by Fer-De-Lance
“Anyway,” I said, “there’s no chance he died of old age or something? He was actually poisoned? He died a violent death?”
The doctor nodded. “Absolutely. Something remarkably virulent. Hæmolysis—”
“Sure. Just between you and me, what is your opinion of a doctor who would go up to a man who had just died like that and would say coronary thrombosis?”
He stiffened as if he had just got rigor mortis himself, only much quicker. “That is not a question for me to decide, Mr. Goodwin.”
“I didn’t ask you to decide anything, I just asked your opinion.”
“I haven’t got any.”
“You mean you have, only you’re going to keep it to remember me by. All right. Much obliged.”
On my way out of the building I would have liked to stop in and ask Derwin for Ben Cook’s telephone number or some such pleasantry, but I had too much on my mind. By the time I got back to the Green Meadow Club it was nearly noon and I had pretty well decided that life would be nothing but a dreary round until I had had the pleasure of meeting Dr. Bradford. The two caddies were there. Their boss rounded them up for me, and I made a deal with them: I would get sandwiches, two apiece, bananas, ice cream, and root beer, and we would go over under a tree and eat, drink and be merry, provided they wouldn’t expect me to pay for their lost time. They signed up and we collected the provisions from the lunch counter and found the tree.
One of them, a skinny pale kid with brown hair, had been Manuel Kimball’s caddy and the other had been Peter Oliver Barstow’s. This other was a chunky lad with snappy brown eyes and a lot of freckles; his name was Mike Allen. After we got arranged under the tree, before he took his first bite he said: “You know, mister, we don’t get paid.” “What do you mean, you work for fun?” “We don’t get paid all the time, only when we’re out on a round. We’re not losing any time. We couldn’t get another match till after lunch anyhow.”
“Oh. You don’t say so. You’re too darned honest. If you don’t watch out you’ll get a job in a bank. Go on and eat your sandwich.”
While we chewed I got them onto the Barstow foursome. The way they rattled it off it was easy to see they hadn’t gone over it more than a thousand times, with Anderson and Corbett of course, the other caddies, families and friends at home. They were glib and ready with an answer on every little detail, and that made it pretty hopeless to try to get anything fresh out of them, for they had drawn the picture so many times that they were now doing it with their eyes shut. Not that I really expected a damn thing, but I had long since learned from Wolfe that the corner the light doesn’t reach is the one the dime rolled to. There was no variation worth mentioning from the versions I had got from Larry Barstow and Manuel Kimball. By the time the sandwiches and stuff were down I saw that the pale skinny kid was milked dry, so I sent him back to his boss. Chunky Mike I kept a while, sitting with him under the tree. He had some sense in him and he might have noticed something: for instance, how Dr. Bradford had acted when he arrived at the scene on the fourth fairway. But I didn’t get a bite there. He only remembered that the doctor had been out of breath when he had run up with everyone waiting for him, and when he stood up after examining Barstow he had been white and calm.
I checked up on the golf bag. There was no uncertainty in him about that; he had positively put it in the front of Barstow’s car, leaning against the driver’s seat.
I said, “Of course, Mike, you were pretty excited. At a time like that everybody is. Isn’t there a chance you put it in some other car?”
“No, sir. I couldn’t. There was no other car there.”
“Maybe it was someone else’s bag you put in.”
“No, sir. I’m not a dummy. When you’re a caddy you get so you glance at the heads to make sure all the clubs are in, and after I leaned the bag against the seat I did that, and I remember seeing all the new heads.”
“New heads?”
“Sure, they were all new.”
“What made them new? Do you mean Barstow had had new heads put on?”
“No, sir, they were new clubs. The new bag of clubs his wife gave him.”
“What!”
“Sure.”
I didn’t want to startle him; I picked a blade of grass and chewed on it. “How do you know his wife gave them to him?”
“He told me.”
“How did he happen to tell you?”
“Well, when I went up to him he shook hands and said he was glad to see me again, of course he was one of my babies last year—”
“For God’s sake, Mike, wait a minute. What do you mean he was one of your babies?”
The kid grinned. “That’s what us fellows call it. When a man likes us for a caddy and won’t take another one he’s our baby.”
“I see. Go on.”
“He said he was glad to see me again, and when I took his bag I saw they were all new Hendersons, genuine, and he said he was glad to see I admired the new clubs his wife had given him for his birthday.”
There were a couple of bananas left and I handed him one and he began peeling it. I watched him. After a minute I said:
“Do you know that Barstow was killed by a poison needle shot out of the handle of a golf driver?”
His mouth was full. He waited till most of it was down before he answered. “I know that’s what they say.”
“Why, don’t you believe it?”
He shook his head. “They’ve got to show me.”
“Why?”
“Well—” He took another bite and swallowed it. “I don’t believe you could do it. I’ve handled a lot of golf clubs. I just don’t believe it.”
I grinned at him. “You’re a skeptic, Mike. You know what my boss says? He says that skepticism is a good watchdog if you know when to take the leash off. I don’t suppose you happen to know when Barstow had a birthday?”
He didn’t know that. I started to fish around a little more, here and there, but there didn’t seem to be any more nibbles in that pool. Besides, the lunch hour was over, afternoon players were beginning to stroll up, and I saw Mike had his eyes on the caddy benches and was beginning to lose interest in me. I was about ready to scramble up and tell him the picnic was over, but he beat me to it. He was on his feet with a sudden spring, the kind young legs can make, and he tossed at me, “Excuse me, mister, that guy’s my baby,” and was off.
I gathered up the papers and banana skins and went to the clubhouse. There were a good many more people around than when I had arrived in the morning, and finally I had to send an attendant for the chief steward because I couldn’t find him. He was busy, but he took time to show me where the library was and tell me to help myself. I looked around the shelves and in a minute had it spotted, the fat red Who’s Who in America. I turned to the entry I had already read in Wolfe’s office: BARSTOW, Peter Oliver, author, educator, physicist; b. Chatham, III., Apr. 9, 1875 …
I put the book back and went out to the lobby where I had seen some telephone booths, and called Sarah Barstow at her home and asked if I could drop in to see her for a minute. It was only a couple of miles out of my way returning to New York, and I thought I might as well clean this detail up. As I was going along the veranda to where I had parked the roadster I met Manuel Kimball. He was with some people, but when he saw me he nodded and I returned it, and I could guess what he was saying to the people with him because after I got past they turned to look at me. Ten minutes later I was on the Barstow drive. Small took me to a room in front that I hadn’t been in the day before. In a little while Sarah Barstow came in. She looked pale and determined, and I realized that with my phone call I must have scared her some more without wanting to. I should have been a little more explanatory; I don’t believe in pulling a dog’s tail if there’s anything else to do. I got up. She didn’t sit down. “I’ll only keep you a minute,” I said. “I wouldn’t have bothered you, only I ran across something that made me curious. Please tell me, was your father’s birthday April ninth?”
She looked as if she was trying to breathe. She nodded.
“Did your mother give him a bag of golf clubs his last birthday?”
“Oh!” she said, and put her hand on the back of a chair.
“Listen, Miss Barstow. Buck up. I think you know Nero Wolfe wouldn’t lie to you, and while he’s paying me you can regard me as Nero Wolfe. We might try tricky questions on you, but we wouldn’t tell you an honest lie. If you’ve been nursing the idea that the driver your father killed himself with was in the bag when your mother gave it to him on his birthday, forget it. We have reason to know it couldn’t have been. Impossible.”
She just looked at me with her lips working but not opening. I don’t believe she would have been able to stand without her hand on the chair. She had a good hold on it.
I said, “Maybe I’m telling you something and maybe I’m not. But I’ve brought this right to you as soon as I found it out, and I’m giving it to you straight. If it’s any help to you, you’re welcome, and how about making it fifty-fifty? I could use a little help too. Was that what was eating you, that birthday present? Was that the reason for all the fol-de-rol?”
She got her tongue working at last but all she said was, “I don’t believe you would lie to me. It would be too cruel.”
“I wouldn’t. But even if I would, I know about the birthday present anyhow, so you can answer my simple question without running a temperature. Was that what was eating you?”
“Yes,” she said. “That—and—yes, it was that.” “What else was it?” “Nothing. My mother—”
“Sure.” I nodded. “Your mother got goofy sometimes and got ideas about your father, and she gave him a golf bag on his birthday. What else?”
“Nothing.” She took her hand off the chair, but put it back again. “Mr. Goodwin. I think—I’ll sit down.”
I went and took her arm and shoved the chair back a little with my foot, and held onto her until she got seated. She shut her eyes and I stood and waited till she opened them again.
“You’re right,” she said. “I ought to buck up. I’m no good. It has been a strain. Not only this, a long while. I always thought my mother was a wonderful woman, I still think so, I know she is. But it is so ugly! Dr. Bradford says he believes that now, since Father is dead, Mother will be completely cured and will never again have any—difficulties. But much as I love my mother, that is too high a price. I think we would be better off without modern psychology, everything it tells us is so ugly. It was at my father’s suggestion that I studied it.”
“Anyway, this is one thing off your mind.”
“Yes. I can’t appreciate it yet, but I will. I ought to thank you, Mr. Goodwin, I’m sorry. You say that my mother had nothing—that she couldn’t—”
“I say that the driver that killed your father wasn’t anywhere on April ninth. It didn’t exist until at least a month later.”
“How sure are you?”
“Just damn sure.”
“Well. That’s a good deal.” She tried to smile at me, and I admired her nerve, for it was easy to see that she was so near gone from worry and grief and loss of sleep that you might as well have expected a guffaw from Job. Anyone with an ounce of decency in him would have got up and left her alone with the good news I’d brought her; but business is business, and it wouldn’t have been right to pass up the chance that she was unstrung enough to loosen up at a vital point. I said:
“Don’t you think you might tell me who took the golf bag from the car and where it is now? Now that we know that the driver is not the one that was in it when your mother gave it to him?”
She said without hesitation, “Small took it from the car.”
My heart jumped the way it did when I saw Wolfe’s lips push out. She was going to spill it! I went right on without giving her time to consider, “Where did he take it to?”
“Upstairs. To Father’s room.”
“Who took it away from there?”
“I did. Saturday evening, after Mr. Anderson came. It was Sunday that the men searched the house for it.”
“Where did you put it?”
“I drove to Tarrytown and got on the ferry and dropped it in the middle of the river. I filled it full of stones.”
“You’re lucky they weren’t tailing you. Of course you examined the driver. Did you take it apart?”
“I didn’t examine it. I—was in a hurry.”
“You didn’t examine it? You mean you didn’t even take it out and look at it?”
“No.”
I stared at her. “I’ve got a better opinion of you. I don’t believe you’re such an awful fool. You’re stringing me.”
“No. No, I’m not, Mr. Goodwin.”
I still stared. “You mean you actually did all that? Without even looking at the driver? Leave it to a woman! What were your brother and Bradford doing, playing billiards?”
She shook her head. “They had nothing to do with it.”
“But Bradford says that your mother will be all right now that your father’s dead.”
“Well? If that is his opinion—” She stopped; the mention of her mother had been a mistake, it had her down again. After a minute she looked up at me, and for the first time I saw tears in her eyes. Two hung there. “You wanted me to go fifty-fifty, Mr. Goodwin. That’s my share.”
Something about her, the tears maybe, made her look like nothing but a kid, trying to be brave. I reached down and patted her on the shoulder and said:
“You’re a good sport, Miss Barstow. I’ll let you alone.”
I went to the hall and got my hat and left.
BUT, I thought, in the roadster again headed south down the highway. Plenty of BUT. Part of it was that as much as I respected filial devotion and as much as I liked Sarah Barstow, it would have been a real satisfaction to put her across my knees and pull up her skirts and giver her a swell fanning, for not taking a look at that driver. I had to believe her and I did believe her. She hadn’t made that up. Now the driver was gone for good. With a lot of luck and patience it might have been grappled out of the river, but it would have cost more money than Nero Wolfe was apt to let go of. It was just simply good-bye driver. As I went through White Plans it was a temptation to leave the Parkway and run over to the District Attorney’s office and say to Anderson, “I’ll bet you ten dollars that the golf bag containing the driver that killed Barstow is at the bottom of the Hudson River halfway between Tarrytown and Nyack.” It wouldn’t have been a bad idea at that, for he might have sent a couple of boats out and found it. But as things turned out it was just as well I didn’t.
I had had it in mind to go back to New York by another route, Blueberry Road, and just for curiosity take a look at the spot where Carlo Maffei’s body had been found; not that I expected to discover that the murderer had left his scarfpin or automobile license lying around, just thinking that it never hurts a spot to look at it. But dropping in on Sarah Barstow had used up some time, and I wanted to make a call in the city. So I took the quickest way in.
On upper Park Avenue I stopped at a drugstore and phoned Wolfe. He had called Bradford’s office once more, around eleven-thirty, but it had been the same story, too busy to come to the phone. He told me to go to it. I thought to myself, if he’s busy now he’s going to be positively rushed before we get through with him. It took me less than ten minutes to get to Sixty-ninth Street, and I parked around the corner.
Dr. Nathaniel Bradford certainly had an office. The entrance hall was wide enough to have a row of Brazilian ferns along each side, and the anteroom was big and grand. The lights and rugs and pictures and chairs made it plain, but not noisy, that everything done in that place was on a high level, including making out the patients’ bills. But the chairs were all empty. The girl in starched white at a desk over in a corner told me that Dr. Bradford was not in. She seemed surprised that I didn’t know that, just as I would know that Central Park begins at Fifty-ninth Street, and asked if I was a former patient. Then she s
aid that the doctor was never in his office in the afternoon before four-thirty, and that he never saw anyone except by appointment. When I said that that was what I wanted to see him for, to make an appointment, she raised her eyebrows. I went back to the street.
At first I thought I would wait around for him, but it was only a little after three, so I went and sat in the roadster and let my mind out for a stroll to see if it would run across an idea for passing the time. In a few minutes it did, a pretty one. I went to a restaurant on Park Avenue to look at a telephone book, and then went back to the car and stepped on the starter and started along Sixty-ninth Street, and at Fifth Avenue turned downtown. At Forty-first Street I headed east.
As usual every car along the curb was laying its head on the next one’s tail, and I had to go nearly to Third Avenue to find a space where I could edge the roadster in. I walked back almost two crosstown blocks, and found that the number I was looking for was one of the new office buildings a mile high. The directory said that my meat was on the twentieth floor. The elevator shot me up and I found it on a door down the corridor: Metropolitan Medical Record.
It was a young man, not a girl, at the desk in the outside room; that was nice for a change. I said to him:
“I’d like to ask a favor, if you’re not too busy to help me out a little. Would you have any record showing the meetings of medical associations and so on held in New York on June fifth?”
He grinned. “The Lord knows I’m not busy. Yes, sir, we have. Of course. Just a minute. June fifth?”
He went to a stack of magazines on a shelf and took off the top one. “This is our last issue, it would have it.” He began flipping the pages and stopped around the middle and looked at it. I waited. “Nothing on the fifth, I’m afiraid—Oh yes, here it is. Most of the big meetings come later. On the fifth the New York Neurological Society was at the Knickerbocker Hotel.”