Rex Stout_Nero Wolfe 01

by Fer-De-Lance

  Back of the house, over the knoll, was an immense flat meadow. I was sent in that direction, along a narrow graveled drive, by a fat man in a butler’s uniform who came out of the house as I drove up. In the large meadow were no stone fences; it was level and clean and recently mowed and was certainly perfect for a private landing field. On the edge about halfway down its length was a low concrete building with a flat roof, and the graveled drive took me there. There was a wide and long concrete runway in front, and two cars were parked on it.

  I found Manuel Kimball inside, washing his hands at a sink. The place was mostly full of airplane, a big one with black wings and a red body, sitting on its tail. In it tinkering with something was a man in overalls. Everything was neat and clean, with tools and oil cans and a lot of junk arranged on steel shelves that ran along one side. Beside the sink there was even a rack with three or four clean towels on it.

  “My name’s Goodwin,” I said.

  Kimball nodded. “Yes, I was expecting you. I’m through here for the day; we might as well go to the house and be comfortable.” He spoke to the man in overalls. “Let that wait till tomorrow if you want to, Skinner, I won’t be going up till afternoon.” When he had finished wiping his hands he led me out and took his car, and I got in the roadster and drove back to the house.

  He was decent and polite, no doubt about that, even if he did look like a foreigner and had made me nervous at lunch. He took me into a large room in front and steered me to a big comfortable leather chair and told the fat butler to bring us some highballs. When he saw me looking around he said that the house had been furnished by his father and himself after their personal tastes, since there had been no women to consider and they both disliked decorators.

  I nodded. “Miss Barstow told me your mother died a long time ago.”

  I said it casually, without thinking, but I always have my eye on whoever I’m talking to, and I was surprised at what went over his face. It was a spasm, you couldn’t call it anything else. It only lasted a fraction of a second, but for that moment something was certainly hurting him inside. I didn’t know whether it was just because I had mentioned his mother or he really had a pain; anyhow, I didn’t try it again.

  He said, “I understand that you are investigating the death of Miss Barstow’s father.”

  “Yes. At her request, in a way. Larry Barstow’s father too, and Mrs. Barstow’s husband, at the same time.”

  He smiled and his black eyes swerved to me. “If that is your first question, Mr. Goodwin, it is neatly put. Bravo. The answer is no, I have no right to distinguish the dead man in that fashion. No right, that is, but my own inclination. I admire Miss Barstow—very much.”

  “Good. So do I. It wasn’t a question, just a remark. What I really want to ask you about is what took place on the first tee that Sunday afternoon. I suppose you’ve told the story before.”

  “Yes. Twice to a detective whose name is Corbett, I believe, and once to Mr. Anderson.”

  “Then you ought to have it by heart. Would you mind telling it again?”

  I sat back with my highball and listened without interrupting. I didn’t use my notebook because I already had Larry’s tale to check with and I could record any differences later. Manuel Kimball was precise and thorough. When he got through there was little left to ask, but there were one or two points I wasn’t satisfied on, particularly one on which he differed from Larry. Manuel said that after Barstow thought a wasp had stung him he had dropped his driver on the ground and his caddy had picked it up; Larry had said that his father had hung onto the driver with one hand when he was opening his shirt to see what had happened to him. Manuel said he felt sure he was right but didn’t insist on it if Larry remembered otherwise. It didn’t seem of great importance, since the driver had in any event got back into the bag, and in all other respects Manuel’s story tallied with Larry’s.

  Encouraged by his sending for more highballs, I spread the conversation out a little. He didn’t seem to object. I learned that his father was a grain broker and went every day to his office in New York, on Pearl Street, and that he, Manuel, was considering the establishment of an airplane factory. He was, he said, a thoroughly skilled pilot, and he had spent a year at the Fackler works in Buffalo. His father had engaged to furnish the necessary capital, though he doubted the soundness of the venture and was entirely skeptical about airplanes. Manuel thought Larry Barstow showed promise of a real talent in structural design and hoped to be able to persuade him to take a share in the enterprise. He said:

  “Naturally Larry is not himself just at present, and I’m not trying to rush him. No wonder, first his father’s sudden death, and then the autopsy with its astonishing results.—By the way, Mr. Goodwin, of course everybody around here is wondering how Nero Wolfe—that’s it, isn’t it?—how he was able to predict those results in such remarkable detail. Anderson, the District Attorney, hints at his own sources of information—he did so to me the other day, sitting in the chair you’re in now—but the truth of the matter is pretty generally known. At Green Meadow day before yesterday there were only two topics: who killed Barstow, and how Nero Wolfe found out. What are you going to do, disclose the answers to both riddles at the same dramatic moment?”

  “Maybe. I hope so, Mr. Kimball. Anyway we won’t answer that last one first.—No, thanks, none for me. With another of your elegant highballs I might answer almost anything. They won’t come any better than that even after repeal.”

  “Then by all means have one. Naturally, like everybody else, I’m curious. Nero Wolfe must be an extraordinary man.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you.” I threw my head back to get the end of the highball, and with the slick ice-lumps sliding across my upper lip let the last rare drops tickle in, then suddenly came down with the glass and my chin at the same time. It was just one of my little tricks. All I saw was Manuel Kimball looking curious, and he had just said he was curious, so it couldn’t be said that I had made any subtle discovery. I said, “If Nero Wolfe isn’t extraordinary Napoleon never got higher than top-sergeant. I’m sorry I can’t tell you his secrets, but I’ve got to earn what he pays me somehow even if it’s only by keeping my mouth shut. Which reminds me.” I glanced at my wrist. “It must be about your dinner time. You’re been very hospitable, Mr. Kimball. I appreciate it, and so will Nero Wolfe.”

  “You’re quite welcome. Don’t hurry on my account. My father won’t be home and I dislike eating alone. I’ll run over to the club for dinner later.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Your father won’t be home? That throws me out a little. I had figured on finding a bite to eat in Pleasantville or White Plains and coming back for a little talk with him. In fact, I was just about to ask you for a favor: to tell him I was coming.” “I’m sorry.”

  “He won’t be back tonight?” “No. He went to Chicago on business last week. Your disappointment isn’t the first one. Anderson and that detective have been wiring him every day, I don’t exactly see why. After all, he barely knew Barstow. I imagine their telegrams won’t start him back till he’s through with his business. My father is like that. He finishes things.”

  “When do you expect him?” “I hardly know. Around the fifteenth, he thought when he left.”

  “Well. That’s too bad. It’s just routine, of course, but any detective would want to complete the foursome, and since you can’t do me the favor with your father that I wanted to ask, maybe you will do me another one. More routine. Tell me where you were between seven o’clock and midnight Monday evening, June fifth. That was the evening before the Barstow funeral. Did you go to the funeral? This was the evening before.”

  Manuel Kimball’s black eyes were straight at me, concentrated, like a man trying to remember. “I went to the funeral,” he said. “Yes, that was Tuesday. A week ago today. Oh yes. I think it was; yes, I’m sure. Skinner would know. I was in the clouds.”

  “In the clouds?”

  He nodded. “I’ve been trying flying and landing at
night. A couple of times in May, and again that Monday. Skinner would know; he helped me off and I had him wait till I got back to make sure the lights would be in order. It’s quite a trick, very different from the daytime.”

  “What time did you go up?”

  “Around six o’clock. Of course it wasn’t dark until nearly nine, but I wanted to be ahead of the twilight.”

  “You got well ahead of it all right. When did you get back?”

  “Ten or a little after. Skinner would know that too; we fooled around with the timer till midnight.”

  “Did you go up alone?”

  “Completely.” Manuel Kimball smiled at me with his lips, but it appeared to me that his eyes weren’t co-operating. “You must admit, Mr. Goodwin, that I’m being pretty tolerant. What the devil has my flying Monday night or any other night got to do with you? If I wasn’t so curious I might have reason to be a little irritated. Don’t you think?”

  “Sure.” I grinned. “I’d be irritated if I was you. But anyway I’m much obliged. Routine, Mr. Kimball, just the damn routine.” I got up and shook a leg to get the cuff of my trousers down. “And I am much obliged and I appreciate it. I should think it would be more fun flying at night than in the daytime.”

  He was on his feet too, polite. “It is. But do not feel obliged. It is going to distinguish me around here to have talked to Nero Wolfe’s man.”

  He called the fat butler to bring my hat.

  Half an hour later, headed south around the curves of the Bronx River Parkway, I was still rolling him over on my mind’s tongue. Since there was no connection at all between him and Barstow or the driver or anything else, it could have been for no other reason than because he made me nervous. And yet Wolfe said that I had no feeling for phenomena! The next time he threw that at me I would remind him of my mysterious misgivings about Manuel Kimball, I decided. Granted, of course, that it turned out that Manuel had murdered Barstow, which I had to confess didn’t seem very likely at that moment.

  When I got home, around half-past eight, Wolfe had finished dinner. I had phoned from the drugstore on the Grand Concourse, and Fritz had a dish of flounder with his best cheese sauce hot in the oven, with a platter of lettuce and tomatoes and plenty of good cold milk. Considering my thin lunch at the Barstows’ and the hour I was getting my knees under the table, it wasn’t any too much. I cleaned it up. Fritz said it seemed good to have me busy and out working again.

  I said, “You’re darned right it does. This dump would be about ready for the sheriff if it wasn’t for me.”

  Fritz giggled. He’s the only man I’ve ever known who could giggle without giving you doubts about his fundamentals.

  Wolfe was in his chair in the office, playing with flies. He hated flies and very few ever got in there, but two had somehow made it and were fooling around on his desk. Much as he hated them, he couldn’t kill them; he said that while a live fly irritated him to the point of hatred, a killed one outraged his respect for the dignity of death, which was worse. My opinion was it just made him sick. Anyway, he was in his chair with the swatter in his hand, seeing how close to the fly he could lower it without the fly taking off. When I went in he handed me the swatter and I let them have it and raked them into the wastebasket.

  “Thank you,” Wolfe said. “Those confounded insects were trying to make me forget that one of the Dendrobiums chlorostele is showing two buds.”

  “No! Really?”

  He nodded. “That one in half sunlight. The others have been moved over.”

  “One for Horstmann.”

  “Yes. Who killed Barstow?”

  I grinned. “Give me a chance. The name just escapes me—I’ll remember it in a minute.”

  “You should have written it down.—No, just your light. That’s better. Did you get enough to eat?—Proceed.”

  That report was an in-between; I wasn’t proud of it or ashamed of it either. Wolfe scarcely interrupted once throughout; he sat as he always did when I had a long story; leaning back, his chin on his chest, his elbows on the arms of the chair with his fingers interlaced on his belly, his eyes half closed but always on my face. Halfway through he stopped me to have Fritz bring some beer, then with two bottles and a glass within reach at the edge of the table he resumed his position. I went on to the end. It was midnight.

  He sighed. I went to the kitchen for a glass of milk. When I got back he was pinching the top of his ear and looking sleepy.

  “Perhaps you had an impression,” he said.

  I sat down again. “Vague. Pretty watery. Mrs. Barstow is just some kind of a nut. She might have killed her husband or she might not, but of course she didn’t kill Carlo Maffei. For Miss Barstow you can use your own impression. Out. Her brother is out too, I mean on Maffei, his alibi for the fifth is so tight you could use it for a vacuum. Dr. Bradford must be a very interesting person, I would like to meet him some time. As for Manuel Kimball, I suppose there’s no chance he killed Barstow, but I’ll bet he runs over angels with his airplane.”

  “Why? Is he cruel? Does he sneer? Do his eyes focus badly?”

  “No. But look at his name. He made me nervous. He looks like a Spaniard. What’s he doing with the name Kimball?”

  “You haven’t seen his father.” “I know. Of course the bad news about the golf bag never being in his locker threw me off my stride and I was looking for something to kick.” “Bad news? Why bad?”

  “Well, good Lord. We thought we had the membership of the Green Meadow Club to run through the sifter, and now we’ve got everybody that’s been in Barstow’s home at the university for the past nine months.”

  “Oh no. By no means. No known poison, exposed to the air, by being smeared on a needle for instance, will retain an efficacy sufficient to kill a man as Barstow was killed for more than a day or two. Probably only a few hours. It depends on the poison.”

  I grinned at him. “That’s a help. What else did you read?”

  “A few interesting things. Many tiresome ones. So the golf bag’s itinerary is not bad news at all. Its later disappearance interests us only indirectly, for we never could have expected to come upon the driver. But who caused it to disappear and why?”

  “Sure. But as far as that’s concerned, who came to ask you to return the reward unopened and why? We already knew there’s someone in that family with funny ideas.”

  Wolfe wiggled a finger at me. “It is easier to recognize a style from a sentence than from a single word. But as for that, the removal of the golf bag from the scene was direct, bold and forthright, while the visit to our office, though direct enough, was merely desperate.”

  I said, “Doctors know all about poisons.”

  “Yes. This one—this Dr. Bradford—is satisfactorily forthright. Three times today I was told that he was too busy to come to the telephone, and the indication was that that condition could be expected to continue. You are intending to resume in the morning?”

  I nodded. “The club first, I thought, then the coroner, then back to town for Doc Bradford’s office. I’m sorry old Kimball’s gone; I’d like to clean up that foursome. You don’t think Saul Panzer would enjoy a trip to Chicago?”

  “It would cost a hundred dollars.”

  “That’s not much of a chunk out of fifty grand.”

  Wolfe shook his head. “You’re a spendthrift, Archie. And unnecessarily thorough. Let us first make sure no murderer can be found within the commuting area.”

  “Okay.” I got up and stretched. “Good night, sir.”

  “Good night, Archie.”

  Chapter 11

  There was a point on the public road from which the Green Meadow clubhouse could be seen, but at a considerable distance; to reach it you turned off the highway into a grove, and when you left that you were winding around a hollow. The clubhouse had a grove of its own, on top of a moderate hill; on one side were a bunch of tennis courts and an outdoor pool, everywhere else, in all directions, were smooth rolling fairways dotted with little tee pla
teaus, sand traps of various shapes and sizes, and the vivid velvet carpets of the putting greens. There were two courses of eighteen holes each; the Barstow foursome had started on the north course, the long one.

  The club professional, who had dined with us at Wolfe’s place Monday evening, wasn’t there yet when I arrived and wasn’t expected until eleven o’clock, so the only introduction I had to offer was Larry Barstow’s phone call the preceding afternoon which had been received by the chief steward. He was nice enough and went with me out to the caddy master. Two of the caddies I wanted to see didn’t come on weekdays, since the schools they attended weren’t out yet, and the other two were out on the links somewhere with early morning matches. I monkeyed around for an hour trying to find someone for a page in the notebook, but as far as real information was concerned they were about as helpful as a bunch of Eskimos. I hopped in the roadster and beat it for White Plains.

  The coroner’s office was in the same building as Anderson’s, where I had been six days previously trying to get Wolfe’s money covered, and as I passed the door with District Attorney painted on the glass panel I stuck out my tongue at it. The coroner wasn’t in, but by luck there was a doctor there signing papers and he was the one who had done the Barstow autopsy. Before leaving home in the morning I had telephoned Sarah Barstow, and now this doctor told me that he had had a phone call from Lawrence Barstow and had been told that I would visit the coroner’s office as a representative of the Barstow family. I thought to myself, I’ll have that Barstow brat fixing my flat tires before I get through with this.

  But I came away as good as empty. Everything that the doctor could tell me I had read three days earlier in the newspapers except for a bunch of medical terms which the papers hadn’t tried to print for fear of a typesetters’ strike. I don’t high-hat technical words, because I know there are a lot of things that can’t be said any other way, but the doctor’s lengthy explanation simply boiled down to this, that nothing conclusive could be said regarding the poison that had killed Barstow, because no one had been able to analyze it. Additional tissues had been sent to a New York laboratory but no report had been received. The needle had been taken by the District Attorney and was presumably being tested elsewhere.