Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 17

by Three Doors to Death

  “You, Miss Alving. Have you no notion of what charge Mrs. Whitten can lay against you?”

  “Certainly not. There isn’t any.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “I never have seen her—that is, I’ve never met her.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “I don’t know—a long while—months ago. I only saw her two or three times—never to speak to.”

  “That was months ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you owe her anything?”

  “No.”

  “Does she owe you anything?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever had anything to do with her—anything at all?”

  “No.”

  “Have you any reason to expect or fear anything from her, good or bad?”

  “No.”

  “Then will you please tell me why, when Mr. Good win told you I wanted to speak with you on behalf of Mrs. Whitten, you left your work immediately and came here with him?”

  Julie looked at him, and then at me as if it was up to me to answer that one. Seeing that I was no nearer ready with something adequate than she was, she went back to Wolfe.

  “Why wouldn’t I?” she demanded. “After what has happened, wouldn’t I want to know what she wanted?”

  Wolfe nodded approvingly. “That was much the best you could do, and you did it. But it’s not good enough. If you maintain this attitude, Miss Alving, I’m afraid I’m out of it, and you’ll have others to deal with. I would advise you to reconsider. I think you’re wrong to assume that they will believe you, and not Mrs. Whitten, when she tells them that you attacked her with a knife and your target was her heart.”

  “I didn’t!” Julie cried. That was only so-so too.

  “Nonsense. Of course you did. I can understand your reluctance, since nothing has been published about it, and for all you know Mrs. Whitten may be at the point of death. But she isn’t. Your blade didn’t get beyond the rib, and twelve stitches were all that was necessary to make her capable of riding here to my office. Except for a little loss of blood she’s as good as ever. She hasn’t even reported it to the police, not wishing to give the public another mouthful to chew on—a mortal assault on her by the former friend of her murdered husband. So the limit of a charge against you would be assault with intent to kill.”

  Wolfe waved that aside as if it were a mere peccadillo. “And if you’ll be frank with me and answer some questions, I undertake to arrange that Mrs. Whitten will not prosecute. If you had achieved your purpose, if she were dead, that would be different and I wouldn’t be so foolish as to expect frankness from you. I wouldn’t ask you to confess a murder, Miss Alving.”

  She was doing her best and I admired her for it. But the trouble was that she had to decide on her line right there facing us, and having to make up your mind with Nero Wolfe’s eyes, open an eighth of an inch, on you, is no situation for an amateur.

  However, she wasn’t made of jelly. “When did this —when and where was Mrs. Whitten attacked?”

  “I’ll refresh your memory,” Wolfe said patiently, “if you want it that way. A quarter to ten last evening, in front of her house, as she got out of her car.”

  “It wasn’t in the papers. I should think a thing like that would be in the papers.”

  “Only if the papers heard of it, and they didn’t. Naturally you searched for it. I’ve told you why Mrs. Whitten didn’t report it.”

  Julie was still making up her mind. “It seems to me you’re expecting a good deal—I mean, even if I did it, and I didn’t. If I had, the way it looks to me, I wouldn’t know whether you were trying to get me to confess to a murder or not. I wouldn’t know whether she were dead, or had just lost some blood as you said. Would I?”

  She had him there. He sat and gazed at her a long moment, grunted, and turned to me.

  “Archie. Bring that witness down here. Only the one. If the other one is importunate, remind her that I said our talk about Miss Alving must be tête-à-tête.”

  X

  Phoebe wasn’t importunate. When I entered the South Room on the third floor she was talking on the phone, that extension having been plugged in for an outside line, and her mother was sitting in a chair by the window with a newspaper on her lap. She arose at once, with no need for assistance, when I said Wolfe was ready for their private talk, and Phoebe, having finished on the phone, had no comment on that, but she wanted to know what I had for her. I told her she would be hearing from me shortly, or more probably from Wolfe, and escorted Mrs. Whitten to the elevator, which I never used except when I was convoying casualties, and out at the lower hall and into the office.

  I kept right at her elbow because I didn’t want to miss the expression on Julie Alving’s face when she saw her. It was first just plain surprise and then a mixture in which the only ingredient I could positively label was just plain hate. As for Mrs. Whitten, I had only her profile from a corner of my eye, but she stopped dead and went as stiff as a steel beam.

  Wolfe spoke. “This is my witness, Miss Alving. I believe you ladies haven’t met. Mrs. Whitten, Miss Alving.”

  Mrs. Whitten moved, and for a second I thought she was turning to march out, but she was merely reaching for a hold on my sleeve. I took her arm and herded her left oblique. Being wounded, she rated the red leather chair, but it seemed inadvisable to ask Julie to move, so I took the witness to a yellow one with arms, not as roomy but just as comfortable. When she was in it I resumed my post at my desk with notebook and pen.

  “I’m sorry,” Wolfe said, “if it makes a queasy atmosphere, you two here together, but Miss Alving left me no alternative.” He focused on Mrs. Whitten. “I was having a little trouble with Miss Alving. I wanted her to talk about certain aspects of the assault she made on you last evening, but she wouldn’t have it—and I don’t blame her—because she didn’t know how badly you were hurt. There was only one way to handle it—let her see for herself.”

  I had to hand it to him. He not only wasn’t taking too big a risk, he was taking none at all, since they weren’t on speaking terms.

  “How did you find out it was her?” Mrs. Whitten demanded. Her voice was harsh and high-pitched.

  “Oh, that was simple. I’ll tell you presently. But first we should understand one another. I appreciate your reason for not wanting it bruited, and sympathize with it, but here in private there should be candor. You positively recognized her?”

  “Certainly I did.”

  “Beyond possibility of doubt?”

  “Certainly. I saw her face when I got turned and that was when she tore loose and ran. And she spoke to me.”

  “What did she say?”

  “I’m not sure of the words, but it was something like “I’ll kill you too.’ That’s what I thought it was, but later I thought it must be wrong because I thought Pompa had killed my husband and I didn’t realize she could have done it. But now that my daughter remembers about the open door, and I remember it too, I see that must have been it—what she said.”

  “That’s a lie!” Julie blurted, not at Mrs. Whitten, since she wasn’t speaking to her, but at Wolfe. She was fully as pale as Mrs. Whitten had been the evening before, but not like a corpse, anything but. She was blurting on. “I didn’t say that! I said ‘You killed him and I’ll kill you!’ And I wish I had—oh, I wish I had!”

  “You came close to it,” Wolfe growled. He let his eyes come halfway open, now that he had them. “I should explain to both of you that I’ve merely been trying to get started. Please forget each other, as far as possible, and listen to me. If we’re going to work this out together you need to know how I got where I am now.”

  The doorbell rang. Under the circumstances it was up to Fritz, but on the other hand we didn’t want any trivial interruptions just then, so I scooted for the hall, closing the office doors as I went. One glance through the glass panel showed that my point was well taken. Inspector Cramer was there. He was alone, so I did
n’t bother with the chain bolt but put my foot where it would keep the door to a six-inch crack. I spoke through the crack to his big broad shoulders and his round, red, but by no means flabby face.

  “Good morning. What have I done now?”

  “We sent a man,” he snapped, “to see Mrs. Whitten about something, and he was told she’s here. What’s Wolfe up to? I want to see her.”

  “I never know what he’s up to, but I’ll go ask him. He’ll want to know how it stands. Is there a warrant for her?”

  “Hell no. A warrant for what?”

  “I merely asked. Kindly withdraw your toe.”

  I banged the door shut, went to the office, and told Wolfe, “The man about the chair. The one with a gash in it. He learned more or less accidentally that it’s here, and that made him curious, and he wants to talk. He has no signed paper and no idea of getting one. Shall I tell him you’re busy?”

  I was sure he would say yes, but he didn’t. Instead, he decoded it. “Is it Mr. Cramer?”

  “Yes, sir.” He knew darned well it was, since I had started years ago calling Cramer that.

  “He wants to speak with Mrs. Whitten?”

  “One of his men did, probably about some trifle, and found out she was here. What he really wants is to see if you’re getting up a charade.”

  “He’s barely in time. If he engages to let me proceed without interruption until I’ve finished, admit him.”

  “I don’t like it. He’s got Pompa.”

  “He won’t have him long. We’re waiting for you. I want a record of this.”

  I didn’t like it at all, but when Wolfe has broken into a gallop what I like has about the weight of an undersized feather from a chicken’s neck.

  I returned to the front and opened to a crack again and told the inspector, “Mrs. Whitten is in the office with him, chatting. So is Miss Julie Alving, toy buyer at Meadow’s, who was formerly on good terms with the late Whitten. You may have heard of her.”

  “Yeah, I have. What the hell is he trying to pull?”

  “You name it. I’m just the stenographer. You have a choice. Being an inspector, you can go somewhere for lunch and then take in a ball game, or you can give me your sacred word of honor that you’ll absolutely keep your mouth shut until and unless Wolfe hands you the torch. If you choose the latter you’re welcome, and you can have a chair to sit on. After all, you have no ticket even for standing room, since neither of those females is under a charge.”

  “I’m a police officer. I’m not going to tie myself—”

  “Don’t haggle. You know damn well where you stand. I’m needed in there to take notes. Well?”

  “I’m coming in.”

  “Under the terms as I stated?”

  “Yes.”

  “Strictly clam?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Otherwise you’d better bring a bulldozer if you ever want in again.” I swung the door open.

  Wolfe greeted him curtly and left it to me to introduce him to the ladies. It wasn’t surprising that he hadn’t met Mrs. Whitten, since his men had settled on Pompa as a cinch after a few hours’ investigation and therefore there had been no occasion for their superior officer to annoy the widow. He acknowledged the introductions with stingy nods, gave Wolfe a swift keen glance that would have liked to go on through his hide to the interior, and indicated that he intended to keep his vow by taking a chair well out of it, to the rear and right of Mrs. Whitten.

  Wolfe spoke to him. “Let’s put it this way, Mr. Cramer. You’re here merely as a caller waiting to see me.

  “That will do,” Cramer growled.

  “Good. Then I’ll proceed. I was just starting to explain to these ladies the manner and extent of my progress in an investigation I’m on.”

  “Go ahead.”

  From there on Wolfe ignored Cramer completely. He looked at Julie and Mrs. Whitten. “What persuaded me,” he said conversationally, “of Mr. Pompa’s innocence, and who engaged me to prove it, are details of no importance. Neither is it important why, when Mr. Goodwin wanted to contrive an entree to Mrs. Whitten, he hit on the stratagem of saying he wished to speak with her on behalf of Miss Alving.”

  Julie made a sound.

  “Oh, it was a lie,” he told her. “We use a great many of them in this business, sometimes calculated with great care, sometimes quite at random. This one was extremely effective. It got Mr. Goodwin admitted to Mrs. Whitten at once, though she was in bed with a gash in her side, having just narrowly escaped from an attempt on her life.”

  Cramer let out a growl, no doubt involuntary, and stood up. Wolfe ignored him and went on to his female audience.

  “That, of course, is news to Mr. Cramer, and there will be more for him, but since he’s merely waiting to see me I’ll finish with you ladies. The success—”

  “You not only lie,” Mrs. Whitten said harshly, “you break your promise. You promised that if we answered your questions you wouldn’t report the attack on me to the police.”

  “No,” Wolfe said curtly. “I do not break promises. It was implied, not explicit, and it was without term, and assuredly not for eternity. Certainly I could not be expected to keep that information to myself if and when it became necessary evidence for the disclosure of a murderer. It has now become necessary.”

  “It has?” She wasn’t so harsh.

  “Yes.”

  “Then—go on.”

  He did. “The success of Mr. Goodwin’s device for getting to Mrs. Whitten was highly suggestive. True, her husband had been intimate with Miss Alving at one time, but he had discarded her before his marriage. Then why should the name of Miss Alving get quick entry to Mrs. Whitten at such a moment? There had to be a good reason, but I could only guess. Among my guesses was the possibility that the assault on Mrs. Whitten had been made by Miss Alving, but that’s all it was at the time, one of a string of guesses. However, when Mr. Goodwin reported that detail to me we already had a good deal more. He had, in a keen and rapid stroke, discovered why Mrs. Whitten had been put to bed by a doctor, and, on account of her determination not to let it be known, had provided us with a powerful instrument to use on her. It was indeed powerful. It got her out of bed after midnight and brought her down here to see me, accompanied by her family.”

  “When, last night?” Cramer demanded.

  Wolfe glared at him. “Sir, you are committed. Later you’ll get all you want. Now I’m working.”

  “Who told you he discarded me?” Julie asked. I thought her voice sounded much like Mrs. Whitten’s, and then I realized that it wasn’t the voices that were similar, it was the emotions. It was hate.

  “The source was Mr. Pompa,” Wolfe told her. “If the word was unfortunate and offends you, I am sorry. It may not fit the occasion at all. To go on. Last evening, looking at those people and hearing them, I concluded that none of them was capable of trying to kill their mother. I couldn’t exclude the possibility, but I could tentatively reject it, and I did. But that brought Miss Alving in again. Mrs. Whitten claimed that not only could she not identify her assailant, she didn’t even know whether it was a man or a woman. That was absurd. It was of course intrinsically improbable, but it was made absurd by the question, if she had no idea who the attacker was why was she going to such lengths to keep the incident from disclosure? Even leaving her bed to come to see me in the dead of night? Therefore she knew who had attacked her, and desperately wanted no one else to know. I excluded her children, as I have said, whom she might have shielded through love or pride, and I knew of no one else in that category. But not only love rides with pride; hate also does. There was Miss Alving again.”

  Wolfe shook his head. “Miss Alving was still only a guess, though now a much more likely one. It was worth having a try at her. The device Mr. Goodwin had used on Mrs. Whitten got an encore. He went to see Miss Alving and told her that I wished to speak with her on behalf of Mrs. Whitten. It worked beautifully. For a department buyer in a great department store to lea
ve her post in the middle of the morning on her private affairs is by no means routine or casual, but Miss Alving did that. She came here at once with Mr. Goodwin. My guess was now good enough to put to the test, and Miss Alving’s reaction removed all doubt, though she did her best. Mr. Goodwin brought Mrs. Whitten down, and that made the situation impossible for both of you. You have both admitted that the attack on Mrs. Whitten was made by Miss Alving. That is true, Miss Alving?”

  “Yes.” Julie tried to swallow. “I wish I had killed her.”

  “A very silly wish. It is true, Mrs. Whitten?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Whitten’s expression was not a wishing one. “I didn’t want it to be known because I knew —I knew my husband wouldn’t. I hadn’t thought of the open door, and so I didn’t realize that she had killed him. She had waited for six long months, waited and hoped, hoping to get him back.” Mrs. Whitten’s eyes left Wolfe, and they were hot with hate and accusation as they fixed on Julie. “But you couldn’t! He was mine, and you couldn’t have him! So you killed him!”

  “That’s a lie,” Julie said, deadly quiet and low. “It’s a lie and you know it. I did have him. He was mine all the time, and you knew it. You found it out.”

  Wolfe pounced. “What’s that?” he snapped. “She found it out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look at me, Miss Alving. Let her go. Look at me. You are in no danger; there was no open door. When did she find it out?”

  Julie’s head had slowly turned to face him. “A month ago.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He wrote me that he didn’t dare to come—where we met—because she had learned about it. He was afraid, terribly afraid of her. I knew he was a coward. Don’t ever fall in love with a coward.”

  “I’ll guard against it. Have you got the letter?”

  She nodded. The pallor was gone and her face was flushed, but her voice was quiet and dull. “I have all of them. He wrote eleven letters in that month, but I never saw him again. He kept saying he would come soon, and he would as soon as he could, but he was a coward.”

  “Did he tell you how she learned about it?”