Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 19
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“Why Corrigan?” Kustin demanded.
“That’s what I’m coming to. I’m going to have to tell you things I can’t prove, as I did with X. It is still X, only now I call him O’Malley. An odd thing about this confession is that nearly every detail of it is true and strictly accurate. The man who wrote it did find the manuscript in Dykes’s desk and read it; he found that its contents were as described; he went to see Dykes and talked with him as related; he killed Dykes essentially for the reason given, fear of what might result from his knowledge of the contents of the manuscript; he killed Miss Wellman and Miss Abrams for a like reason. But it was O’Malley who wrote the confession. He—”
“You’re crazy,” Kustin blurted. “The manuscript revealed that Corrigan had informed on O’Malley. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“And O’Malley learned that fact by finding and reading the manuscript?”
“Yes.”
“So he killed three people to keep it from being known that Corrigan had informed on him? For God’s sake!”
“No. He killed three people so he could safely kill a fourth.” Wolfe was on his way now. “When he learned that it was Corrigan who had ruined his career, destroyed him, he determined to kill Corrigan. But no matter how cleverly he managed it, Dykes would be an intolerable menace. Dykes knew that O’Malley knew of Corrigan’s treachery, and if Corrigan met a sudden and violent death, no matter how, Dykes might speak. So first Dykes had to go, and he did. Then Joan Wellman—was she also a menace? O’Malley had to find out, and he arranged to meet her. He may have thought he intended her no harm—the confession says so—but when she spoke of the resemblance of the novel’s plot to an event in real life, and even came close to remembering his name, that, as the confession says, was more than enough for him. Five hours later she was dead.”
There was a noise from the rear of the room, the sound of a chair scraping. John R. Wellman was on his feet and moving. Eyes went to him. Wolfe stopped speaking, but Wellman came on tiptoe, off to one side, around the corner and along the wall to the chair which Purley Stebbins had vacated. It had an unobstructed view of the lawyers.
“Excuse me,” he said, apparently to everyone, and sat.
There were murmurs from the women. Cramer shot a glance at Wellman, evidently decided that he was not getting set as a nemesis, and looked at Wolfe.
“There remained,” Wolfe resumed, “only one source of possible danger, Rachel Abrams. O’Malley had probably been told about her by Dykes, but whether he had or not, he had found the receipts she had given Baird Archer when he searched Dykes’s apartment. I’ll read a few lines from the confession.” He fingered the sheets, found the place, and read:
“My inner being could not permit me to feel any moral repulsion at the thought of killing Joan Wellman, certainly not enough to restrain me, for if killing her was morally unacceptable how could I justify the killing of Dykes? By killing Joan Wellman the process was completed. After that, given adequate motive, I could have killed any number of people without any sign of compunction. So in contemplating the murder of Rachel Abrams my only concerns were whether it was necessary and whether it could be performed without undue risk. I decided it was necessary.”
Wolfe looked up. “This is indeed a remarkable document. There we have a man relieving his mind, perhaps even soothing his soul, by coolly expounding the stages of his transformation into a cold-blooded killer, but avoiding the consequent penalty by ascribing the deeds and the onus to another person. It was an adroit and witty stratagem, and it would have triumphed if Mr. Wellman had not engaged my services and remained resolute in spite of repeated checks and disappointments.
“But I’m ahead of myself. This confession is all right as far as it goes, but it leaves gaps. By the day he went for Rachel Abrams, the twenty-sixth of February, two weeks ago today, she was more than a remote threat. He knew—”
“You still mean O’Malley?” Kustin cut in.
“Yes.”
“Then you’re talking too fast. O’Malley was in Atlanta two weeks ago today.”
Wolfe nodded. “I’ll get to that. By that day he knew that I was on the case and was concentrating on Baird Archer and the manuscript, and the possibility that I might find Rachel Abrams certainly did not escape him. He had to deal with her first, and he did—a scant two minutes before Mr. Goodwin reached her. And there he was. The preliminaries were completed. He was ready for what had always been his real objective: the murder of Corrigan. To abandon it was unthinkable, but now it was not so simple. Needing to learn how much I knew, he phoned Corrigan to suggest that all of you should come here and invite my questions, and you came. It may be that my asking to see Dykes’s letter of resignation first gave him the idea of putting it all onto Corrigan; that’s of no moment. In any case, he contrived to put that notation in Corrigan’s hand on the letter before it reached me, as the first step.”
Wolfe paused to glance at Wellman, but our client was merely gazing at O’Malley, with no apparent intention of taking part. He went on. “When the police confronted you with the notation, of course O’Malley had to join you in your claim of ignorance and your charge that I must have made the notation myself. Then came the letter from Mrs. Potter, and naturally that suited him admirably. He knew it was a decoy, either mine or Mr. Cramer’s, for he was confident that all copies of the manuscript had been destroyed. I have had no report of your conference that day, but I would give odds that he maneuvered with all his dexterity to arrange that Corrigan should be the one to go to California. The result met his highest expectations. On Corrigan’s return you came together to see me again and, as it seemed to O’Malley, I played directly into his hand by refusing to say anything except that I was about ready to act. That made the threat, to whoever was its object, ominous and imminent; that made it most plausible that Corrigan, granting he was the object, would prefer self-destruction and would choose that moment for it; and O’Malley moved swiftly and ruthlessly. It was only ten hours after he left here with you that he dialed my number to let me hear the shot that killed Corrigan.”
“You foresaw that?” Kustin demanded.
“Certainly not. At the time you left here I had added only one presumption to my scanty collection: that Corrigan had never seen the manuscript and didn’t know what was in it. Regarding the rest of you I was still at sea. I was still merely trying to prod you into movement, and it can’t be denied that I succeeded. Are you ready to say something, Mr. O’Malley?”
“No. I’m still listening.”
“As you please. I’m about through.” Wolfe looked at Kustin. “You said that O’Malley was in Atlanta the day Rachel Abrams was killed. Can you certify that, or do you only mean that he was supposed to be?”
“He was there on business for the firm.”
“I know. In fact it is not true that my eye on you gentlemen has been totally impartial until two days ago. The first time you came here O’Malley managed to get it on the record with me that he had returned to New York only that morning after a week in Georgia, and I noted it. I don’t suppose you know Saul Panzer?”
“Saul Panzer? No.”
“That is Mr. Panzer, there at the end of Mr. Goodwin’s desk. If he ever wants to know anything about you, tell him; you might as well. Four days ago I asked him to investigate O’Malley’s movements during the week in question, and he has done so. Saul, tell us about it.”
Saul got his mouth open but no words out, because Cramer suddenly came to life. He snapped, “Hold it, Panzer!” To Wolfe: “Is this what you got on the phone this morning?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re going to hand it to him like this? Just dump the bag for him? You are not!”
Wolfe shrugged. “Either I go on or you do. This morning you said you would take a hand and I said no. Now you’re welcome. Take it if you want it.”
“I want it.” Cramer was on his feet. “I want that letter and envelope. I want Panzer. I want statements from the thre
e women. Mr. O’Malley, you’ll go downtown with Sergeant Stebbins for questioning.”
O’Malley was not impressed. “On what charge, Inspector?”
“I said for questioning. If you insist on a charge you’ll get one.”
“I would want my counsel present.”
“You can phone him from the District Attorney’s office.”
“Luckily I don’t have to phone him. He’s here.” O’Malley turned his head. “Louis?”
Kustin, meeting his former associate’s eye, didn’t hesitate. “No,” he said flatly. “I’m out, Con. I can’t do it.”
It put O’Malley off balance, but it didn’t floor him. He didn’t try to press, Kustin’s tone having settled it. He turned back to Cramer, but his view was obstructed. John R. Wellman had left his chair and was standing there facing him, and spoke.
“I’m Joan Wellman’s father, Mr. O’Malley. I don’t know, because it’s pretty complicated, but I’d like to see something. I’d like to see if you feel like shaking hands with me.” He extended his hand. “There it is. Do you feel like it or don’t you?”
Into the heavy silence came a smothered gasp from one of the females. O’Malley nearly made it. He tried. Looking up at Wellman, he started to lift a hand, then his neck muscles gave, his head dropped, and he used both hands to cover his face.
“I guess you don’t,” Wellman said, and turned and headed for the door.
Chapter 23
One day last week I made a station-to-station call to a number in Glendale, California. When I got it I began, “Peggy? This is Archie. Calling from New York.”
“Hello, Archie. I was thinking you might call.”
I made a face. I had been familiar deliberately, with a specific purpose, to find a flaw. There was just a chance she might fake indignation, or she might be coy, or she might even pretend not to know who it was. Nothing doing. She was still her—too short, too plump, and too old, but the one and only Mrs. Potter.
“It’s all over,” I told her. “I knew you’d want to know. The jury was out nine hours, but they finally came through with it, first degree murder. As you know, he was tried for Rachel Abrams, not your brother, but that doesn’t make any difference. Convicting him for one was convicting him for all four.”
“Yes, of course. I’m glad it’s over. Thank you for calling. You sound so close, as if you were right here.”
“Yeah, so do you. What’s it doing out there, raining?”
“Oh, no, bright sunshine, warm and bright. Why, is it raining in New York?”
“It sure is. I guess I bring it on. Do you remember how I looked that day through the peephole?”
“I certainly do! I’ll never forget it!”
“Neither will I. Good-by, Peggy.”
“Good-by, Archie.”
I hung up and made another face. What the hell, I thought, in another twenty years Bubblehead may be dead, and age and contours won’t matter much, and I’ll grab her.
The World of
Rex Stout
Now, for the first time ever, enjoy a peek into the life of Nero Wolfe’s creator, Rex Stout, courtesy of the Stout estate. Pulled from Rex Stout’s own archives, here is rarely seen, never-before-published memorabilia. Each title in the Rex Stout Library will offer an exclusive look into the life of the man who gave Nero Wolfe life.
Murder by the Book
The original dust jacket from the 1951 Viking hardcover. The words at the bottom read: “Nero, abetted by Archie and assorted girls, discovers what a certain novel had to do with multiple murder”. The book cost $2.50 when it was first published.
This edition contains the complete text
of the original hardcover edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.
MURDER BY THE BOOK
A Bantam Crime Line Book / published by arrangement with
The Viking Press, Inc.
CRIME LINE and the portrayal of a boxed “cl” are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Copyright 1951 by Rex Stout.
Introduction copyright © 1992 by David Handler.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: The Viking Press, Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.
eISBN: 978-0-307-75606-0
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10103.
v3.0
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Other Books by this Author
Title Page
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Copyright