Three Doors To Death

by Rex Stout

  I frowned. "What kind of a dodge is this? You're out of my reach. Have you told that to the cops?"

  "Of course not. I haven't told it to you, either, in case they ask me, and anyhow it's just my opinion. But that's what I think, and you see what it means. If Pompa didn't do it then one of us did, and I know we didn't. Or take it the way you're looking at it, that that's a lie, that we're all lying together – even so, there's no way on earth of proving we're lying, so it goes back on Pompa and he'll have to suffer for it. But I've told you what I think about him, and so I wonder if he has told the police all the details, and if they believe him. I would like to help him if I can – I mean it. Has he told about the front door being open?"

  "I don't know. What front door, up at your house?"

  She nodded. "As we told you, I left the room several times during that half-hour, to make sure Mother and Pompa were still in the living room. And each time, all the time, the front door wasn't closed. It was standing a little open. I supposed that when Mother came down to keep Pompa from going, he had already opened the front door to leave when she stopped him, and they neglected to close it when they went into the living room. That must have been it, because I had looked out there before, before Mother and Pompa came down, and so had Eve and Jerome, and the front door had been closed up to then."

  I was letting the tingles inside of me enjoy themselves, and staying deadpan. "That's very interesting," I granted. "You've told about this, have you?"

  "No, I haven't mentioned it. I don't know – I just didn't mention it. It didn't occur to me until this evening, from the questions Mr. Wolfe asked, how important it was. Of course the door being open meant that any time during that half-hour someone could have gone in and upstairs, and killed Floyd, and out again. So I wonder if Pompa has told about it. He must know it, since he must have opened the door himself and not closed it. I thought maybe he had told about it and they hadn't believed him. But they would have to believe him if I said I saw the door open too. Wouldn't they?"

  "It would help," I conceded. "And of course it would split it wide open. It would be a beautiful out, not only for Pompa, but for everybody. Two are much better than one, and three would be simply splendid. Do you suppose there's any chance that your mother remembers about the open door too?"

  Her eyes left mine, and she covered up fairly well by reaching for the milk bottle and pouring herself a third of a glass. I didn't mark it against her, for she was too young to be expected to meet any and all contingencies.

  "I sure was hungry and thirsty," she said, retrieving. "I don't know about Mother. I didn't ask her about it because she was completely all in. But when I tell her I saw it, and she puts her mind on it, I'm practically certain she'll remember about the door being open. She's very observant and she has a good memory. I don't think there's any question about her remembering it. That would clear up everything, wouldn't it?"

  "It would at least scatter the clouds all over the sky," I conceded. "What would be even sweeter would be if the first couple of times you ventured forth you noticed the door was open, and the last time you saw it had been closed. That would be really jolly. You probably have a good memory too, so why don't you try it on that?"

  But she wasn't having any fancy touches from comparative strangers. Nope, she remembered it quite clearly, the door had been open all the time. Furthermore, she remembered going to close it herself, when her mother and brother and Dan Bahr had gone upstairs to get Floyd Whitten. I didn't think it would be polite to urge her, and while we were cleaning up and putting things back in the refrigerator I told her that it was darned white of her to come out with it like that, and this was a real break for Pompa, and I would give Wolfe the good news just as soon as he was awake. We went back up the two flights together, and in the upper hall I took her offered hand and got a fine firm clasp and a friendly smile. Then I went back to bed and was sound asleep before I knew it.

  My eyes opened again without any order from me. Naturally that was irritating, and I wondered why I couldn't sleep. Seeing it was broad daylight, I glanced at my wrist. It was a quarter past nine. I jumped out and leaped for the bathroom, set a record dressing, ran down to the kitchen, and asked Fritz if Wolfe was awake. Yes, he had breakfasted at eight-fifteen as usual and was up in the plant rooms. There had just been word from the South Room, on the house phone, from the guests, and Fritz was getting their trays ready. On account of my snack at dawn I wasn't starving, so I had my orange juice and some toast and coffee, and then went, three steps at a time, up to the roof.

  Wolfe was in the intermediate room inspecting some two-year Miltonia roezelis. The brief glance he gave me was as sour as expected, since he hates being interrupted up there.

  I apologized without groveling. "I'm sorry I overslept, but it was Phoebe's fault. She has a nerve. She came to my room, and damned if she didn't complain about my wrinkled pajamas."

  He dehydrated me with a look. "If true, boorish. If false, inane."

  "Just adjectives. She came because she was hungry, and I took her down and fed her. But what she really wanted was to peddle a lie. Would you care to buy a good lie? It's a beaut."

  "Describe it."

  "She offers to trade an out for Pompa for an out for the dining-room gang. During that crucial half-hour, each time she sallied to the reception hall she noticed that the front door was part way open. Mama will corroborate. But Pompa will have to say that when he started to beat it he got as far as the front door and had opened it when Mom caught up with him, and neither of them closed it before they went into the living room. Which is that, boorish or inane?"

  Wolfe finished inspecting a plant, returned it to the bench, and turned to inspect me. He seemed to have a notion there was something wrong with my necktie, as there may well have been since I had set a record.

  "What inspired you to use Miss Alving's name to get in to Mrs. Whitten?" he demanded.

  "Hell, I had to use something. Knowing how women are apt to feel about their husbands' former sweethearts, I thought that was as good as anything and probably better."

  "Was that all?"

  "Yep. Why, did I spill salt?"

  "No. On the contrary. Do you know where Miss Alving can be found?"

  I nodded. "She's the toy buyer at Meadow's. But you certainly have changed the subject. What about that Grade A lie, do we want it at the price? Phoebe will be after me as soon as she gets through breakfast."

  "We'll see. That can wait. How do you know it's a lie? Come in the potting room where we can sit down. I have some instructions."

  IX

  Never to find yourself in a situation where you have to enter a big department store is one of the minor reasons for not getting married. I guess it would also be a reason for not being a detective. Anyway, Meadow's is unquestionably a big department store, and that Thursday morning I had to enter it in the practice of my profession. The toy department is on the fourth floor, I suppose to give the kids more fun on the escalators. By the time I got there the sweat on my back was starting to freeze in the conditioned air, and I had to resist an impulse to go up another flight and buy a topcoat.

  The salesperson I approached said she thought Miss Alving was busy and would I wait. I found an empty chair over by the scooters. I thought contact with the chair's back might melt the ice on mine, but it was plastic, so I sat straight. After a while a woman came hurrying to me, and I arose.

  "Miss Julie Alving?"

  "Yes, I'm Miss Alving."

  When Marko had told us about Floyd Whitten's former love whom he had ditched when he married the boss, I had made a casual mental comment that there was something droll about a man living in sin with a toy buyer, but one look at Julie Alving showed me that such casual comments can be silly. She was forty and looked it, and she was not an eyestopper in any obvious way, but everything about her, the way she walked, the way she stood, her eyes and mouth and whole face, seemed to be saying, without trying or intending to, that if you had happened to be hers, an
d she yours, life would be full of pleasant and interesting surprises. It wasn't anything personal, it was just her. I was so impressed, in spite of her age, that I was smiling at her before I knew it.

  I spoke. "My name's Archie Goodwin, Miss Alving, and I work for Nero Wolfe. You may have heard of him? The detective?"

  "Yes, I've heard of him." Her voice was a little thin.

  "He would like to see you. He would appreciate it very much if you can get away for an hour and come to his office with me. He has something to say to you on behalf of Mrs. Floyd Whitten."

  I thought for a second she was going to topple. The way her head jerked up and then came down again as all her muscles sagged, it was as if I had landed an uppercut. My hand even started to reach, to be there if the muscles really quit, but she stayed upright.

  "Mrs. – Mrs. Whitten?" she stammered.

  I nodded. "You used to know her husband. Here, sit down."

  She ignored that. "What does she want?"

  "I don't know, but Mr. Wolfe does. She came to see him last night and they talked. He said to tell you it's important and urgent, and he has to see you this morning."

  "But I – I'm here at work."

  "Yeah, I know. I work too and know how it is. I told him you might not be able to make it until after the store closes, but he said that wouldn't do."

  "What did Mrs. Whitten talk to him about?"

  I shook my head. "You'll have to ask him."

  She got her teeth on her lower lip, kept them there a while, said, "Wait here, please," and left me. She passed behind a counter and disappeared through a partition opening. I sat down. When my watch showed me that I had waited twenty-two minutes I began to wonder if I was being imposed on, but no, she returned.

  She came to me and said, "I'll leave right away. What's the address?"

  I told her we might as well go together, and when she objected that she must go out by the employees' entrance I hurdled that by arranging for us to meet outside. My instructions were to bring her, and I'm great for instructions. My guesses on the role Wolfe was casting her for were nothing but guesses, and they contradicted one another, but if by any chance he had her down for top billing I didn't want to be responsible for her not showing up. So I was really pleased to see her when she reached the meeting place on the sidewalk not more than a minute after I did.

  On the way down in the taxi she sat with a tight two-handed grip on her bag, and had no comments or questions. That suited me, since I hadn't the faintest idea what she was heading into and therefore would have been able to make no contribution except grunts.

  Since I had been instructed not to tell her that Mrs. Whitten and Phoebe were our house guests, I wouldn't have been surprised to see them both there in the office when I entered with Julie Alving, but Wolfe was alone, in his chair behind his desk, with a newspaper. He put the paper down, got to his feet, and bowed, which was quite a tribute, either to Julie or the part she was supposed to take. I've seen him react to a woman's entrance in that office with nothing but a ferocious scowl. So I participated by giving Miss Alving the red leather chair.

  She sat, still clutching her bag, and gazed at him. Wolfe told me to get my notebook and I did so. A man getting a notebook and pen ready sometimes makes quite an effect.

  Wolfe returned her gaze. "I suppose Mr. Goodwin told you that I wanted to speak with you about Mrs. Whitten."

  She nodded. "Yes, that's what he said – no, he said on behalf of Mrs. Whitten."

  Wolfe waved it away with a finger. "He may have used that phrase. He likes it. In any case, I'll come straight to the point. I think I can arrange it so that Mrs. Whitten will not prosecute, if you'll help me."

  "Prosecute?" She was only so-so at faking surprise. "Prosecute who?"

  "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. Goodwin 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?"