Three Doors To Death

by Rex Stout

  "I can wait," Wolfe said placidly. "Would you like some brandy?"

  "No, thank you." She breathed long and deep. "I don't take alcohol, even as medicine, though all my children do. Their father permitted it. I apologized for my son calling your associate, Mr. Goodwin, a lousy punk. Do you wish an apology from him?"

  "Certainly not. He wouldn't mean it."

  "I suppose not. Do you share Mr. Goodwin's opinions?"

  "Often. Not always, heaven knows."

  "He told Dr. Cutler that Virgil Pompa did not kill my husband, that he is innocent. Do you believe that too?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  Wolfe regarded her. "It seems to me," he suggested, "that you're going a long way round, and it's an hour past midnight, you need rest and quiet, and I have myself a great many questions to ask – all of you. What you most urgently want to know is whether I intend to tell the police about the assault that was made on you, and if not, what do I intend. That's right, isn't it?"

  "It isn't only a matter of intention," Daniel Bahr said like a lecturer. "It may well be asked, by what right do you –"

  "Dan, what did I tell you?" came at him from his mother-in-law.

  "Hold it, chum," Mortimer growled. "We're just tassels."

  "Goodness knows," Mrs. Whitten told Wolfe, "I didn't get up and dress and come down here just to have an argument. My children all love to argue, just like their father, but I don't. About my being assaulted, it was silly for me to ask my doctor not to report it, but I thought I simply couldn't stand more talks with policemen." She took a long breath. "That would have been better than this, but how could I know an extremely intelligent young man was going to come to see me on behalf of Miss Alving? He said he didn't know why she sent him, but that you did. What does she want – money? I don't owe her anything. Then he told my doctor that Virgil Pompa is innocent. Why did he tell my doctor that? Maybe he can prove Pompa is innocent – I don't know, maybe he can. If he can, that police inspector is the man to tell, not my doctor. So I thought there were several things you might tell me about."

  "We agreed with her," Jerome said quietly.

  "I see." Wolfe pursed his lips. His eyes took them in and settled on Mrs. Whitten. "Three things, apparently. First, Miss Alving. That is a private matter and should be tête-à-tête, so we'll postpone it. Second, the innocence of Mr. Pompa. My reasons for assuming it would convince neither the police nor you, so we won't waste time on them. Third, the assault on you with a knife. We might get somewhere discussing that."

  "One thing I didn't tell Dr. Cutler," Mrs. Whitten offered. "I didn't notice it until after he had gone. My bag was stolen. The person who stabbed me must have taken it and run with it."

  "Good heavens." Wolfe's eyes widened at her. "You're only making it worse, and it was bad enough already. It was a mistake to say you didn't know whether it was a man or a woman, but this is pure poppycock. A bag snatcher who carries a naked knife and uses it on your torso as he snatches? Bah!"

  "She probably dropped it," Eve explained.

  "And no one noticed its absence for an hour?" Wolfe shook his head. "No, this makes it worse. I offer an alternative. Either you, all of you, will discuss with me what happened up there Monday evening, and give me responsive answers to questions, or I put a case to Inspector Cramer."

  "What case?" Bahr demanded.

  "I'll give Mr. Cramer both the facts and my inferences. I'll tell him of Mrs. Whitten's injuries, and why her explanation of them is unacceptable. I'll say that the use of a deadly weapon on her, soon after the fatal use of a similar weapon on her husband, is highly suggestive and demands the fullest inquiry; that if the same person made both attacks, which is at least a permissible conjecture, it could not have been Mr. Pompa, since he is locked up; that if the same person made both attacks it must have been one of you five here present, since only you and Mr. Pompa had an opportunity to kill Mr. Whitten; that –"

  "Why, you bastard!" Mortimer blurted.

  "Keep quiet, Mort," Phoebe muttered at him.

  " – that," Wolfe continued, "this conjecture gets strong support from Mrs. Whitten's untenable explanation of her injuries." Wolfe upturned a palm. "That's the kernel of it." He spoke to Mrs. Whitten. "Why would you make up a story, good or bad? To conceal the identity of your assailant. Why would you want to protect one who had used a deadly weapon on you? Because it was one of these five people, a member of your family. But it must have been one of these five people who, if Mr. Pompa is innocent, killed Mr. Whitten. It fits neatly. It deserves inquiry; I propose to inquire; and if you won't let me, then it will have to be the police."

  "This was inherent in the situation," Bahr announced, as if that took the sting out of it.

  "You're accusing one of us of murder," Jerome Landy told Wolfe.

  "Not one, Mr. Landy. All of you. I'm not prepared yet to particularize."

  "That's serious. Very serious."

  "It is indeed."

  "If you expect us to answer questions we have a right to have a lawyer present."

  "No. You have no right at all, except to get up and leave. I am not speaking for the people of the State of New York; I am merely a private detective who has you cornered. There are two ways out, and you are free to choose. But before you do so it is only fair to warn you that I have concealed weapons. I'll show you one. I do not surmise that all of you lied to the police; I know it. You said that your clandestine meeting was for a discussion of a difficulty your brother Mortimer had encountered."

  "It was," Jerome asserted.

  "No, it wasn't. Mr. Bahr told Mrs. Whitten that you had gathered to consider the problem posed by her new husband. What was indicated for the future by putting him at the head of the family business? Was he to be permitted to take it over and own it? If so, what about the Landy children? Mrs. Whitten, shocked by this concerted onset, did not counterattack as might have been expected. She did not even remind you that the business belonged to her. She reproached you for assuming that she was capable of violating your rights as your father's children. During the talk Mr. Bahr twice suggested that the proper course was to have Mr. Whitten join you, and have it out. The second time he made the suggestion it was approved by all of you, including the one who knew it was futile because Mr. Whitten was dead. So, as I say, you all lied to the police."

  "I didn't," Bahr declared. "I only said it was a family matter which I could not discuss."

  "You see?" Wolfe snapped at them. "Thank you, Mr. Bahr. That might not be corroboration for a jury, but it is for me. Now." He aimed his eyes at Eve. "I'll start with you, Mrs. Bahr. There's no point in sequestering you, since there has been ample time to arrange for concord. During the time you five were in the dining room Monday evening, who left the room and when?"

  VII

  But Mrs. Whitten delayed the question period another ten minutes by entering a demurrer. She had a point all right, but it seemed foolish for her to press it then. Of course it was obvious that one of two things was true: either Pompa had made a sucker of Marko, or Wolfe had boiled it down to the plain question of how to break through the family interference and get the one with the ball. If Mrs. Whitten saw him coming, as she certainly did, and if she was determined to protect the flock even if one of them had killed her Floyd and taken a whack at her, her best bet was just to sit on it and not budge. But she wanted to do it her way, so she called Wolfe on the detail of lying to the cops.

  Her point was that he couldn't possibly have learned anything about what happened Monday evening except from Pompa, and what would he expect from a man under arrest for murder? Jerome also had a point. Even if they had lied about the object of the meeting, which wasn't so, that was no proof, not even an indication, that one of them had killed Whitten. Would any group of people, having found Whitten dead upstairs, have admitted that they had met secretly to find ways and means of keeping him from getting what belonged to them? Though completely innocent, they would be fools so to complicate a simple situation
– simple, because Pompa was obviously guilty, not only to them but to the police.

  Wolfe let them make their points.

  The questions and answers went on for two hours. It seemed to me like an awful waste of time and breath, since no matter what was fact and what was fancy, they were certainly all glued together on it and the glue had had two days to dry. The first interruption in the dining room Monday evening had been when Pompa had rung the doorbell. They hadn't known who it was, and had merely sat tight, supposing the bell ringer would depart. But in a few minutes had come the sound of the front door opening, and through the closed door of the dining room they could recognize voices in the reception hall and hear feet mounting the stairs. From there on they had talked in whispers and more about their immediate predicament than the object of the meeting. There were fierce arguments. Bahr had advocated ascending to the second floor in a body and going to the mat on it, but no one had supported him. Mortimer and Eve had wanted them to sneak out and go to the Bahr apartment, but were voted down on account of the risk of being seen from the upstairs windows. They spent the last hour sitting in the dark, hissing at one another, and Jerome had joined the Mortimer-and-Eve faction, making it a majority, when steps were heard descending the stairs, then, soon, other steps coming down fast, and Mrs. Whitten calling to Pompa. The voices were loud enough for them to hear words. After a door had closed and the voices were gone, a cautious reconnoiter by Phoebe had informed them that Pompa and Mrs. Whitten were in the living room. That had settled the argument about sneaking out, and the next event on the program, some half an hour later, had been the upsetting of a floor lamp by a careless movement in the dark by Bahr.

  On the crucial question the glue held everywhere. Who had left the room after Pompa and Mrs. Whitten had entered the living room? Only Phoebe, for reconnaissance, and never for more than half a minute at a time. It didn't leave much elbow room for genius, not even Wolfe's. It was all well enough to remind them that it had been pitch dark, and to keep digging at where this one or that one had been, and what was Bahr doing when he upset the lamp, but if they were unanimous that they knew beyond doubt that no one had left the room except Phoebe for her brief excursions, what were you going to do, even if you knew in your bones that what they were really unanimous on was a resolution not to let one of them get tagged for murder? If what they had to be solid on had been some intricate series of events with a tricky time table, it might have been cracked open, but all they had to do was keep repeating that no one left the room during that half an hour except Phoebe, and that she wasn't out for more than thirty seconds at a time.

  It was exactly the same for that evening, Wednesday, as it was for Monday. No fancy getup was required. They simply stated that they had all been in the house together for nearly an hour when the bell had rung and the butler had answered it, and Mrs. Whitten had staggered in with blood all over her. Again there was no place to start a wedge. Jerome, in his quiet subdued manner, offered to help by going to bring the butler, but Wolfe declined without thanks.

  Wolfe glanced at the clock on the wall; it was a quarter to three. He tightened his lips and moved his eyes along the arc.

  "Well. I am merely flattening my nose, to no purpose. We can't go on all night, ladies and gentlemen. You'd better go home and go to bed." He looked at Mrs. Whitten. "Except you, madam. You will of course sleep here. We have a spare room with a comfortable –"

  There were protests in five voices, of various tones and tenors. Mortimer was of course the loudest, with Eve a close second. Wolfe shut his eyes while the storm blew, and then opened them.

  "What do you think?" he demanded peevishly. "Am I a dunce? In a murder case it sometimes happens that a detective, stopped at a dead end, simply withdraws to wait upon a further event that may start a new path. That may be allowable, but not when the expected event is another murder. Not for me. A desire or intention to harm Mrs. Whitten may be in none of your minds, but I'm not going to risk it. She would be dead now if that blade had gone five inches in instead of across. I am willing, for the time being, to pursue this inquiry myself without recourse to the police or the District Attorney, but only with that condition: Mrs. Whitten stays under my roof until I am satisfied on certain points. She can leave at any moment if she regards the police as less obnoxious than me."

  "If you ask me, they are," Eve snapped.

  "This is blackmail and actionable," Bahr declared.

  "Okay, she goes home and you call the goddam cops," was Mort's contribution.

  "If she stays," Phoebe said firmly, "I stay."

  Mrs. Whitten found use for a long deep sigh for about the thousandth time. Twice during the session I had been sure she was going to faint. But there was plenty of life in her eyes as she met Wolfe's gaze. "You said you would speak to me privately about Miss Alving."

  "Yes, madam, I did."

  "Then you could do that in the morning. I'm afraid I couldn't listen now – I'm pretty tired." Her hands, on her lap, tightened into fists and then relaxed. She turned to her younger daughter. "Phoebe, you'll have to go home and get things for us." She went back to Wolfe. "Your spare room – will it do for two?"

  "Admirably. There are twin beds."

  "Then my daughter Phoebe will be with me. I don't think you need to fear for my safety – I'm sure she won't kill me in my sleep. Tomorrow afternoon, if I'm still here, you will have to excuse me. My husband's funeral will be at four o'clock."

  "Mother," Jerome said quietly, "let me take you home."

  She didn't use breath to answer him, but asked Wolfe, "Will I have to walk upstairs?"

  "No indeed," Wolfe said, as if that made everything fine and dandy. "You may use my elevator."

  VIII

  The fact is we have two spare rooms. Wolfe's room is at the rear of the house on the second floor, which he uses because its windows face south, and there is another bedroom on that floor in front, unoccupied. On the third floor my room is the one at the front, on the street, and there is another spare at the rear which we call the South Room. We put Mrs. Whitten and Phoebe there because it is large, and has better furniture and rugs, its own bathroom, and twin beds. I had told them where I could be found in case of fire.

  I heard a noise. That put it up to me to decide whether I was awake or asleep, and I went to work on it. But I didn't feel like working and was going to let it slide when there was another noise.

  "Mr. Goodwin."

  Recognizing the name, I opened my eyes. An attractive young woman in a blue summer negligee, with hair the color of maple syrup, was standing at the foot of my bed. There was plenty of daylight from the windows to get details.

  "I didn't knock," she said, "because I didn't want to disturb anyone."

  "You've disturbed me," I asserted, swinging my legs around and sitting on the bed's edge. "What for?"

  "I'm hungry."

  I looked at my wrist. "My God, it'll be time for breakfast in three hours, and Fritz will bring it up to you. You don't look on the brink of starvation." She didn't. She looked all right.

  "I can't sleep and I'm hungry."

  "Then eat. The kitchen is on the same –" I stopped, having got enough awake to remember that (a) she was a guest and (b) I was a detective. I slipped my feet into my sandals, arose, told her, "Come on," and headed for the door. Halfway down the first flight I thought of a dressing gown, but it was too hot anyway.

  Down in the kitchen I opened the door of the refrigerator and asked her, "Any special longing?"

  "No, just food. Bread and meat and milk would be nice."

  We got out an assortment: salami, half a Georgia ham, pate, cheese, cucumber rings, Italian bread, and milk. She volunteered to slice some ham, and was very nifty at it. Now that she had broken my sleep I saw no reason to let her monopolize things, so I joined in. I took the stool and let her have the chair. I had happened to notice before that she had good teeth, and now I also noticed that they knew how to deal with bread and meat. She chewed as if she meant it, but
with no offense.

  We made conversation. "When I heard my name and opened my eyes and saw you," I told her, "I supposed it was one of two things. Either you had been drawn to my room as a moth to a candle, or you wanted to tell me something. When you said you were hungry it was a comedown. However –" I waved a hand, and on the way back it snared a slice of salami.

  "I don't think there's much moth in me," she said. "And you're not so hot as a candle, with your hair like that and in those wrinkled pajamas. But I do want to tell you something. The hunger was just an opening."

  "My pajamas always get wrinkled by the middle of the week no matter how careful I am. What's on your mind?"

  She finished with a bite of cheese. Then she drank some milk. Then she arranged for her eyes to meet mine.

  "We're more apt to do some good if you'll tell me something. What makes you think Pompa didn't kill Floyd Whitten?"

  That got me wide awake and I hastily shifted things around inside my head. Up to then the emphasis had been on this interesting, informal, early-morning, intimate association with a really pretty specimen, but she had made it quite different. Having never seen H. R. Landy, I didn't know how much she looked like her father, but her manner and tone as she asked that question, and the look in her fine young eyes, had sure come straight from the man who had built up a ten-million-dollar business.

  I grinned at her. "That's a swell way to repay me for getting up to feed you. If we have any evidence it's Mr. Wolfe's, not mine, so ask him. If we haven't any you wouldn't be interested."

  "I might be. Try me."

  "I wouldn't dream of boring you. More milk?"

  "Then I'll bore you. I know Pompa pretty well. I have been with him a lot the past two years, working with him – I suppose you know that. He's an awful old tyrant in some ways, and he certainly is pig-headed, but I like him. I don't believe he would have killed Floyd Whitten for the only motive he had, and I know darned well he wouldn't have killed him by stabbing him in the back."