Rex Stout_Nero Wolfe 01

by Fer-De-Lance

  I asked if I could look at it and he handed it to me. I ran through the paragraph. “I see. This is a notice of the meeting. Of course it was printed before the meeting took place. You wouldn’t have anything later? A report, a write-up?”

  He shook his head. “There’ll be one in our next issue I suppose. Was it something particular you wanted? The daily papers may have run it.”

  “Maybe. I haven’t tried them. What I’m looking for is a report of Dr. Bradford’s paper. As a matter of fact, all I want is to make sure he was there. You wouldn’t know?”

  He shook his head. “But if all you want to know is whether he was there or not, why don’t you ask him?”

  I grinned. “I hate to bother him. But of course it’s quite simple, I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought that by dropping in here I could save time.”

  He said, “Wait a minute,” and disappeared through a door to an inner office. He didn’t take much more than the minute he mentioned. When he came back he told me, “Mr. Elliot says that Dr. Bradford was at the meeting and delivered his paper.”

  Elliot, he said, was the editor of the Record. I asked if I could speak to him. The young man disappeared through the door again, and after a moment it opened once more and a big red-faced man in his shirt sleeves came through. One of the brusque breezy kind. “What’s all this? What’s this about?”

  I explained. He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and said that he had attended the meeting and that Dr. Bradford had delivered his most interesting paper to applause. He was writing it up for the August Record. I questioned him, and he took it very nicely. Yes, he meant Dr. Nathaniel Bradford whose office was on Sixty-ninth Street. He had known him for years. He couldn’t say at what hour Bradford had arrived at the hotel, but it had been a dinner meeting and he had seen Bradford at his table as early as seven and on the speaking platform as late as ten-thirty.

  I guess I went out without thanking him. Driving back uptown I was sore as a pup. Of course it was Bradford I was sore at. What the devil did he mean by fooling around at a meeting reading a paper on neurology when I had him all set up in Westchester County sticking a knife into Carlo Maffei?

  I supposed it would have taken me about a year to get introduced to Dr. Nathaniel Bradford if I hadn’t been so sore when I got back to his office. There were two patients waiting this time. The doctor was in. I asked the girl at the desk for a piece of paper and sat down and held it on a magazine and wrote on it:

  Dr. Bradford: For the last few days I’ve been sure you were a murderer but now I know you are just an old fool. The same goes for Mrs. Barstow and her son and daughter. It will take me about three minutes to tell you how I know.

  Archie Goodwin

  For Nero Wolfe

  By the time the two patients had been taken care of some more had come in, and I went over to the girl and told her I was next. She got impatient and began explaining to me what an appointment was. I said:

  “It wouldn’t break any furniture if you just handed him this note. Honest, I’m in a hurry. Be human. I’ve got a sister at home. Don’t read it yourself because there’s a swear-word in it.”

  She looked disgusted, but she took the note and went away with it through the door where the patients had gone. After a while she came back and stood on the threshold and said my name. I took my hat along with me because there had been time enough to call a cop.

  One look at Dr. Bradford was enough to show me that I had been wasting a lot of pleasant suspicions which might have been avoided if I had happened to catch sight of him somewhere. He was tall and grave and correct, the distinguished old gentleman type, and he had whiskers! There may have been a historical period when it was possible for a guy with whiskers to pull a knife and plunge it into somebody’s back, but that was a long time ago. Nowadays it couldn’t be done. Bradford’s were gray, so was his hair. To tell the truth, as tight as his alibi for June fifth had been made by my trip to Forty-first Street, I had been prepared to try to find a leak in it until I got a look at him.

  I went over to where he sat at his desk, and stood there. He just looked at me until the door had closed behind the girl, then he said:

  “Your name is Goodwin. Are you a genius too?”

  “Yes, sir.” I grinned. “I caught it from Nero Wolfe. Sure, I remember he told Miss Barstow he was a genius, and of course she told you. Maybe you thought it was only a joke.”

  “No. I kept an open mind. But whether you are a genius or merely an impertinent ass, I can’t keep my patients waiting for you. What is this note you sent me, bait? I’ll give you three minutes to justify it.”

  “That’s plenty. I’ll put it this way: Nero Wolfe discovered certain facts. From those facts he reached a certain conclusion as to the cause and manner of Barstow’s death. When the autopsy verified his conclusion it also verified his facts; that is, it made them an inseparable part of the picture, and whoever killed Barstow has got to fit those facts. Well, the Barstows don’t fit, none of them. You don’t either. You’re a washout.” “Go on.” “Go on?”

  “That’s a good general statement. Specify.” “Oh no.” I shook my head. “That’s not the way us geniuses work, you can’t shake us empty like a bag of peanuts. For one thing, it would take a lot longer than three minutes. For another, what do you expect for nothing? You’ve got a nerve. Something happens to get you into such a state that you can’t tell coronary thrombosis from an epileptic fit, and to keep you on such an edge for days that you’re afraid to go to the telephone, and it’s all right for Nero Wolfe to spend his time and money chasing the clouds away for you and turning on the sunshine, but he mustn’t make a nuisance of himself. I’ve got to send you in a trick note just to have the honor of looking at your whiskers. You’ve got a nerve.”

  “Dear me.” Dr. Bradford was swearing. “Your indignation is eloquent and picturesque, but it demonstrates nothing but indignation.” He looked at his watch. “I don’t need to tell you, Mr. Goodwin, that I’m tremendously interested. And while I shall continue to regard the vocation of raking scandal out of graveyards as an especially vile method of making a living, I shall certainly be vastly grateful to you and Nero Wolfe if the general statement you have made can be substantiated. Can you return here at half-past six?”

  I shook my head. “I’m just a messenger. Nero Wolfe dines at seven o’clock. He lives on West Thirty-fifth Street. He invites you to dine with him this evening. Will you?”

  “No. Certainly not.”

  “All right. That’s all.” I was fed up with the old pillar, moss and all. “If you get a rash from your curiosity itching don’t blame us. We don’t really need anything you’re likely to have, we just like to clean up as we go along. My three minutes are up.”

  I turned to go. I didn’t hurry, but I got to the door with my hand on the knob.

  “Mr. Goodwin.”

  I kept my hand on the knob and looked around at him.

  “I accept Mr. Wolfe’s invitation. I shall be there at seven.”

  I said, “Okay, I’ll give the girl the address,” and went on out.

  Chapter 12

  I’ve sometimes wondered how many people there were in New York from whom Nero Wolfe could have borrowed money. I suppose more than a thousand. I made it a severe test to narrow it down. Of course there were more than that who felt grateful to him, and as many more who had reason to hate him, but there’s a special kind of attitude a man has to have toward you before you can bump him for a loan and get something more substantial than a frown and a stammer for your trouble; a mixture of trust and goodwill, and gratitude without any feeling of obligation to make it unpleasant. At least a thousand. Not that Wolfe ever took advantage of it. I remember a couple of years ago we were really hard up for cash for a while, and I made a suggestion regarding a multimillionaire who didn’t owe Wolfe much more than his life. Wolfe wouldn’t consider it. “No, Archie, nature has arranged that when you overcome a given inertia the resulting momentum is proportiona
te. If I were to begin borrowing money I would end by devising means of persuading the Secretary of the Treasury to lend me the gold reserve.” I told him that as things stood we could use it and more too, but he wasn’t listening.

  After that Wednesday evening dinner I could have added Dr. Nathaniel Bradford to the thousand. Wolfe got him completely, as he always got everyone when he cared to take the trouble. Between six and seven, before Bradford arrived, I had made a condensed report of the events of the day, and at the dinner table I had seen at once that Wolfe agreed with me in erasing Bradford right off the slate. He was easy and informal, and to my practiced eye he always kept on a formal basis with a man as long as there was a chance in his mind that the man was headed for the frying-pan at Sing Sing or a cell at Auburn, with Wolfe furnishing the ticket.

  At dinner they discussed rock gardens and economics and Tammany Hall. Wolfe drank three bottles of beer and Bradford a bottle of wine; I stuck to milk, but I had had a shot of rye upstairs. I had told Wolfe of Bradford’s observation about a vile vocation and threw in my opinion of him. Wolfe had said, “Detach yourself, Archie, personal resentment of a general statement is a barbarous remnant of a fetish-superstition.” I had said, “That’s just another of your flossy remarks that don’t mean anything.” He had said, “No. I abhor meaningless remarks. If a man constructs a dummy, clothes and paints it in exact outward resemblance of yourself, and proceeds to strike it in the face, does your nose bleed?” I had said, “No, but his will before I get through with him.” Wolfe had sighed into my grin, “At least you see that my remark was not meaningless.”

  In the office after dinner Wolfe said to Bradford that there were things he wanted to ask him but that he would begin by telling him. He gave him the whole story: Maffei, the clipped newspaper, the question about the golf club that stopped Anna Fiore, the game with Anderson, the letter Anna got with a hundred bucks. He told it straight and complete, and then said, “There, Doctor. I asked you for no pledge beforehand, but I now request you to keep everything I have said in confidence. I ask this in my own interest. I wish to earn fifty thousand dollars.”

  Bradford had got mellow. He was still trying to make Wolfe out, but he was no longer nursing any hurtful notions, and the wine was making him suspect Wolfe of being an old friend. He said, “It’s a remarkable story. Remarkable. I shall mention it to no one of course, and I appreciate your confidence. I can’t say that I have digested all the implications, but I can see that your disclosure of the truth regarding Barstow was a necessary part of the effort to find the murderer of the man Maffei. And I can see that you have relieved Sarah and Larry Barstow of an intolerable burden of fear, and myself of a responsibility that was becoming more than I had bargained for. I am grateful, believe me.”

  Wolfe nodded. “There are subtleties, certainly. Naturally some of them escape you. All that we have actually proven is that of you four—Mrs. Barstow, her son and daughter, and yourself—none of you killed Carlo Maffei, and that the fatal driver was not in the golf bag on April ninth. It is still possible that any one of you, or all of you in conspiracy, killed Barstow. That theory would only require a colleague to dispose of Maffei.”

  Bradford, suddenly a little less mellow, stared. But the stare soon disappeared and he was easy again. “Rot. You don’t believe that.” Then he stared again. “But as a matter of fact, why don’t you?”

  “We’ll come to that. First let me ask, do you think my frankness has earned a similar frankness from you?”

  “I do.”

  “Then tell me, for example, when and how Mrs. Barstow previously made an attempt on her husband’s life.”

  It was funny to watch Bradford. He was startled, then he went stiff and quiet, then he realized he was giving it away and tried to dress up his face in natural astonishment. After all that he said, “What do you mean? That’s ridiculous!”

  Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “Easy, Doctor. I beg you, do not suspect me of low cunning. I am merely seeking facts to fit my conclusions. I see I had better first tell you why I have dismissed from my mind the possibility of your guilt or that of the Barstows. I cannot feel such a guilt. That is all. Of course I can rationalize my feeling, or lack of it. Consider the requirements: a wife or son or daughter who plans the murder of the father with great deliberation, shrewdness and patience. The lengthy and intricate preparation of the tool. If the wife or daughter, a fellow conspirator who killed Maffei. If the son, the same requirement, since he did not do it himself. Archie Goodwin went there, and he could not spend hours in such a household without smelling the foul odor that it would generate and without bringing the smell to me. You also would have required an accomplice for Maffei. I have spent an evening with you. Though you might murder, you would not murder like that, and you would trust no accomplice whatever. That is the rationalization; it is the feeling that is important.”

  “Then why—”

  “No, let me. You, a qualified and competent observer, certified a heart attack when the contrary evidence must have been unmistakable. That is adventurous conduct for a reputable physician. Of course you were shielding someone. The statement of Miss Barstow indicated whom. Then on finding Barstow dead you must have immediately conjectured that his wife had killed him, and you would not reach so shocking a conclusion without good reason, surely not merely because Mrs. Barstow had in her neurotic moments wished her husband dead. If that constituted murder, what kitchen in this country could shut its door to the hangman? You had better reason, knowledge either of her preparations for this crime or for a previous attempt on her husband’s life. Since our facts make the former untenable, I assume the latter, and I ask you simply, when and how did she make the attempt? I ask you only to complete the record, so that we may consign these aspects of the case to the obscurity of history.”

  Bradford was considering. His mellowness was gone and he was leaning forward in his chair as he followed Wolfe’s exposition. He said, “Have you sent someone to the university?”

  “No.”

  “They know about it there. You really guessed it then. Last November Mrs. Barstow shot a revolver at her husband. The bullet went wide. Afterward she had a breakdown.”

  Wolfe nodded. “In a fit, of course.—Oh, don’t object to the word; whatever you may call it, was it not a fit? But I am still surprised, Doctor. From a temporary fit of murderous violence, is it permissible to infer a long-premeditated diabolical plot?”

  “I made no such inference.” Bradford was exasperated. “Good God, there I was with my best and oldest friend lying dead before me, obviously poisoned. How did I know with what he was poisoned, or when or how? I did know what Ellen—Mrs. Barstow—had said only the evening before. I went by my feelings too, as you say you do, only mine were wrong. I got him safely and quietly buried, and I had no regrets. Then when the autopsy came with its amazing results I was too bewildered, and too far in, to act with any intelligence. When Mrs. Barstow proposed to offer the reward I opposed it unsuccessfully. In one word, I was in a funk.”

  I hadn’t noticed Wolfe pushing the button, but as Bradford finished Fritz was on the threshold. “Some port for Dr. Bradford. A bottle of the Remmers for me. Archie?”

  “Nothing, thanks.”

  Bradford said, “I’m afraid none for me, I should be going. It’s nearly eleven and I’m driving to the country.”

  “But, Doctor,” Wolfe protested, “you haven’t told me the one thing I want to know. Another fifteen minutes? So far you have merely verified a few unimportant little surmises. Don’t you see how shrewdly I have labored to gain your confidence and esteem? To this end only, that I might ask you, and expect a full and candid reply: who killed your friend Barstow?”

  Bradford stared, discrediting his ears.

  “I’m not drunk, merely dramatic,” Wolfe went on. “I am a born actor, I suppose; anyway, I think a good question deserves a good setting. My question is a good one. You see, Doctor, you will have to shake the dust from your mind before you can answe
r me adequately—the dust remaining from your hasty and unkind inference regarding your friend Mrs. Barstow. From that and your funk. Understand that it really is true, despite the anxieties you have harbored for many months, that Mrs. Barstow did not kill her husband. Then who did? Who, with the patience of a devil and the humor of a fiend, prepared that lethal toy for his hand? I believe you were Barstow’s oldest and closest friend?”

  Bradford nodded. “Pete Barstow and I were boys together.”

  “A mutual confidence was sustained? Though superficial interests separated you intermittently, you presented a common front to life?”

  “You put it well.” Bradford was moved, it showed in his voice. “A confidence undisturbed for fifty years.”

  “Good. Then who killed him? I’m really expecting something from you, Doctor. What had he ever said or done that he should die? You may never have heard the story whole, but surely you must have caught a chapter of it, a paragraph, a sentence. Let the past whisper to you; it may be the distant past. And you must discard reluctance; I am not asking you for an indictment; the danger here is not that the innocent will be harassed but that the guilty will go free.”

  Fritz had brought the beer and the port, and the doctor was leaning back in his chair again, glass in hand, with his eyes on the red rich juice. He jerked his head up and nodded at Wolfe and then resumed his contemplation. Wolfe poured himself some beer, waited for the foam to subside, and gulped it down. He always thought he had a handkerchief in the breast pocket of his coat but rarely did, so I went to a drawer where I kept a stack for him and got one and handed it to him.

  “I’m not listening to whispers from the past,” Bradford finally said. “I’m being astonished, and impressed, that there are none, of the kind you mean. Also I’m seeing another reason why I so readily concluded that Mrs. Barstow—was responsible. Or rather, irresponsible. It was because I knew, or felt, unconsciously, that no one else could have done it. I see now more clearly than I ever did what an extraordinary person Pete Barstow was. As a boy he was scrappy, as a man he fought for every right he believed in, but I’ll swear there wasn’t a man or woman alive who could have wished him serious harm. Not one.”