by Rex Stout
Celia Grantham. Here I had got a surprise-nothing startling, but enough to make me lift a brow. Laidlaw had asked her to marry him six months ago and she had refused. “I tell you that,” he said, “so you will know that I can’t be very objective about her. Perhaps I was lucky. That was when I was getting a hold on myself after what had happened with Faith Usher, and perhaps I was just looking for help. Celia could help a man all right if she wanted to. She has character, but she hasn’t decided what to do with it. The reason she gave for refusing to marry me was that I didn’t dance well enough.” It was while we were on Celia that I learned that Laidlaw had an old-fashioned streak. When I asked him what about her relations with men and got a vague answer, and made it more specific by asking if he thought she was a virgin, he said of course, since he had asked her to marry him. An old fogy at thirty-one.
Cecil Grantham. On him it struck me that Laidlaw was being diplomatic, and I thought I guessed why. Cecil was three years younger than Laidlaw, and I gathered that his interests and activities were along the same lines as Laidlaw’s had been three years ago before the event with Faith Usher had pushed his nose in-with qualifications, one being that whereas Laidlaw’s pile had been left to him with no strings attached, Cecil’s was in a trust controlled by his mother and he had to watch his budget. He had been heard to remark that he would like to do something to earn some money but couldn’t find any spare time for it. Each year he spent three summer months on a ranch in Montana.
Paul Schuster. He was a prodigy. He had worked his way through college and law school, and when he had graduated with high honours a clerkship had been offered him by a justice of the United States Supreme Court, but he had preferred to go to work for a Wall Street firm with five names at the top, and a dozen at the side, of its letterhead. Probably a hundred and twenty bucks a week. Even more probably, at fifty he would be raking in half a million a year. Laidlaw knew him only fairly well and could furnish no information about the nature and extent of his intimacies with either sex. The owner of one of the five names at the top of the letterhead, now venerable, had been Albert Grantham’s lawyer, and that was probably the connection that had got Schuster at Mrs Robilotti’s dinner table.
Beverly Kent. Of the Rhode Island Kents, if that means anything to you. It didn’t to me. His family was still hanging on to three thousand acres and a couple of miles of a river named Usquepaugh. He too had been in Laidlaw’s class at Harvard, and had followed a family tradition when he chose the diplomatic service for a career. In Laidlaw’s opinion it wasn’t likely that he had ever been guilty of an indiscretion, let alone an outrage, with a female.
Edwin Laidlaw. A reformed man, a repentant sinner, and a recovered soul. He said he had more appropriate cliches handy, but I told him those would do. When he had inherited his father’s stack, three years ago, he had gone on as before, horsing around, and had caught up with himself only after the Faith Usher affair. He had not, to the best of his knowledge, ever made any other woman a mother, married or unmarried. It had taken more than half of his assets to buy the Malvin Press, and for four months he had been spending ten hours a day at his office, five days a week, not to mention evenings and weekends. He thought he would be on to the publishing business in five years.
As for Faith Usher, his thinking that she had not been promiscuous, and his not raising the question, at his last meeting with her, whether there was any doubt about his being the father of the baby she was carrying, had been based entirely on the impression he had got of her. He knew nothing whatever about her family or background. He hadn’t even known where she lived; she had refused to tell him. She had given him a phone number and he had called her at it, but he didn’t remember what it was, and he had made a little private ceremony of destroying his phone-number book when he had reformed. When I said that on a week’s vacation trip there is time for a lot of talk, he said they had done plenty of talking, but she had shied away from anything about her. His guess was that she had probably graduated from high school.
We had spent a solid hour with him on the party before Wolfe went up to the plant rooms. Wolfe took him through every minute of it, trying to get some faint glimmer of a hint. Laidlaw was sure that neither he nor Faith Usher had said or done anything that could have made anyone suspect they had ever met before, except her refusing to dance with him, and no one had heard that but me. He had asked her to dance because he thought it would be noticed if he didn’t.
Of course the main point was when Cecil Grantham came to the bar to get the champagne. Laidlaw had been standing there with Helen Yarmis, with whom he had just been dancing, and Mr and Mrs Robilotti. As he and Helen Yarmis approached the bar, Beverly Kent and Celia Grantham were moving away, and Mr and Mrs Robilotti were there, and of course Hackett. Laidlaw thought he and Helen Yarmis had been there more than a minute, but not more than two, when Cecil Grantham came; that was what he had told the police. He couldn’t say whether, when he had taken two glasses of champagne for Helen Yarmis and himself, there had been other glasses on the bar with champagne in them; he simply hadn’t noticed. The police had got him to try to recall the picture, but he couldn’t. All he was sure of was that he hadn’t poisoned any champagne, but he was almost as sure that Helen Yarmis hadn’t either. She had been right at his elbow.
There was more, a lot more, but that’s enough for here. You can see why I said that most of it was a waste of time and paper. I might mention that Wolfe had dictated the memorandum, and I had typed it, and Laidlaw had signed it. Also, as instructed by Wolfe, as soon as Laidlaw had gone I phoned Saul Panzer, Fred Durkin, and Orrie Gather, and asked them to drop in at nine o’clock.
At six, on the dot as always, Wolfe entered and crossed to his desk. I collated the originals of the four finished pages, took them to him, and went back to the typewriter. I was rolling out the fifth page when he spoke.
“Archie.”
I twisted my neck. “Yes, sir?”
“Your attention, please.”
I swivelled. “Yes, sir.”
“You will agree that this is a devil of a problem, with monstrous difficulties in a disagreeable context.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I have asked you three times regarding your contention that Miss Usher did not commit suicide. The first time it was merely civil curiosity. The second time, in the presence of Mr Cramer, it was merely rhetorical, to give you an opportunity to voice your resolution. The third time, in the presence of Mr Laidlaw, it was merely by the way, since I knew you wouldn’t pull back with him here. Now I ask you again. You know how it stands. If I undertake this job, on the assumption that she was murdered, an assumption based solely on your testimony, you know what it will entail in time, energy, wit, and vexation. The expense will be on Mr Laidlaw, but the rest will be on me. I don’t care to risk, in addition, the chance that I am burrowing in an empty hole. So I ask you again.”
I nodded. “I knew this would come. Naturally. I stand pat. I can make a speech if you want one.”
“No. You have already explained your ground. I will only remind you that the circumstances as described by Mr Cramer indicate that it would have been impossible for anyone to poison that glass of champagne with any assurance that it would get to Miss Usher.”
“I heard him.”
“Yes. There is the same objection to supposing that it was intended for any other particular person, and its getting to Miss Usher was a mishap.”
“Right.”
“There is also the fact that she was the most likely target, since the poison was in her bag, making it highly probable that the conclusion would be that she had killed herself. But for you, that would be the conclusion. Therefore it was almost certainly intended for her.”
“Right.”
“But, for the reasons given by Mr Cramer, it couldn’t possibly have been intended for her.”
I grinned at him. “What the hell,” I said. “I know it’s a lulu. I admit I wouldn’t know where to start, but I’m not suppose
d to. That’s your part. Speaking of starting, Saul and Fred and Orrie will be here at nine o’clock.”
He made a face. He had to cook up chores for them, nine o’clock was less than three hours away, for one of the hours he would be dining, and he would not work his brain at the table.
“I have,” he growled, “only this moment committed myself, after consulting you. Mr Laidlaw’s cheque could have been returned.” He flattened his palms on the chair arms. “Then I’m in for it, and so are you. You will go tomorrow morning to that institution, Grantham House, and learn about Faith Usher. How she got there, when she came and when she left, what happened to her infant-everything. Cover it.”
“I will if I can get in. I mention as a fact, not an objection, that that place has certainly had a lot of visitors today. At least a dozen assorted journalists, not to mention cops. Have you any suggestions?”
“Yes. You told me yesterday morning that a man you know named Austin Byne had phoned to ask you to take his place at that gathering. Today Mr Laidlaw said that a man named Austin Byne, Mrs Robilotti’s nephew, had once gone to Grantham House on an errand for his aunt. I suppose the same man?”
“You suppose.” I crossed my legs. “It wouldn’t hurt you any, and would be good for my morale, if you let me take a trick now and then. Austin Byne had already occurred to me, and I asked for suggestions only to be polite. I already know what your powers of observation and memory are and you didn’t have to demonstrate them by remembering that I had mentioned his name on the fly and-Why the snort?”
“At the notion that your morale needs any encouragement. Do you know where to reach Mr Byne?”
I said I did and, before resuming at the typewriter, dialled his number. No answer. During the next hour and a half I interrupted my typing four times to dial the number, and still no answer. By then it was dinner-time. For himself, Wolfe will permit nothing and no one to interfere with the course of a meal, and, since we dine together in the dining-room, my leaving the table is a sort of interference and he doesn’t like it, but that time I had to. Three times during dinner I went to the office to dial Byne’s number, with no luck, and I tried again when, having finished the baked pears, we transferred to the office and Fritz brought coffee. I accept a “no answer” verdict only after counting thirteen rings, and had got nine when the doorbell rang and Fritz announced Saul Panzer. The other two came a minute later.
That trio, the three that Wolfe always called on when we needed more eyes and ears and legs, were as good as you could get in the metropolitan area. In fact, Saul Panzer, a little guy with a big nose who never wore a hat, compromising on a cap when the weather was rough, was better. With an office and a staff he could have cleaned up, but that wouldn’t have left him enough time for playing the piano or playing pinochle or keeping up with his reading, so he preferred to freelance at seventy bucks a day. Fred Durkin, bulky and bald-headed, had his weak points, but he was worth at least half as much as Saul, which was his price, if you gave him the right kind of errands. If Orrie Gather had been as smart as he was brave and handsome he would have been hiring people instead of being hired, and Wolfe would have had to find someone else, which wouldn’t have been easy because good operatives are scarce.
They were on yellow chairs in a row facing Wolfe’s desk. We hadn’t seen any of them for two months, and civilities had been exchanged, including handshakes. They are three of the nine or ten people to whom Wolfe willingly offers a hand. Saul and Orrie had accepted offers of coffee; Fred had preferred beer.
Wolfe sipped coffee, put his cup down, and surveyed them. “I have undertaken,” he said, “to find an explanation for something that can’t possibly be explained.”
Fred Durkin frowned, concentrating. He had decided long ago that there was a clue in every word Wolfe uttered, and he wasn’t going to miss one if he could help it. Orrie Gather smiled to show that he recognized a gag when he heard it, and finally appreciated it. Saul Panzer said, “Then the job is to invent one.”
Wolfe nodded. “It may come to that, Saul. Either that or abandon it. Usually, as you know, I merely give you specific assignments, but in this case you will have to be told the situation and the background. We are dealing with the death of a woman named Faith Usher who drank poisoned champagne at the home of Mrs Robert Robilotti. I suppose you have heard of it.”
They all had.
Wolfe drank coffee. “But you should know all that I know, except the identity of my client. Yesterday morning Archie got a phone call from a man he knows, by name Austin Byne, the nephew of Mrs Robilotti. He asked Archie…”
Seeing that I could be spared for a while, and thinking it was time for another try at Byne, I got up, circled around the trio, went to the kitchen, and dialled the number on the extension there. After five rings I was thinking I was going to draw a blank again, but then I had a voice saying hallo.
“Byne?” I asked. “Dinky Byne?”
“Who is this?”
“Archie Goodwin.”
“Oh, hallo there. I’ve been thinking you might call. To give me hell for getting you into a mess. I don’t blame you. Go on and say it.”
“I could all right, but I’ve got another idea. You said you’d return the favour some day, and tomorrow is the day. I want to run up to Grantham House and have a talk with someone there, preferably the woman in charge, and they’re probably having too many visitors and won’t let me in. So I thought you might say a word for me-on the phone, or write a letter I can take, or maybe even go along. How about it?”
Silence. Then: “What makes you think a word from me would help?”
“You’re Mrs Robilotti’s nephew. And I heard somebody say, I forget who, that she has sent you there on errands.”
Another silence. “What are you after? What do you want to talk about?”
“I’m just curious about something. Some questions the cops have asked me because I was there last night, the mess you got me into, have made me curious.”
“What questions?”
“That’s a long story. Also complicated. Just say I’m nosy by nature, that’s why I’m in the detective business. Maybe I’m trying to scare up a client. Anyway, I’m not asking you to attend a death by poisoning, as you did me, though you didn’t know it. I just want you to make a phone call.”
“I can’t, Archie.”
“No? Why not?”
“Because I’m not in a position to. It wouldn’t be-It might look as if-I mean I just can’t do it.”
“Okay, forget it. I’ll have to feed some other curiosity-I’ve got plenty. For instance, my curiosity about why you asked me to fill in for you because you had such a cold you could hardly talk when you didn’t have a cold-at least not the kind you tried to fake, I haven’t told the cops about that, your faking the cold, so I guess I’d better do that and ask them to ask you why. I’m curious.”
“You’re crazy. I did have a cold. I wasn’t faking.”
“Nuts. Take care of yourself. I’ll be seeing you, or the cops will.”
Silence, a short one. “Don’t hang up, Archie.”
“Why not? Make an offer.”
“I want to talk this over. I want to see you, but I don’t want to leave here because I’m expecting a phone call. Maybe you could come here?”
“Where is here?”
“My apartment. Eighty-seven Bowdoin Street, in the Village. It’s two blocks south-”
“I know where it is. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Take some aspirin.”
When I had hung up, Fritz, who was at the sink, turned to say, “As I thought, Archie. I knew there would be a client, since you were there.”
I told him I’d have to think that over to decide how to take it, and went to the office to tell the conference it would have to manage without me for a while.
Chapter Seven
There’s no telling what 87 Bowdoin Street had been like a few years back-or rather, there is, if you know the neighbourhood-but someone had spent some dough on it, a
nd it wasn’t at all bad when you got inside. The tile floor was a nice dark green, the walls were a lighter green but the same tone, and the frame of the entrance for the do-it-yourself elevator was outlined with a plain wide strip of dull aluminium. Having been instructed over the intercom in the vestibule, I entered the elevator and pushed the button marked 5.
When I emerged on the fifth floor Byne was there to greet me and ushered me in. After taking my hat and coat he motioned me through a doorway, and I found myself in a room that I would have been perfectly willing to move to when the day came that Wolfe fired me or I quit, with perhaps a few minor changes. The rugs and chairs were the kind I like, and the lights were okay, and there was no fireplace. I hate fireplaces. When Byne had got me in a chair and asked if I would like a drink, and I had declined with thanks, he stood facing me. He was tall and lanky and loose-jointed, with not much covering for his face bones except skin.
“That was a hell of a mess I got you into,” he said. “I’m damn sorry.”
“Don’t mention it,” I told him. “I admit I wondered a little why you picked me. If you want some free advice, free but good, next time you want to cook up a reason for skipping something, don’t overdo it. If you make it a cold, not that kind of a cold, just a plain everyday virus.”
He turned a chair around and sat. “Apparently you’ve convinced yourself that was a fake.”
“Sure I have, but my convincing myself doesn’t prove anything. The proof would have to be got, and of course it could be if it mattered enough-items like people you saw or talked to Monday evening, or phoned to yesterday or they phoned you, and whoever keeps this place so nice and clean, if she was here yesterday-things like that. That would be for the cops. If I needed any proof personally, I got it when as soon as I mentioned that the cold was a fake you had to see me right away. So why don’t we just file that?”