“You wouldn’t get any. There was a time when I felt like killing him, but that was long ago when the children were young.” She took the original from me and put on her glasses to read it. “This isn’t right. When you find out who killed him you tell me and I decide what to do.”
“Nonsense. The People of the State of New York will decide what to do. In the process of identifying him to my satisfaction and yours I will inevitably get evidence, and I can’t suppress it. Archie, give her a pen.”
“I’m not going to sign it. I promised my husband I would never sign anything without showing it to him.”
A corner of Wolfe’s mouth went up—his version of a smile. He was always pleased to get support for his theory that no woman was capable of what he called rational sequence. “Then,” he asked, “shall I rewrite it, for me to sign? Committing me to my part of the arrangement?”
“No.” She handed me the papers, the one Aiken had signed and the one she hadn’t. “It doesn’t do any good to sign things. What counts is what you do, not what you sign. How much do you want as a retainer?”
He had just said he didn’t want one. Now he said. “One dollar.”
Apparently that struck her as about right. She opened her bag, put the checkfold in it, took out a purse, got a dollar bill from it, and left the chair to hand it to Wolfe. She turned to me. “Now I want to see that room.”
“Not now,” Wolfe said with emphasis. “Now I have some questions. Be seated.”
“What kind of questions?”
“I need information, all I can get, and it will take some time. Please sit down.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Many kinds. You said that you have known for years that your husband was oversexed, that he was sick, so it may be presumed that you took the trouble to inform yourself as well as you could of his efforts to allay his ailment. I want names, dates, addresses, events, particulars.”
“You won’t get them from me.” She adjusted her stole. “I quit bothering about it long ago. Once when the children were young I asked my doctor about it, if something could be done, perhaps some kind of an operation, but the way he explained it I knew my husband wouldn’t do that, and there was nothing else I could do, so what was the use? I have a friend whose husband is an alcoholic, and she has a worse—”
The doorbell rang. Dropping the papers in a drawer and stepping to the hall, I did not see another prospective client on the stoop. Inspector Cramer of Homicide West has been various things—a foe, a menace, a neutral, once or twice an ally, but never a client; and his appearance through the one-way glass, the set of his burly shoulders and the expression on his big round red face, made it plain that he hadn’t come to ante a retainer. I went and slipped the chain bolt on, opened the door the two inches it permitted, and spoke through the crack.
“Greetings. I don’t open up because Mr. Wolfe has company. Will I do?”
“No. I know he has company. Mrs. Thomas G. Yeager has been here nearly half an hour. Open the door.”
“Make yourself at home. I’ll see.” I shut the door, went to the office, and told Wolfe, “The tailor. He says his man brought the suit nearly half an hour ago, and he wants to discuss it.”
He tightened his lips and scowled, at me, then at her, and back at me. Whenever an officer of the law appears on the stoop and wants in, his first impulse is to tell me to tell him he’s busy and can’t be disturbed, and all the better if it’s Inspector Cramer. But the situation was already ticklish enough. If the cops had found a trail to that house and had followed it and found Fred Durkin there, the going would be fairly tough, and making Cramer pry his way in with a warrant would only make it tougher. Also there was Mrs. Yeager. Since Cramer knew she had been here nearly half an hour, obviously they had a tail on her, and it wouldn’t hurt to know why. Wolfe turned to her.
“Inspector Cramer of the police is at the door, and he knows you’re here.”
“He does not.” She was positive. “How could he?”
“Ask him. But it may be assumed that you were followed. You are under surveillance.”
“They wouldn’t dare! Me? I don’t believe it! If they—”
The doorbell rang. Wolfe turned to me. “All right, Archie.”
Chapter 9
At the meeting of those two, Wolfe and Cramer, naturally I am not an impartial observer. Not only am I committed and involved; there is also the basic fact that cops and private detectives are enemies and always will be. Back of the New York cop are the power and authority of eight million people; back of the private detective is nothing but the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, and while that’s a fine thing to have it doesn’t win arguments. But though I am not impartial I’m an observer, and one of the privileges of my job is to be present when Cramer walks into the office and aims his sharp gray eyes at Wolfe, and Wolfe, his head cocked a little to the side, meets them. Who will land the first blow, and will it be a jab, a hook, or a swing?
On this occasion I got cheated. That first quick impact didn’t take place because Mrs. Yeager didn’t let it. As Cramer crossed the sill into the office she was there confronting him, demanding, “Am I being followed around?”
Cramer looked down at her. He was polite. “Good morning, Mrs. Yeager. I hope you haven’t been annoyed. When there’s a murderer loose we don’t like to take chances. For your protection we thought it advisable—”
“I don’t need any protection and I don’t want any!” With her head tilted back the crease between her chins wasn’t so deep. “Did you follow me here?”
“I didn’t. A man did. We—”
“Where is he? I want to see him. Bring him in here. I’m telling you and I’m going to tell him, I will not be followed around. Protect me?” She snorted. “You didn’t protect my husband. He gets shot on the street and put in a hole and you didn’t even find him. A boy had to find him. Where’s this man?”
“He was merely obeying orders.” Cramer’s tone sharpened a little. “And he followed you here, and maybe you do need protection. There are things to be protected from besides personal violence, like making mistakes. Maybe coming here was one. If you came to tell Nero Wolfe something you haven’t told us, something about your husband, something that is or may be connected with his death, it was a mistake. So I want to know what you’ve said to him and what he said to you. All of it. You’ve been here nearly half an hour.”
For half a second I thought she was going to spill it, and she did too. My guess would be that what popped into her mind was the notion that the simplest and quickest way to see that room on 82nd Street would be to tell Cramer abut it, and she might actually have acted on it if Wolfe’s voice hadn’t come at her from behind.
“I’ll return your retainer if you want it, madam.”
“Oh,” she said. She didn’t turn. “I hired him to do something,” she told Cramer.
“To do what?”
“To find out who killed my husband. You didn’t even find his body, and now all you do is follow me around, and this stuff about protecting me when there’s nothing to protect me from. If I had anything to tell anybody I’d tell him, not you.” She took a step. “Get out of the way; I’m going to see that man.”
“You’re making a mistake, Mrs. Yeager. I want to know what you said to Wolfe.”
“Ask him.” Seeing that Cramer wasn’t going to move, she circled around him, headed for the hall. I followed her out and to the front. As I reached for the knob she came close, stretched her neck to get her mouth near my ear, and whispered, “When will you take me to see that room?” I whispered back, “As soon as I get a chance.” I would have liked to stay at the door to see how she went about finding her tail, but if Cramer was going to blurt at Wolfe, “When did you take over that room on Eighty-second Street?” I wanted to be present, so I closed the door and went back to the office.
Cramer wasn’t blurting. He was in the red leather chair, the front half of it, with his feet planted flat.
Wolfe was saying, … “and that is moot. I’m not obliged to account to you for my acceptance of a retainer unless you charge interference with the performance of your official duty, and can support the charge.”
“I wouldn’t be here,” Cramer said, “if I couldn’t support it. It wasn’t just the report that Mrs. Yeager was here that brought me. That would be enough, finding that you were sticking your nose into a murder investigation, but that’s not all. I’m offering you a chance to cooperate by asking you a straight question: What information have you got about Yeager that might help to identify the person that killed him?”
So he knew about the room, and we were up a tree. I went to my desk and sat. It would be hard going, and probably the best thing for Wolfe to do would be to empty the bag and forget the clients.
He didn’t. He hung on. He shook his head. “You know better than that. Take a hypothesis. Suppose, for instance, that I have been informed in confidence that a certain person owed Yeager a large sum of money and Yeager was pressing for payment. That might help to identify the murderer, but I am not obliged to pass the information on to you unless I am confronted with evidence that it would help. Your question is straight enough, but it’s impertinent, and you know it.”
“You admit you have information.”
“I admit nothing. If I do have information the responsibility of deciding whether I am justified in withholding it is mine—and the risk.”
“Risk my ass. With your goddam luck, and you talk about risk. I’ll try a question that’s more specific and maybe it won’t be so impertinent. Why did Goodwin phone Lon Cohen at the Gazette at five o’clock Monday afternoon to ask for dope on Yeager, more than two hours before Yeager’s body was found?”
I tried to keep my face straight, and apparently succeeded, since Cramer has good eyes with a lot of experience with faces, and if my relief had shown he would have spotted it. Inside I was grinning. They hadn’t found the room; they had merely got a tip from some toad at the Gazette and had put the screws on.
Wolfe grunted. “That is indeed specific.”
“Yeah. Now you be specific. I’ve seen you often enough horn in on a murder case, that’s nothing new, but by God this is the first time you didn’t even wait until the body was found. How did you know he was dead?”
“I didn’t. Neither did Mr. Goodwin.” Wolfe turned a hand over. “Mr. Cramer. I don’t take every job that’s offered to me. When I take one I do so to earn a fee, and sometimes it’s necessary to take a calculated risk. I’m taking one now. It’s true that someone, call him X, said something in this room Monday afternoon that caused Mr. Goodwin to phone Mr. Cohen for information about Thomas G. Yeager. But, first, nothing that X said indicated that he knew Yeager was dead, and it is our opinion that he did not know. Second, nothing that X said indicated that Yeager was in peril, that anyone intended to kill him or had any motive for killing him. Third, nothing that X said was the truth. We have discovered that every word he uttered was a lie. And since our conclusion that he didn’t know Yeager was dead, and therefore he didn’t kill him, is soundly based, I am justified in keeping his lies to myself, at least for the present. I have no information for you.”
“Who is X?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nuts. Is it Mrs. Yeager?”
“No. I probably wouldn’t name him even if I could, but I can’t.”
Cramer leaned forward. “Calculated risk, huh? Justified. You are like hell. I remember too many—”
The phone rang, and I swiveled and got it. “Nero Wolfe’s offi—”
“I’ve got one, Archie.”
My fingers tightened around the phone, and I pressed it closer to my ear. Fred again: “That you, Archie?”
“Certainly. I’m busy.” If I told him to hold the wire and went to the kitchen, Cramer would step to my desk and pick it up.
“I said I’ve got another one. Another woman.”
“I’m not sure that was sensible, Mr. Gerson. That might get you into serious trouble.”
“Oh. Somebody there?”
“Certainly.” Fred had good enough connections in his skull, but the service was a little slow. “I guess I’ll have to, but I don’t know how soon I can make it. Hold the wire a minute.” I covered the transmitter and turned to Wolfe. “That damn fool Gerson has found his bonds and has got two of his staff locked in a room. He could get hooked for more damages than the bonds are worth. He wants me to come, and of course I ought to, but.”
Wolfe grunted. “You’ll have to. The man’s a nincompoop. You can call Mr. Parker from there if necessary.”
I uncovered the transmitter and told it, “All right, Mr. Gerson, I’m on my way. Keep them locked in till I get there.” I hung up and went.
At the curb in front was Cramer’s car. Trading waves with the driver, Jimmy Burke, I headed east. There was no reason to suppose that Cramer had a tail posted on me, but I wasn’t taking the thinnest chance of leading a city employee to 82nd Street. Getting a taxi on Ninth Avenue, I told the driver I would give directions as we went along. We turned right on 34th Street, right again on Eleventh Avenue, right again on 56th Street, and left on Tenth Avenue. By then I knew I was clear, but I kept an eye to the rear all the way to 82nd and Broadway. From there I walked.
The hole was being filled in. There was no uniform around, and no one in sight who might be representing Homicide West or the DA’s bureau. Turning in at the basement entrance of 156, using Meg Duncan’s key, and going down the hall, I had no feeling of eyes on me, but as I approached the end Cesar Perez appeared at the kitchen door.
“Oh, you,” he said, and turned. “It’s Mr. Goodwin.”
His wife came from inside. “There’s a woman up there,” she said.
I nodded. “I came to meet her. Had you seen her before?”
“No.” She looked at her husband. “Cesar, we must tell him.”
“I don’t know.” Perez spread his hands. “You think better than I do, Felita. If you say so.”
Her black eyes came at me. “If you’re not an honest man, may the good God send us help. Come in here.” She moved.
I didn’t hesitate. Fred hadn’t sounded on the phone as if he had any new scratches, and this pair might have something hot. I stepped into the kitchen. Mrs. Perez went to the table and picked up a card and handed it to me. “That man came this morning,” she said.
It was the engraved card of a John Morton Seymour, with “Attorney at Law” in one corner and a midtown address in the other. “And?” I asked.
“He brought this.” She picked up an envelope from the table and offered it. “Look at it.”
It had been sealed and slit open. I took out a paper with the regulation blue legal backing and unfolded it. There were three typewritten sheets, very neat and professional. I didn’t have to read every word to get the idea; it was a deed, signed by Thomas G. Yeager and properly witnessed, dated March 16, 1957, conveying certain property, namely the house and ground at 156 West 82nd Street, Borough of Manhattan, City of New York, to Cesar and Felita Perez. First and most interesting question: how long had they known it existed?
“He brought that and gave it to us,” she said. “He said Mr. Yeager told him that if he died he must give it to us within forty-eight hours after he died. He said it was a little more than forty-eight hours but he didn’t think that would matter. He said he would take care of it for us—formalities, he said—without any charge. Now we have to tell you what we were going to do. We were going away tonight. We were going somewhere and not come back. But now we argue, we fight. My husband and daughter think we can stay, but I think we must go. For the first time we fight more than just some words, so I am telling you.”
Cesar had an eye half closed. “What he say yesterday,” he said, “your Mr. Wolfe. He say when they find out Mr. Yeager owned this house they come here and then we have bad trouble, so we decide to go tonight. But this man today, this Mr. Seymour, he say Mr. Yeager did this paper like this so nobody cou
ld know he owned this house and we must not say he owned it. He say it is fixed so nobody will know. So I say we can stay now. It is our house now and we can take out the things we don’t want up there and it can be our room. If it’s too big we can put in walls. That kitchen and that bathroom are beautiful. My wife thinks better than I do nearly always, but this time I say I don’t see why. Why must we run away from our own house?”
“Well.” I put the deed in the envelope and tossed it on the table. “When Mr. Wolfe said yesterday that you would be in trouble when they find out that Yeager owned this house you knew they wouldn’t find out, and why didn’t you say so?”
“You don’t listen,” Mrs. Perez said. “This Mr. Seymour didn’t come yesterday, he came this morning. You don’t listen.”
“Sure I do. But Yeager told you about that paper long ago. You knew the house would be yours if he died.”
Her black eyes flashed. “If you listen do you call us liars? When we say we were going away and this Mr. Seymour comes with this paper, and now we fight?”
I nodded. “I heard you. Have you got a Bible?”
“Of course.”
“Bring it here.”
She left the room, not to the hall, by another door. In a moment she was back with a thick little book bound in stiff brown leather. It didn’t resemble the Bibles I had seen, and I opened it for a look, but it was in Spanish. Holding it, I asked them to put their left hands on it and raise their right hands, and they obliged. “Repeat this after me: I swear on this Bible … that I didn’t know … Mr. Yeager was going to give us this house … and I had no reason … to think he was going to … before Mr. Seymour came this morning.”
I put the Bible on the table. “Okay. If Mr. Seymour says he can handle it so no one will know Yeager owned it he probably can, but there are quite a few people who already know it, including me, so I advise you not to take anything from that room, not a single thing, even if it’s your property. I also advise you to stay here. I’m not saying who did the best thinking on that, but skipping out is the worst thing you could possibly do. Yeager was killed up there, and you moved the body. If you skip it could even be that Mr. Wolfe will decide he has to tell the police about you, and it wouldn’t take them long to find you, and swearing on a Bible wouldn’t help you then.”
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