by Fer-De-Lance
“Mr. Goodwin. Why did Mr. Wolfe send me up here?”
I shook my head. “No good, Miss Barstow. Even if I knew I wouldn’t tell you, and since I don’t know we might as well look at the flowers.” As I opened the door to the passage Horstmann appeared from the potting room. “All right, Horstmann. May we look around a little?” He nodded and trotted back.
As many times as I had been there, I never went in the plant-rooms without catching my breath. It was like other things I’ve noticed, for instance no matter how often you may have seen Snyder leap in the air and one-handed spear a hot liner like one streak of lightning stopping another one, when you see it again your heart stops. It was that way in the plant-rooms. Wolfe used concrete benches and angle-iron staging, with a spraying system Horstmann had invented for humidity. There were three main rooms, one for Cattleyas Laelias and hybrids, one for Odontoglossums, Oncidiums and Miltonia hybrids, and the tropical room. Then there was the potting room, Horstmann’s den, and a little corner room for propagation. Supplies-pots, sand, sphagnum, leafmold, loam, osmundine, charcoal, and crocks were kept in an unheated and unglazed room in the rear alongside the shaft where the outside elevator came up.
Since it was June the lath screens were on, and the slices of shade and sunshine made patterns everywhere—on the broad leaves, the blossoms, the narrow walks, the ten thousand pots. I liked it that way, it seemed gay.
It was a lesson to watch the flowers get Miss Barstow. Of course when she went in she felt about as much like looking at flowers as I did like disregarding her mother’s ad, and down the first rows of Cattleyas she tried to be polite enough to pretend there was something there to see. The first one that really brought her up was a small side-bunch, only twenty or so, of Laeliocattleya Lustre. I was pleased because it was one of my favorites. I stopped behind her.
“Astonishing,” she said. “I’ve never seen one like that. The colors—amazing.”
“Yes. It’s a bigeneric hybrid, they don’t come in nature like that.”
She got interested. In the next walk were some Brassocattlaelias Truffautianas and I cut off a couple and handed them to her. I told her a little about hybridization and seedlings and so on, but maybe she didn’t hear me. Then, in the next room, I had a disappointment. She liked the Odontoglossums better than the Cattleyas and hybrids! I suspected it was because they were more expensive and difficult, but it turned out that she hadn’t known that. No accounting for tastes, I thought. And best of all, even after we had been through the tropical room, she liked a little thing I had never looked at twice, a Miltonia blueanaeximina. She talked about its delicacy and form. I nodded and began to lose interest, and anyway I was wondering what Wolfe was up to. Then at last Fritz appeared. He came down the walk clear up to us and bent himself at the middle and said that Mr. Wolfe expected us. I grinned and would have liked to dig him in the ribs as I went by, but I knew he’d never forgive me.
Wolfe was still in his chair, and there was no indication that he had been out of it. He nodded at Miss Barstow’s chair and at mine, and waited till we were arranged to say:
“You liked the flowers?”
“They are wonderful.” She had a new eye on him, I could see that. “They are too much beauty.”
Wolfe nodded. “At first, yes. But a long intimacy frees you of that illusion, and it also acquaints you with their scantiness of character. The effect they have produced on you is only their bluff. There is not such a thing as too much beauty.”
“Perhaps.” She had lost interest in the orchids. “Yes, perhaps.”
“Anyway they passed your time. And of course you would like to know how I passed mine. First I telephoned my bank and asked them to procure immediately a report on the financial standing of Ellen Barstow, your mother, and the details of the will of Peter Oliver Barstow, your father. I then telephoned Dr. Bradford and endeavored to persuade him to call on me this afternoon or evening, but he will be otherwise engaged. I then sat and waited. Five minutes ago my bank telephoned me the report I had requested. I sent Fritz for you. Those were my activities.”
She was getting worked up again. Her lips were getting tight. Apparently she didn’t intend to open them.
He went on. “I said I would have a proposal for you. Here it is. Your notebook, Archie. Verbatim, please. I shall use my best efforts to find the murderer of Peter Oliver Barstow. I shall disclose the result of my efforts to you, Sarah Barstow, and if you interpose no objection I shall also disclose them to the proper public authorities, and at the proper time shall expect a check for the sum your mother has offered as a reward. But if my inquiries lead to the conclusion that the murderer is actually the person you fear it is, whom you are now endeavoring to shield from justice, there will be no further disclosure. Mr. Goodwin and I will know; no one else ever will. Just a moment! This is a speech, Miss Barstow; please hear all of it. Two more points. You must understand that I can make this proposal with propriety. I am not a public servant , I am not even a member of the bar, and I have sworn to uphold no law. The dangerous position of an accessory after the fact does not impress me. Then: if your fears prove to be justified, and I withhold disclosure, what of the reward? I find I am too sentimental and romantic to make it part of this proposal that under those circumstances the reward shall be paid. The word blackmail actually strikes me as unpleasant. But though I am handicapped by romance and sentiment, at least I have not pride further to hamper me, and if you should choose to present a gift it would be accepted.—Read it aloud, Archie, to make sure it is understood.”
Miss Barstow’s voice was first: “But this—it’s absurd! It—”
Wolfe wiggled a finger at her. “Don’t. Please. You would deny that you came here with that nonsense to shield someone? Miss Barstow! Really now. Let us keep this on a decent level of intelligence. Read it, Archie.”
I read it through from my notes. When I had finished Wolfe said, “I advise you to take it, Miss Barstow. I shall proceed with my inquiry in any event, and if the result is what you fear it would be convenient for you to have the protection I offer. The offer, by the way, is purely selfish. With this agreement I shall expect your interest and co-operation, since it would be well for you, no matter what the outcome, to get it over with as speedily as possible; without it I shall expect considerable obstruction. I am no altruist or bon enfant, I am merely a man who would like to make some money. You said there was too much beauty upstairs; no, but there is too much expense. Have you any idea what it costs to grow orchids like that?”
Sarah Barstow only stared at him. “Come,” Wolfe said. “There will of course be no signing. This is what is humorously called a gentlemen’s agreement. The first step in fulfilling it will be for Mr. Goodwin to call at your home tomorrow morning—it can wait till then—to talk, with your permission, with yourself and your brother and mother and whosoever—”
“No!” she exploded. Then she shut up.
“But yes. I’m sorry, but it is essential. Mr. Goodwin is a man of discretion, common decency, and immeasurable valor. It really is essential.—I’ll tell you what, Miss Barstow.” He put his hands on the edge of the desk and shoved his chair back, moved his hands to the arms of the chair and got himself to his feet, and stood in front of her. “You go on home, or about your errands, whatever they may be. People often find it difficult to think in my presence, I do not leave enough space. I know you are suffering, your emotions are tormenting you with their unbearable clamor, but you must free your mind to do its work. Go. Buy hats, or keep a rendezvous, or attend to your mother, whatever you may have in mind. Telephone me this evening between six and seven and tell me what time Mr. Goodwin may arrive in the morning, or tell me that he is not to come and we are enemies. Go.”
She stood up. “Well—I don’t know—my God, I don’t know—”
“Please! That is not your mind speaking, it’s the foam of churned feelings and has no meaning. I do not wish to be your enemy.”
She was right in front of him, fa
cing him, with her chin tilted up so that her eyes could be on his. “I believe you,” she said. “I really believe you don’t.”
“Indeed, I do not. Good day, Miss Barstow.”
“Good day, Mr. Wolfe.”
I took her to the front door and let her out. I thought she might have handed me a good day too, but she didn’t. She didn’t say anything. As she went out I saw her car at the curb, a dark blue coupé.
Back in the office, Wolfe was in his chair again. I stood on the other side of the desk looking at him.
“Well,” I said, “what do you know about that?”
His cheeks folded. “I know I’m hungry, Archie. It is pleasant to have an appetite again. I’ve had none for weeks.”
Naturally I was indignant; I stared at him. “You can say that, after Friday and Saturday and Sunday—”
“But no appetite. A desperate search for one. Now I’m hungry. Lunch will be in twenty minutes. Meantime: I have learned that there is a person attached to a golf club called a professional. Find out who fills that post at the Green Meadow Club; see if we have any grateful client who might introduce us on the telephone; invite the professional, urgently, to dine with us this evening. There is a goose left from Saturday. After lunch you will pay a visit to the office of Dr. Nathaniel Bradford, and stop at the library for some books I need.”
“Yes, sir. Who do you think Miss Barstow—”
“Not now, Archie. I would prefer just to sit here quietly and be hungry. After lunch.”
Chapter 8
At ten o’clock Tuesday morning, June 13, I drove the roadster through the entrance gate of the Barstow place, after it had been opened for me by a state trooper who was there on guard. Another husky was with him, a private watchman of the Barstows’, and I had to furnish plenty of proof that I was the Archie Goodwin Sarah Barstow was expecting. It looked likely that many a newspaper man had been sent to climb a tree around there in the past three days.
The house was at the low point of a saddle between two hills about seven miles northeast of Pleasantville. It was built of stone, quite large, well over twenty rooms I should say, and there were a lot of outbuildings. After going through about three hundred yards of trees and shrubbery the drive circled around the edge of an immense sloping lawn and entered under the shelter of a roof with two steps up to a flagged terrace. This was really the side of the house; the front was around the corner looking over the lawn down the hill. There were gardens ahead as you entered, and more gardens at the other edge of the lawn, with boulders and a pool. As I eased the roadster along taking it in I thought to myself that fifty grand was nothing. I had on a dark blue suit, with a blue shirt and a tan tie, and of course my panama which I had had cleaned right after Decoration Day. I’ve found it’s a good idea to consider what kind of place you’re going to, and dress accordingly.
Sarah Barstow was expecting me at ten, and I was right on the dot. I parked the roadster in a graveled space the other side of the entrance, and pushed the button at the door on the terrace. It was standing open, but double screen doors kept me from seeing much inside. Soon there were footsteps and one of the screens came out at me and with it a tall skinny guy in a black suit.
He was polite. “If you will excuse me, sir. Mr. Goodwin?”
I nodded. “Miss Barstow expects me.”
“I know. If you will come this way. Miss Barstow would like you to join her in the garden.”
I followed him across the terrace and along a walk to the other side of the house, then down an arbor and among a lot of shubbery till we came to an acre of flowers. Miss Barstow was on a shady bench over in a corner.
“All right,” I said. “I see her.”
He stopped, inclined his head, and turned and went back.
She looked bad, worse than she had the day before. She probably hadn’t slept much. Forgetting or disregarding Wolfe’s instructions on that detail, she had telephoned before six o’clock. I had taken the call, and her voice had sounded as if she was having a hard time of it. She had been short and businesslike, just said she would expect me at ten in the morning and hung up.
She invited me to sit beside her on the bench. At bedtime the evening before Wolfe had given me no instructions whatever. Saying that he preferred to leave me fancy free, he had merely repeated his favorite saying, any spoke will lead an ant to the hub, and had reminded me that our great advantage lay in the fact that no one was aware how much or how little we knew and that on account of our original coup we were suspected of omniscience. He had finished, after a yawn that would have held a tennis ball: “Return here with that advantage unimpaired.”
I said to Miss Barstow, “You may not have any orchids here, but you certainly have a flower or two.”
She said, “Yes, I suppose so.—I asked Small to bring you out here because I thought we should not be interrupted. You will not mind.”
“No indeed. It’s nice out here. I’m sorry to have to pester you, but there’s no other way to get the facts. Wolfe says that he feels phenomena and I collect facts. I don’t think that means anything, having looked up the word phenomena in the dictionary, but I repeat it for what it’s worth.” I took out my notebook. “First just tell me things. You know, the family, how old are you, who you’re going to marry and so on.”
She sat with her hands together in her lap and told me. Some of it I had read in the papers or got out of Who’s Who, but I didn’t interrupt. There was only her mother, her brother and herself. Lawrence, her brother, was twenty-seven, two years older than her; he had graduated from Holland at twenty-one and had then proceeded to waste five years (and, I gathered between the lines, a good portion of his father’s time and patience also). A year ago he had suddenly discovered a talent for mechanical design and was now devoted to that, especially as applied to airplanes. Her mother and father had been mutually devoted for thirty years. She could not remember the beginning of her mother’s difficulty, for that had been years before when Sarah was a child; the family had never considered it a thing to be ashamed of or to attempt to conceal, merely a misfortune of a loved one to sympathize with and as far as possible to ameliorate. Dr. Bradford and two specialists described it in neurological terms, but they had never meant anything to Sarah, to her the terms had been dead and cold and her mother was alive and warm.
The place in Westchester was the old Barstow family estate, but the family was able to be there less than three months of the year since it was necessary to live at the university from September to June. They came each summer for ten or eleven weeks with the servants, and closed the place up each fall on leaving. They knew many people in the surrounding countryside; her father’s circle of acquaintance had of course been wide not only in Westchester, and some of his best and oldest friends lived within easy driving distance from the estate. She gave the names of these and I took them down. I also listed the names of the servants and details regarding them. I was doing that when Miss Barstow suddenly got up from the bench and moved away to the path in the sunshine, from under the shelter of the trees that shaded us. There was the sound of an airplane overhead, so close that it had forced us to raise our voices. I went on writing, “—Finnish, 6 yrs, NY agcy, sgl,” and then looked at her. Her head was way back showing all her throat, with her gaze straight above, and one arm was up waving a handkerchief back and forth. I jumped out from under the trees and cocked an eye at the airplane. It was right over us, down low, and two arms could be seen extended, one from one side and one from the other, waving back at her. The plane dipped a little, then swung around and headed back, and soon was out of sight behind the trees. She went back to the bench and I joined her; she was saying:
“That was my brother. This is the first time he has been up since my father—”
“He must be pretty reckless, and he certainly has long arms.”
“He doesn’t fly; at least, not solo. That was Manuel Kimball with him, it’s Mr. Kimball’s plane.”
“Oh. One of the foursome.”
I nodded and went back to facts. I was ready for golf. Peter Oliver Barstow had not been a zealot, she said. He had rarely played at the university, and not oftener than once a week, occasionally twice, during the summer. He had nearly always gone to Green Meadow, where he was a member; he of course had had a locker and kept his paraphernalia there. He had been quite good, considering the infrequency of his play, averaging from ninety-five to a hundred. He had played usually with friends his own age, but sometimes with his son and daughter. His wife had never tried it. The foursome of that fatal Sunday, E. D. Kimball and his son Manuel and Barstow and his son Lawrence, had never before played together, she thought. Probably it had been an accident of propinquity; her brother had not mentioned whether it had been prearranged, but she knew that he did sometimes have a game with Manuel. She especially doubted that the foursome had been arranged beforehand because it had been her father’s first appearance at Green Meadow that summer; the Barstows had come to Westchester three weeks earlier than their custom on account of Mrs. Barstow’s condition, and Barstow had expected to return to the university that Sunday night.
When she had said that Sarah Barstow stopped. I glanced up from my notebook. Her fingers were twisted together and she was staring off at the path, at nothing. She said, not to me, “Now he will not return there at all. All the things he wanted to do—all he would have done—not at all—”
I waited a little and then shook her out of it by asking, “Did your father leave his golf bag at Green Meadow all year?”
She turned back to me. “No. Why—of course not, because he sometimes used them at the university.”
“He had only the one bag of clubs?”
“Yes!” She seemed emphatic.