since he chose Miss Usher as one of the dinner guests, he deserves better of us. I suggest that you attend to him.”

  I turned my head but kept the checkbook open. “How? Tell him we don’t like his explanations and we want new ones?”

  “Nonsense. You are not so ingenuous. Survey him. Explore him.”

  “I already have. You know what Laidlaw said. He has no visible means of support, but he has an apartment and a car and plays table-stakes poker and does not go naked. The apartment, by the way, hits my eye. If you hang this murder on him, and if our tolerance miracle runs out of gas, I’ll probably take it over. Are you working yourself up to saying that you want to see him?”