Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 45

by Please Pass the Guilt

  We discussed it.

  10

  when I had a chance, after lunch, I looked up “seduced” in the dictionary. “1. To persuade (one) as into disobedience, disloyalty, or desertion of a lord or cause. 2. To lead or draw (one) aside or astray, as into an evil, foolish, or disastrous course or action from that which is good, wise, etc; as to be seduced into war; to seduce one from his duty; to tempt or entice; as, pleasures that seduced her from home. 3. To induce to evil; to corrupt, specif., to induce to surrender chastity; to debauch.”

  Even on the 3 I couldn’t charge him at some appropriate moment with having asked me to go too far, since we had no evidence that either of them had any chastity to surrender.

  The best spot in the metropolitan area at four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon in June is an upper box at Shea Stadium, but I wasn’t there that Saturday. I was sitting in the cockpit of a thirty-foot boat, removing a flounder the size of my open hand from the hook at the end of Sylvia Venner’s line. The object I enjoy most removing from a hook is a sixteen-inch rainbow or Dolly Varden or cutthroat, but there aren’t any in Long Island Sound. We had spent a couple of hours trying for stripers or blues without a bite and had settled for salmon eggs on little hooks. The name of the boat was Happygolucky. I had borrowed it from a man named Sopko, who had once paid Wolfe $7,372.40, including expenses, for getting his son out of a deep hole he had stumbled into.

  It was from Sylvia Venner herself, on the telephone Wednesday afternoon, that I had learned that she didn’t care for baseball, didn’t like dancing, had seen all the shows in town, and wouldn’t enjoy dining at Rusterman’s because she was on a diet. The idea of a boat had come from her. She said that she loved catching fish, all except actually touching one, but the soonest she could make it was Saturday.

  In fifty-six hours Saul and Fred and Orrie had produced nothing that would need help from me during the weekend. Friday evening I assembled the score for the two and a half days on a page of my notebook and got this:

  Number of CAN employees who thought or guessed or hinted

  —that Odell was putting the bomb in the drawer to get Browning 4

  —that Browning planted the bomb to get Odell and somehow got Odell to go and open the drawer 1

  —that Dennis Copes planted it to get Kenneth Meer 2

  —that no one had planted it; the bomb was a left-over from the research for the program and was supposed to be de-activated 2

  —that Sylvia Venner had planted it to get Browning 1

  —that Helen Lugos had planted it to get Kenneth Meer 2

  —that Kenneth Meer had planted it to get Helen Lugos 1

  —that some kind of activist had planted it to get just anybody 3

  —that it would never be known who had planted it for whom 8

  If you skipped that I don’t blame you; I include it only because I didn’t want to waste the time I spent compiling it. It adds up to twenty-four, and they spoke with a total of about a hundred people, so some seventy or eighty were keeping their thinking or guessing or hinting to themselves. Wolfe and I agreed, Friday evening, to ignore the favorite guess. The idea that Odell had himself supplied the bomb was out. His wife would have known about it, and she would not have given Wolfe a hundred grand to start digging. Also why the LSD in his pocket? Because he was on the stuff and had it with him in case his nerves needed a boost? Cramer and the DA had certainly included that in their tries and had chucked it. So no. Out. One of the four who liked it was Dennis Copes, but that didn’t prove anything. Saul’s description of Copes was “5 feet 9, 160 pounds, brown hair down to his collar, sideburns that needed trimming, showy shirt and tie, neat plain gray Hickey-Freeman suit, soft low-pitched voice, nervous hands.” He had chatted with him twice and learned nothing useful. Of course he hadn’t asked if he knew or thought he knew that Kenneth Meer had the habit of checking on the whisky in the drawer, and though he is as good as Wolfe at the trick of getting an answer to an unasked question, it hadn’t worked with Copes.

  Actually nothing worked with anybody. I have just looked over my notes, and since there is nothing in them that helped us they certainly wouldn’t help you.

  At four o’clock Saturday afternoon it looked as if I wasn’t going to get anything helpful from Sylvia Venner either. She had stopped bothering about the dimples. In blue shorts and a white sleeveless shirt with big blue plastic buttons she was showing plenty of nice smooth skin with a medium tan, and her well-arranged face was the kind that looks even better in bright outdoor light than inside. While we were eating the broiled chicken supplied by Fritz, and yogurt and thin little tasteless crackers supplied by her, and pickles and raw carrots and celery, and she was drinking something called Four-Root Juice and I was drinking milk, she had suddenly said, “I suppose you know what etymology is.”

  “Hah,” I said. “I work for Nero Wolfe.”

  “Why,” she said, “is that relevant?”

  “Certainly. He knows more words than Shakespeare knew.”

  “Oh. I don’t really know anything about him except what he does. They tried to get him on my program once, but he wouldn’t, so I didn’t have to research him. Are you up on words too?”

  “Not really. Just enough to get along on.”

  “I think words are fascinating. I was thinking, looking at you while you were dropping the anchor, take words like ‘pecker’ and ‘prick.’ In their vulgar sense, or maybe I should say their colloquial sense.”

  Without batting an eye I said, “You mean ‘prick’ as a noun. Not as a verb.”

  She nodded. “Yes, a noun. It means ‘a pointed instrument.’ ‘Pecker’ means ‘to strike repeatedly and often with a pointed instrument.’ So the definition of ‘pecker’ and ‘prick’ is identical.”

  “Sure. I’ve never looked them up, but evidently you have.”

  “Of course. In Webster and in the OED. There’s an OED at the office. Of course the point is that—well, well, there’s a pun. ‘Point.’ The point is that they both begin with p, and ‘penis’ begins with p.”

  “I’ll be damned. It certainly does.”

  “Yes. I think that may be relevant to that old saying, ‘Watch your p’s and q’s.’ But. But two other words, ‘piss’ and ‘pee’—p-double-e—they start with p too. What it is, it’s male chauvinism.”

  “I’m not sure I get that.”

  She sipped Four-Root Juice. “It’s obvious. Women urinate too. So they have to call it ‘piss’ or ‘pee’ just because ‘penis’ begins with p. What if they called it ‘viss’ or ‘vee,’ and they made men call it ‘viss’ or ‘vee’ too? Would men like that?”

  “Viss,” I said. “Vee. I don’t …” I considered it, sipping milk. “Oh. Vagina.”

  “Certainly. Virgin too, but that may be just coincidence.”

  “I admit it’s a point. A voint. You may not believe this, but personally I wouldn’t object. It even appeals to me. ‘Excuse me while I viss.’ ‘Turn your back while I vee.’ I rather like the sound of it.”

  “I don’t believe it, and anyway not many men would. It’s male chauvinism. And another point, ‘poker’ begins with a p too. Why didn’t they make it ‘poker’ instead of ‘pecker’? Because a poker is three feet long!”

  “It is not. I’ve never seen a poker three feet long. More like two feet. Possibly thirty inches.”

  “You’re just quibbling. Even two feet.” She put her open hands out, apparently she thought two feet apart, but it was about twenty-eight inches. She picked up a pickle. Vickle. “So they couldn’t very well call it ‘poker.’ Take another letter, take f. ‘Female’ begins with f. What is one of men’s favorite four-letter colloquial words that begins with f?”

  “Offhand I couldn’t say. I’d have to think.”

  “All right, think.”

  So there I was, on a borrowed boat on Long Island Sound, alone with a Women’s Libberette who was majoring in etymology. If you think that in the above exchange she was making a roundabout approach to a
pass at me, I appreciate the compliment, but I doubt it. If so, my reaction cooled it. Even in such an ideal situation as a boat with a cabin at anchor in smooth water, I refuse to be seduced by quotations from Webster and the Oxford English Dictionary.

  She was not a nitwit. Soon after we got our lines out she said, “What are you waiting for? You haven’t asked me a single question about the murder.”

  “What murder?”

  “Oh, come off it. Do you think I think my dimples took you?”

  “No. I have never seen better dimples, and there’s nothing wrong with other parts of you either, but a newspaperman I know thinks you planted the bomb to get Browning, and I wanted to get a close-up of you. With a good look and some talk with a woman, I can tell if she is a murderer. The way they eat helps too. For instance, do they lick their fingers.”

  She was frowning at me. “Do you really—no, of course you don’t. All right, I’ll play. Have you decided about me?”

  “Not to cross you off, but ten to one you didn’t plant the bomb. But three to one, make it five to one, you have a pretty good idea who did. You’ve been there four years, you know everybody, and you’re smart.”

  “I am not smart. If I was smart I would have hooked that skunk Browning instead of letting Helen Lugos take him. Do you know who I could love?”

  “No, but I’d like to.”

  “All right, I’ll tell you. I could love the man who can prove I’m not dumb. I simply can’t persuade myself I’m not dumb. Browning is going to be it, he’s going to be the top cock, and where will I be? No, I didn’t plant the bomb, but I could have.”

  “Who did?”

  “I don’t—now what have I done?”

  She had snarled her line. Not purposely, to change the subject, because half an hour later, after we had unsnarled her and quit on stripers and were trying for blues, she said, “I’ve got a pretty good idea who might have. The bomb. But not for any signed statement. They always want signed statements. I’m not that dumb.”

  I made a cast. “Not me. I just want an idea to play with.”

  “Play? My god, you should have seen that room. Browning’s office. When I got there Helen Lugos and Ken Meer were trying to keep people out. Ken’s hands were bloody. When I heard what had happened—that was later—my first idea was that Ken had done it.”

  “How did he know Odell would come and open—”

  “Not Odell. Browning. To kill Browning. Of course he—”

  “Isn’t Meer with Browning? His right hand?”

  “Yes, but he hates him. No, that’s wrong, it’s not hate, it’s—what, jealousy? It’s worse than jealousy. It kills him that Helen does it with Browning. He got an itch for Helen when she came, two years ago, and he’s got it bad. I’ve seen him look at her with that sick look—you know?”

  I nodded. “Male chauvinism upside down.”

  “What? Oh. It is at that. But I dropped that idea. Ken certainly wants Helen, but he wants to move up even more, and if Browning was president he would be in a very good spot. So I still think he probably planted the bomb, but not for Browning, for Odell. So Odell couldn’t be president. He knew Odell was going to come and open that drawer.”

  “How did he know that?”

  “You’ll have to ask him. I can’t wrap it up for you.” She had her line in and squared around for another cast.

  By the time the slant of the sun and my watch agreed that it was time to head for the marina, I had got all the questions in but had nothing to light a fire with. She doubted if Dennis Copes was involved because he was the hippie type and hippies aren’t really headed anywhere, they just key up—according to her, not me. I know a hippie who tried—but he’s not in this. She didn’t know if Copes knew or thought he knew that Kenneth Meer inspected that drawer every day. She doubted if anybody inspected the drawer besides Browning himself, but if anyone did it was probably Helen Lugos; inspecting drawers is routine for secretaries. She had herself inspected it once, out of curiosity, about three years ago. Yes, it was twelve-year-old Ten-Mile Creek.

  The Heron was in the parking lot at the marina and I drove Sylvia—sure, we had been Sylvia and Archie the last three hours—to a human hive in the East Seventies, only a block away from a spot where an FBI man had once insulted me because I was tailing a man he wanted to tail. She didn’t invite me up. Wolfe was in the middle of dinner when I got home and he doesn’t like to dawdle while I catch up, so I ate in the kitchen, with Fritz.

  Later, in the office, when I asked him if he wanted Sylvia Venner verbatim he said yes, omitting only trivia, we had all evening. I asked, including the personal parts, and he said, enough of it to exhibit her. So I had a free hand. Omitting trivia, it took only ten minutes to get us on board the boat and under way, and another five to get us to the spot where we anchored and agreed that the air made us hungry. Of course I enjoyed my description of the picnic lunch in detail, but he didn’t. He set his jaw and squinted at me, and did something he seldom does; he used profanity. “Good god,” he growled. “Are you—how do you feel?”

  “All right now. Of course it was tough, but what the hell, I was working. During the feast she said she supposed I knew what etymology is, and I said hah, I work for Nero Wolfe. She asked if that was relevant and said she didn’t know much about him, that they tried to get him on her program but he wouldn’t. You remember that.”

  “Yes.”

  “She said, quote, ‘I think words are fascinating. Take words like “pecker” and “prick.” In their vulgar sense, or maybe I should say their colloquial sense.’”

  “Me: ‘You mean “prick” as a noun, not as a verb.’”

  “She: ‘Yes, a noun. It means “a pointed instrument.” “Pecker” just means “an instrument for pecking,” and “peck” means “to strike repeatedly and often with a pointed instrument.” So the definition of “pecker” and “prick” is identical.’”

  “Me: ‘Sure. I’ve never looked them up, but evidently-’”

  His grunt stopped me. He growled, “I said omit trivia.”

  “This is not trivia. She was leading up to a point, and she made it. The point was that men make women say ‘piss’ and ‘pee’—p-double-e—when they urinate because ‘penis’ begins with p, and what if they made them say ‘viss’ and ‘vee’? Vagina. And she said it’s male chauvinism. Doesn’t that exhibit her?”

  And once again I got a completely different reaction from the one I expected. I suppose I will never know him as well as I think I do. I did know where he stood on the question of male chauvinism, but I should have considered how he felt about words.

  He said, “Indeed.”

  I said, “Yes indeed. Women’s Lib.”

  He flipped a hand. “That’s merely the herd syndrome. Fad. The issue is the influence of male dominance on language. Has that woman made a contribution to the study of linguistics? If so, there should be some indication in the record of matriarchy, but there is no adequate …”

  Letting it hang, he pushed his chair back, rose, went straight to a spot in the shelves, got a book, and returned. As he sat, my good eyes told me it was History of Human Marriage by Westermarck. I had given it a ten-minute try one empty day long ago and decided I could get along without it. As he opened it, I asked, “Shall I tell the squad not to come in the morning because the issue now is a matter of linguistics, or will you need them for research?”

  He glared at me, transferred it to the book, tossed it on the desk, and said, “Very well, proceed, but only what is material. No flummery.”

  So I no longer had a free hand. I reported. When I finished and he asked for comments, as usual, I said, “Nothing to raise my pay. One, I doubt if she is saving anything that would open a crack. Two, it would suit her fine if Browning dropped dead, but if she planted the bomb she wouldn’t have risked a whole afternoon with me. She’s not that kind. Three, at least we know that Meer had blood on his hands that other people could see, so maybe that helps to explain him.”

 
“Not enough to justify that outrageous meal,” he said, and reached for the book.

  Fritz had left to spend a night and a day and another night as he saw fit, so before I went upstairs to dress properly for joining Lily Rowan’s party at the Flamingo, I brought a bottle of beer to help with the language problem.

  11

  since Wolfe’s nine-to-eleven session in the plant rooms doesn’t apply on Sundays, he was in the office when the help came at ten o’clock. That was about the most useless two hours we ever spent with them. Wolfe’s idea was to have them talk about everyone they had seen, in the slim hope of our getting at least a glimmer of some kind of a hint.

  No. Nothing.

  If you are inclined to quit because I seem to be getting nowhere, no wonder. I’m sorry, but in these reports I don’t put in stunts to jazz it up, I just report. Of course I can leave things out, and I do. I’ll skip that two-hour Sunday conference, except for one little item. Orrie said that Dennis Copes didn’t have a secretary, and the girl in the stenographer pool who often took stuff for him was a stuck-up bitch, and he added, “Of course Archie would have had her holding hands.” He can’t quite ditch the idea that he should have my job. I admit there is one little detail of detective work that he can do better than I can, but he doesn’t know what it is so I won’t name it. They were told to go back in the morning and try some more. The theory was that somebody there must know something, which seemed reasonable.

  The only thing that happened that day worth reporting was that Lily Rowan and I, at Shea Stadium, watched the Mets take the Cardinals, 7 to 3.

  At ten o’clock Monday morning I sent a messenger to the CAN building with a white cardboard box addressed to Miss Helen Lugos. The box contained a cluster of Broughtonia sanguinea. They had been picked by Wolfe, who won’t let even me cut his orchids, but the card in the box had my name. At 11:30 I decided that she must have opened it, phoned, and got a female who said that Miss Lugos was engaged and did I wish to leave a message. When you get up to vice-president, especially one who will soon be president because the other candidate was murdered, even secretaries are often hard to get. I decided that she might not have seen the box yet and postponed it to after lunch.