“Could you get them here tonight?”
“I doubt it. All five of them?”
“Yes.”
“Possibly by sunup. Bring them to your bedroom?”
He rubbed his nose with a fingertip. “Very well. But you can call them now, as many as you can get. Make it eleven in the morning. Tell them I have a disclosure to make and must consult with them.”
“That should interest them,” I granted, and reached for the phone.
By the time Wolfe came down from the plant rooms to greet the guests, at two minutes past eleven the next morning, there hadn't been a peep out of the Long Island law. Which didn't mean there couldn't be one at three minutes past eleven. According to the morning paper, District Attorney Delaney and Chief of Detectives Baxter had both conceded that anyone could have entered the tent from the back and therefore it was wide–open. If Anna Banau read newspapers, and she probably did, she might at any moment be going to the phone to make a call.
I had made several, both the night before and that morning, getting the guests lined up; and one special one. There was an address and phone number for an Alexander Banau in the Manhattan book, but I decided not to dial it. I also decided not to ring Zoller's restaurant on
Fifty–second Street
. I hadn't eaten at Zoller's more than a couple of times, but I knew a man who had been patronizing it for years, and I called him.
Yes, he said, there was a captain at Zoller's named Alex, and yes, his last name was Banau. He liked Alex and hoped that my asking about him didn't mean that he was headed for some kind of trouble. I said no trouble was contemplated, I just might want to check a little detail, and thanked him. Then I sat and looked at the slip on which I had scribbled the Banau home phone number, with my finger itching to dial it, but to say what? No. I mention that around ten thirty I got the Marley.38 from the drawer, saw that it was loaded, and put it in my side pocket, not to prepare you for bloodshed, but just to show that I was sold on Mrs. Banau. With a murderer for–a guest, and an extremely nervy one, there was no telling.
H. L. Griffin, the importer, and Paul Rago, the sauce chef, came alone and separately, but Korby and Flora had Dick Vetter with them, I had intended to let Flora have the red leather chair, but when I showed them to the office, Rago, the six–footer with the mustache and the accent, had copped it, and she took one of the yellow chairs in a row facing Wolfe's desk, with her father on her right and Vetter on her left. Griffin, the runt who had made the best speech, was at the end of the row nearest my desk. When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms, entered, greeted them, and headed for his desk, Vetter spoke up before he was seated. “I hope this won't last long, Mr. Wolfe. I asked Mr. Goodwin if it couldn't be earlier, and he said it couldn't. Miss Korby and I must have an early lunch because I have a script conference at one thirty.”
I raised a brow. I had been honored. I had driven a car with my arm across the shoulders of a girl whom Dick Vetter himself thought worthy of a lunch.
Wolfe, adjusted in his chair, said mildly, “I won't prolong it beyond necessity, sir. Are you and Miss Korby friends?” “What's that got to do with it?”
“Possibly nothing. But now nothing about any of you is beyond the bounds of my curiosity. It is a distressing thing to have to say, in view of the occasion of our meeting yesterday, the anniversary of the birth of this land of freedom, but I must. One of you is. a miscreant. One of you people killed Philip Holt.”
The idea is to watch them and see who faints or jumps up and runs. But nobody did. They all stared.
“One of us?” Griffin demanded.
Wolfe nodded. “I thought it best to begin with that bald statement, instead of leading up to it. I thought”
Korby cut in. “This is funny. This is a joke. After what you said yesterday to that district attorney. It's a bad joke.” “It's no joke, Mr. Korby. I wish it were. I thought yesterday I was on solid ground, but I wasn't. I now know that there is a witness, a credible and confident witness, to testify that no one entered the tent from the rear between the time that the speeches began and the discovery of the body. I also know that neither Mr. Goodwin nor I killed him, so it was one of you. So I think we should discuss it.”
“You say a witness?” Rago made it “weetnuss.”
“Who is he?” Korby wanted to know. “Where is he?”
“It's a woman, and she is available. Mr. Goodwin, who has spoken with her, is completely satisfied of–her competence and bona fides, and he is hard to satisfy. It is highly unlikely that she can be impeached. That's all I”
“I don't get it,” Vetter blurted. “If they've got a witness like that why haven't they come for us?”
“Because they haven't got her. They know nothing about her. But they may find her at any moment, or she may go to them. If so you will soon be discussing the matter not with me but with officers of the law––and so will I. Unless you do discuss it with me, and unless the discussion is productive, I shall of course be constrained to tell Mr. Delaney about her. I wouldn't like that and neither would you. After hearing her story his manner with you, and with me, would be quite different from yesterday. I want to ask you some questions.”
“Who is she?” Korby demanded. “Where is she?”
Wolfe shook his head. “I'm not going to identify her or place her for you. I note your expressions––especially yours, Mr. Korby, and yours, Mr. Griffin. You are skeptical. But what conceivable reason could there be for my getting you here to point this weapon at you except the coercion of events? Why would I invent or contrive such a dilemma? I, like you, would vastly prefer to have it as it was, that the murderer came from without, but that's no good now. I concede that you may suspect me too, and Mr. Goodwin, and you may question us as I may question you. But one of us killed Philip Holt, and getting answers to questions is clearly in the interest of all the rest of us.”
They exchanged glances. But they were not the kind of glances they would have exchanged five minutes earlier. They were glances of doubt, suspicion and surmise, and they weren't friendly.
“I don't see,” Griffin objected, “what good questions will do. We were all there together and we all know what happened. We all know what everybody said.”
Wolfe nodded. “But we were all supporting the theory that excluded us. Now we're not. We can't. One of us has something in his background which, if known, would account for his determination to kill that man. I suggest beginning with autobiographical sketches from each of us, and here is mine.
“I was born in Montenegro and spent my early boyhood there. At the age of sixteen I decided to move around, and in fourteen years I became acquainted with most of Europe, a little of Africa, and much of Asia, in a variety of roles and activities. Coming to this country in nineteen–thirty, not penniless, I bought this house and entered into practice as a private detective.
“I am a naturalized American citizen. I first heard of Philip Holt about two years ago when Fritz Brenner, who works for me, came to me with a complaint about him. My only reason for wishing him harm, but not the extremity of death, was removed, as you know, when he agreed to stop annoying Mr. Brenner about joining your union if I would make a speech at your blasted picnic. Mr. Goodwin?”
I turned my face to the audience. “Born in Ohio. Public high school, pretty good at geometry and football, graduated with honor but no honors. Went to college two weeks, decided it was childish, came to New York and got a job guarding a pier, shot and killed two men and was fired, was recommended to Nero Wolfe for a chore he wanted done, did it, was offered a full–time job by Mr. Wolfe, took it, still have it. Personally, was more entertained than bothered by Holt's trying to get union dues out of Fritz Brenner. Otherwise no connection with him or about him.” “You may,” Wolfe told them, “question us later if you wish. Miss Korby?”
“Well” Flora said. She glanced at her father, and, when he nodded, she aimed at Wolfe and went on. “My autobiography doesn't amount to much. I was born in New York and have
always lived here. I'm twenty years old. I didn't kill Phil Holt and had no reason to kill him.” She turned her palms up. “What else?” “If I may suggest,” H. L. Griffin offered, “if there's a witness as Wolfe says, if there is such a witness, they'll dig everything up. For instance, about you and Phil.”
She gave him an eye. “What about us, Mr. Griffin?” “I don't know. I've only heard talk, that's all, and they'll dig up the talk.”
“To hell with the talk,” Dick Vetter blurted, the whipped cream sounding sour.
Flora looked at Wolfe. “I can't help talk,” she said. “It certainly is no secret that Phil Holt was––well, he liked women. And it's no secret that I'm a woman, and I guess it's not a secret that I didn't like Phil. For me he was what you called him, a nuisance. When he wanted something.”
Wolfe grunted. “And he wanted you?”
“He thought he did. That's all there was to it. He was a pest, that's all there is to say about it.”
“You said you had no reason to kill him.”
“
Good heavens, I didn't! A girl doesn't kill a man just because he won't believe her when she says no!”
“No to what? A marriage proposal?”
Her father cut in. “Look here,” he told Wolfe, “you're barking up the wrong tree. Everybody knows how Phil Holt was about women. He never asked one to marry him and probably he never would. My daughter is old enough and smart enough to take care of herself, and she does, but not by sticking a knife in a man's back.” He turned to Griffin. “Much obliged, Harry.” The importer wasn't fazed. “It was bound to come out, Jim, and I thought it ought to be mentioned now.”
Wolfe was regarding Korby. “Naturally it raises the question how far a father might go to relieve his daughter of a pest.” Korby snorted. “If you're asking it, the answer is no. My daughter can take care of herself. If you want a reason why I might have killed Phil Holt you'll have to do better than that.” “Then I'll try, Mr. Korby. You are the president of your union, and Mr. Holt was an important figure in it, and at the moment the affairs of unions, especially their financial affairs, are frontpage news. Have you any reason to fear an investigation, or had Mr. Holt?”
“No. They can investigate as much as they damn please.” “Have you been summoned?”
“No.”
“Had Mr. Holt been summoned?”
“No.”.
“Have any officials of your union been summoned?”
“No.” Korby's pudgy face and bald top were pinking up a little. “You're barking up the wrong tree again.”
“But at least another tree. You realize, sir, that if Mr. Delaney starts after us in earnest, the affairs of the United Restaurant Workers of America will be one of his major concerns. For the murder of Philip Holt we all had opportunity, and the means were there at hand; what he will seek is the motive. If there was a vulnerable spot in the operation of your union, financial or otherwise, I suggest that it would be wise for you to disclose it now for discussion.”
“There wasn't anything.” Korby was pinker. “There's nothing wrong with my union except rumors. That's all it is, rumors, and where's a union that hasn't got rumors with all the stink they've raised? We're not vulnerable to anything or anybody.” “What kind of rumors?”
“Any kind you want to name. I'm a crook. All the officers are crooks. We've raided the benefit fund. We've sold out to the big operators. We steal lead pencils and paper clips.” “Can you be more specific? What was the most embarrassing rumor?”
Korby was suddenly not listening. He took a folded handkerchief from his pocket, opened it up, wiped his face and his baldness, refolded the handkerchief at the creases, and returned it to his pocket. Then his eyes went back to Wolfe.
“If you want something specific,” he said, “it's not a rumor. It's a strictly internal union matter, but it's sure to leak now and it might as well leak here first. There have been some charges made, and they're being looked into, about kickbacks from dealers to union officers and members. Phil Holt had something to do with some of the charges, though that wasn't in his department. He got hot about it.”
“Were you the target of any of the charges?”
“I was not. I have the complete trust of my associates and my staff.”
“You said 'dealers.' Does that include importers?” “Sure, importers are dealers.”
“Was Mr. Griffin's name mentioned in any of the charges?” “I'm not giving any names, not without authority from my board. Those things are confidential.”
“Much obliged, Jim,” H. L. Griffin said, sounding the opposite of obliged. “Even exchange?”
“Excuse me.” It was Dick Vetter, on his feet. “It's nearly twelve o'clock and Miss Korby and I have to go. We've got to get some lunch and I can't be late for that conference. Anyway) I think it's a lot of hooey. Come on, Flora.”
She hesitated a moment, then left her chair, and he moved. But when Wolfe snapped out his name he turned. “Well?” Wolfe swiveled his chair. “My apologies. I should have remembered that you are pressed for time. If you can give us, say, five minutes?”
The TV star smiled indulgently. “For my autobiography? You can look it up. It's in print––TV Guide a couple of months ago, or Clock magazine, I don't remember the date. I say this is hooey. If one of us is a murderer, okay, I wish you luck, but this isn't getting you anywhere. Couldn't I just tell you something I felt like?” “You could indeed, Mr. Vetter. But if inquiry reveals that you have lied or have omitted something plainly relevant that will be of interest. The magazine articles you mentioned––do they tell of your interest in Miss Korby?”
“Nuts.” Many of his twenty million admirers wouldn't have liked either his tone or his diction.
Wolfe shook his head. “If you insist, Mr. Vetter, you may of course be disdainful about it with me, but not with the police once they get interested in you. I asked you before if you and Miss Korby are friends, and you asked what that had to do with it, and I said possibly nothing. I now say possibly something, since Philip Holt was hounding her––how savagely I don't know yet. Are you and Miss Korby friends?”
“Certainly we're friends. I'm taking her to lunch.” “Are you devoted to her?”
His smile wasn't quite so indulgent, but it was still a smile. “Now that's a delicate question,” he said. “I'll tell you how it is. I'm a public figure and I have to watch my tongue. If I said yes, I'm devoted to Miss Korby, it would be in all the columns tomorrow and I'd get ten thousand telegrams and a million letters. If I said no, I'm not devoted to Miss Korby, that wouldn't be polite with her here at my elbow. So I'll just skip it. Come on, Flora.” “One more question. I understand that your father works in a New York restaurant. Do you know whether he is involved in any of the charges Mr. Korby spoke of?”
“Oh, for God's sake. Talk about hooey.” He turned and headed for the door, taking Flora with him. I got up and went to the hall and on to the front door, opened it for them, closed it after them, put the chain–bolt on, and returned to the office. Wolfe was speaking.
“... and I assure you, Mr. Rago, my interest runs with yours––with all of you except one. You don't want the police crawling over you and neither do 1.”
The sauce chef had straightened up in the red leather chair, and the points of his mustache seemed to have straightened up too. “Treeks,” he said.
“No, sir,” Wolfe said. “I have no objection to tricks, if they work, but this is merely a forthright discussion of a lamentable situation. No trick. Do you object to telling us what dealings you had with Philip Holt?”
“I am deesappointed,” Rago declared. “Of course I knew you made a living with detective work, everybody knows that, but to me your glory is your great contributions to cuisine––our sauce printemps, your oyster pie, your artichauts drigants, and others. I know what Pierre Mondor said of you. So it is a deesappointment when I am in your company that the only talk is of the ugliness of murder.”
“I don't like it any be
tter than you do, Mr. Rago. I am pleased to know that Pierre Mondor spoke well of me. Now about Philip Holt?”
“If you insist, certainly. But what can I say? Nothing.” “Didn't you know him?”
Rago spread his hands and raised his shoulders and brows. “I had met him. As one meets people. Did I know him? Whom does one know? Do I know you?”
“But you never saw me until two weeks ago. Surely you must have seen something of Mr. Holt. He was an important official of your union, in which you were active.”
“I have not been active in the union.”
“You were a speaker at its picnic yesterday.”
Rago nodded and smiled. “Yes, that is so. But that was because of my activity in the kitchen, not in the union. It may be said, even by me, that in sauces I am supreme. It was for that distinction that it was thought desirable to have me.” His head turned. “So, Mr. Korby?”
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